@darlngs / closed.
the cigarette’s been lit for a while now and he still hasn’t taken a drag, the smoke curling in impossible shapes as it paints the small bedroom with muted grays. he gets lost in it as the angry-red embers continue to sigh at him, mind only on the hushed newsachor voices slipping from the livingroom tv. only when the cigarrette’s halfway gone, and just as the ash’s about to fall to the ground, does he tap it into the plastic tray next to him, and looks at her.
there’s nothing new about the gesture and, much as he likes to believe the opposite -- it is not rare. as she knows him talkative and charming, she knows him when he’s not. when something’s weighting on him, and it comes out -- either in his explosive anger or his silence. she’s familiar with these absences, but also the reasons behind them. and she knows not to pressure him, because he’ll always tell her, in the end.
(because he’s very tired of keeping things to himself)
“you remember when i told you about my time overseas, and how it ended?” he places the stick between his lips and tilts his head. it’s easier to start vague than with names, dates. “i told you about my accident.” he doesn’t need to remind her any further, but part of him -- maybe all of him -- is seeking reassurance from her.
