[At what though, he couldn't say. And the why still doesn't make sense to him either, so scrap that too: no point in pretending there's a card left in his hand that he can actually read in the figurative dark— not when even darkvision's no remedy for it.
Until his phone rattles and his temper flares, rolling him over (it's not a choice, how fast he turns) just to glower at a handful of messages all stacked up in a line under the hour on the glassy surface of that screen. A list of names outlined.
Violet. Petras. Leon. Dal.
—Fuck them.
Fuck them for having fun while he's stuck here. The nerve of being happy and not even asking why he isn't there, while he's licking wounds they didn't cause and gnawing on frustration's acrid taste. It isn't blame, but it sure as Hells tastes like it.
no subject
[Immediately amended with a sharpened scoff to— ]
Probably.
[At what though, he couldn't say. And the why still doesn't make sense to him either, so scrap that too: no point in pretending there's a card left in his hand that he can actually read in the figurative dark— not when even darkvision's no remedy for it.
Until his phone rattles and his temper flares, rolling him over (it's not a choice, how fast he turns) just to glower at a handful of messages all stacked up in a line under the hour on the glassy surface of that screen. A list of names outlined.
Violet. Petras. Leon. Dal.
—Fuck them.
Fuck them for having fun while he's stuck here. The nerve of being happy and not even asking why he isn't there, while he's licking wounds they didn't cause and gnawing on frustration's acrid taste. It isn't blame, but it sure as Hells tastes like it.
He sighs when he drops onto his back.]
There's something wrong with you, you know.
[What kind of a segue is that, Astarion.]