He starts with the head, etching a lopsided oval into the imagined space beneath the hangman's noose. Kurt's second guess is met with some thought more, and he turns his attention to the page, silently mouthing something unintelligible as the pencil tracks his movements across the hatches. Eventually, Wrench adds something above one.
-- --- --- ---D.
When the other man comes back around, he offers the page hopefully, as if a child waiting to be told he's done good on an assignment. But he knows that Kurt isn't so foolish. The man must see clean through his paltry attempts to distract, the imagined game that spells violence even in its simplicity. Hangman. The more wrong answers you give, the further you commit an imagined person to their demise. He used to love this game as a child, but Wrench sees it now in a different context. The new, inescapable light of fate and circumstance and chance. While Kurt pours out the water, he adds a few scraps of hair to the bald head. Tight circles cascading down the blank space, like he means to make their personhood unignorable.
It's the gentle touch that brings his attention around once more, and Wrench abandons the pencil at the other man's behest. Finding it replaced by a tail, he naturally follows the gestures he's shown, squeezing experimentally along the spade. It tightens his lips into a hard line across his face, but Wrench nods even as he silently promises himself not to ask for any mercy. I don't want to hurt you, he agrees. He wants to believe the other man knows this, but he feels raw and exposed in front of him. Wrench knows his isn't the body of an innocent man; his skin tells a different story altogether. Brutality is second nature, and as much as he wants to believe in the second chances the other man has promised, he wonders how far he'd have to go to find them. How fast does a man have to run to escape his own skin?
The touch lights a warmth along his back like the flames of a fire, a sensitive heat that wants to insist him away from the help he's being given. Wrench looks at the spade of the tail in his fingers, focuses on the contrast of golden skin against deep blue, and closes his throat around his breaths so as not to make a sound.
no subject
-- --- --- ---D.
When the other man comes back around, he offers the page hopefully, as if a child waiting to be told he's done good on an assignment. But he knows that Kurt isn't so foolish. The man must see clean through his paltry attempts to distract, the imagined game that spells violence even in its simplicity. Hangman. The more wrong answers you give, the further you commit an imagined person to their demise. He used to love this game as a child, but Wrench sees it now in a different context. The new, inescapable light of fate and circumstance and chance. While Kurt pours out the water, he adds a few scraps of hair to the bald head. Tight circles cascading down the blank space, like he means to make their personhood unignorable.
It's the gentle touch that brings his attention around once more, and Wrench abandons the pencil at the other man's behest. Finding it replaced by a tail, he naturally follows the gestures he's shown, squeezing experimentally along the spade. It tightens his lips into a hard line across his face, but Wrench nods even as he silently promises himself not to ask for any mercy. I don't want to hurt you, he agrees. He wants to believe the other man knows this, but he feels raw and exposed in front of him. Wrench knows his isn't the body of an innocent man; his skin tells a different story altogether. Brutality is second nature, and as much as he wants to believe in the second chances the other man has promised, he wonders how far he'd have to go to find them. How fast does a man have to run to escape his own skin?
The touch lights a warmth along his back like the flames of a fire, a sensitive heat that wants to insist him away from the help he's being given. Wrench looks at the spade of the tail in his fingers, focuses on the contrast of golden skin against deep blue, and closes his throat around his breaths so as not to make a sound.