ONE --
a phantom visit with @fallenqod, late in a nondescript hotel.
it’s humid, but the hotel’s cheap. it’s not like sol expects anything better. maybe ares does. it could be that bias talking. the chip he has on his shoulder, something that burrows into the marrow of his bones when he sees him. sometimes it shakes him with rage, until he’s vibrating with it. everything clacking around inside of him, until he’s frenetic and buzzing with anxiety. ready to bolt. that’s how sol deals with most things, though.like the option for flight is the only thing hardwired into him. a singular compulsion. it’s worked out alright for him so far. at least when it comes to his own livelihood.
the emotional state, though? that’s something else entirely. something that often goes ignored altogether. but in a way, sol’s just busy running from that, too. himself. his thoughts. the ones that plague him late at night. twist into his consciousness with a conviction that’s hard to shake, refuse to let him sleep. so he swallows down too many pills and forgets who he is. ever was. it’d be easier if he woke up with that same anonymity in the morning. maybe that’s why people modify, when they can. rebuild themselves into something better. or something other.
people like ares, with the money for it. and here he is, all wound up again. his mind runs in a loop, chasing a jealousy born from a wealth discrepancy. but that anger, that apparent hatred can’t explain away the reason for his half-undressed state. the way their ankles brush when sol cracks at his joints ( overused and one one day they’ll likely give out ). he sniffs, and his lips part like he might be about to speak.
but he doesn’t.
just fits a lit cigarette between them and inhales. the smoke coils up toward the ceiling. a projection for just how trapped he feels. how hopeless. a boxed in room. a boxed in life. a cage and sol can’t escape from it, he doesn’t have the means. he wonders, blithely, if he’ll be able to lift ares’ wallet before he leaves. he can predict the anger in his eyes already. something consuming and furious. but god, maybe sol just feeds off of that fury. maybe it makes him feel alive. pulls a half-dead boy partway up out of the grave before he falls back in again underneath ares’ hand.
there’s a real joke made of his life -- he almost laughs.
“you fucking off soon?” sol asks him, and the statement is muffled with a cough to the crook of his own shoulder. slides back down and lets the pillow twist underneath his spine until he settles into a slump.he glances over at him, a study in profile. the curve of his nose, and hair spilling into his eyes. sol reaches out to pull it out of the way, meet his gaze, but the movement’s a little too rough to be called caring. “pay for the whole night at least, i’ll stay here alone.” an indirect nod to the reclusive way he lives his own life.