[ Seriously? Assume? That's what he is going to say? There is no doubt about it. This man died during the last round. That much blood loss could only spell death. Not including the fact that Till was declared the winner. He saw it reflected in that bloodied pool. He was to move on to the next round, and preparations were made. Before he could continue onward, he was whisked away. He is here now. Yet he is forever caught in that moment. Finding himself searching in that darkness, always thinking of that red sky.
He thought he would never get answers, yet here is an illusion that can give him something—anything. He could work with anything. He could fool himself and soothe his own nerves. ] The—what—take them off you moron! [ That's the main concern here? High heels? Why is he even wearing this getup? He still cannot wrap his head around the idea of Ivan's apparition coming to him like this. Is it mocking him? Is it trying to piss him off. It's very Ivan.
His grip tightens on the fabric, and with one swift movement, he pulls on it!
He intends to tear it away, to rip the garment off of this Ivan, because he knows deep down that he will find his proof somehow. There must be evidence that this is not the real deal. He doesn't want it to be him, and yet he does. He cannot face his guilt. He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want to be forever haunted by his image. He wants to recall all the details of his expression. Frustrating, calming, antagonizing, comforting. Yet his heart is racing. His nerves are frayed. ]
Uh.
[ The question causes him to pause.
His hands are holding torn white fabric. It's already partially done. Did he say too? Who else has been undressing this guy? Slowly, he presses the bits of the torn dress against Ivan as if he could magically cause them to mend together and reform the dress. ] I haven't learned anything! None of that fucking gross stuff!
[ Don't go accusing him of things!
And that's not what he meant! Of course, Ivan's face cannot be changed. That face. It's not wearing the expression he had hoped to scribe to paper. Maybe he will never see anything like that again. ] Shut up! Wear something else. Clothes. Some other clothes!
no subject
[ Seriously? Assume? That's what he is going to say? There is no doubt about it. This man died during the last round. That much blood loss could only spell death. Not including the fact that Till was declared the winner. He saw it reflected in that bloodied pool. He was to move on to the next round, and preparations were made. Before he could continue onward, he was whisked away. He is here now. Yet he is forever caught in that moment. Finding himself searching in that darkness, always thinking of that red sky.
He thought he would never get answers, yet here is an illusion that can give him something—anything. He could work with anything. He could fool himself and soothe his own nerves. ] The—what—take them off you moron! [ That's the main concern here? High heels? Why is he even wearing this getup? He still cannot wrap his head around the idea of Ivan's apparition coming to him like this. Is it mocking him? Is it trying to piss him off. It's very Ivan.
His grip tightens on the fabric, and with one swift movement, he pulls on it!
He intends to tear it away, to rip the garment off of this Ivan, because he knows deep down that he will find his proof somehow. There must be evidence that this is not the real deal. He doesn't want it to be him, and yet he does. He cannot face his guilt. He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want to be forever haunted by his image. He wants to recall all the details of his expression. Frustrating, calming, antagonizing, comforting. Yet his heart is racing. His nerves are frayed. ]
Uh.
[ The question causes him to pause.
His hands are holding torn white fabric. It's already partially done. Did he say too? Who else has been undressing this guy? Slowly, he presses the bits of the torn dress against Ivan as if he could magically cause them to mend together and reform the dress. ] I haven't learned anything! None of that fucking gross stuff!
[ Don't go accusing him of things!
And that's not what he meant! Of course, Ivan's face cannot be changed. That face. It's not wearing the expression he had hoped to scribe to paper. Maybe he will never see anything like that again. ] Shut up! Wear something else. Clothes. Some other clothes!