I. TIME CAST A SPELL ON YOU, BUT YOU WON'T FORGET ME (OR THE STANDS & ABOUT THE QUARTERS)
A.
[ Before his tussle in the Stadium, he can be found quietly attending the matches. He sits in the highest rises, one leg crossed over the other and eyes fixed on each of the matches with an almost desperate edge. It is clear from the odd pallor cast across his features that he doesn't seem to be enjoying this, the blue painted meat of his lower lip caught between his teeth. Occasionally, he'll lean forward further to see a square-off against an Aranean, but that's it.
Otherwise, he quietly nurses something from an opaque bottle in his hands. His knuckles go white occasionally, but sometimes — sometimes, there's something strange and foreign that edges around the corners of his expression. When people sit next to him or linger beside him, he won't look up immediately. However, he will eventually. His eyes are always dark.
It might be difficult to hear him above the rising and falling clamor about them all, but: ]
Are you competing?
[ It isn't so much an interest, as it is almost something that's expected these days. ]
B.
[ After his tussle in the Stadium, Ryo keeps to himself near COST's quarters.
Occasionally, he can be seen in the interconnected garden between their rooms, his injuries largely healed by the next week. All that remains is the ugly purples and greens about his knuckles where they'd fractured under strain, the duller pallor of his skin from residual blood loss. He looks... Tired. The bruises that once adorned his face like splashes of dark paint are gone, leaving deeper shadows beneath his eyes. No matter the amount of makeup he places over them, he can't hide them entirely. It's questionable if he tries.
More often than not, he drinks from his own stores he's purchased here. He'd rather not go out to a bar if he can help it. He doesn't want to see himself up on the screens, much less hear about it.
If anyone comes to sit beside him, he wordlessly extends whatever glass he has in his hand without looking. He doesn't want to. ]
It's better than the stuff at the bars, [ he says, as if it excuses and explains him reaching out with it all. ]
ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | ota | general
A.
[ Before his tussle in the Stadium, he can be found quietly attending the matches. He sits in the highest rises, one leg crossed over the other and eyes fixed on each of the matches with an almost desperate edge. It is clear from the odd pallor cast across his features that he doesn't seem to be enjoying this, the blue painted meat of his lower lip caught between his teeth. Occasionally, he'll lean forward further to see a square-off against an Aranean, but that's it.
Otherwise, he quietly nurses something from an opaque bottle in his hands. His knuckles go white occasionally, but sometimes — sometimes, there's something strange and foreign that edges around the corners of his expression. When people sit next to him or linger beside him, he won't look up immediately. However, he will eventually. His eyes are always dark.
It might be difficult to hear him above the rising and falling clamor about them all, but: ]
Are you competing?
[ It isn't so much an interest, as it is almost something that's expected these days. ]
B.
[ After his tussle in the Stadium, Ryo keeps to himself near COST's quarters.
Occasionally, he can be seen in the interconnected garden between their rooms, his injuries largely healed by the next week. All that remains is the ugly purples and greens about his knuckles where they'd fractured under strain, the duller pallor of his skin from residual blood loss. He looks... Tired. The bruises that once adorned his face like splashes of dark paint are gone, leaving deeper shadows beneath his eyes. No matter the amount of makeup he places over them, he can't hide them entirely. It's questionable if he tries.
More often than not, he drinks from his own stores he's purchased here. He'd rather not go out to a bar if he can help it. He doesn't want to see himself up on the screens, much less hear about it.
If anyone comes to sit beside him, he wordlessly extends whatever glass he has in his hand without looking. He doesn't want to. ]
It's better than the stuff at the bars, [ he says, as if it excuses and explains him reaching out with it all. ]