[ He doesn't know what it is. Maybe it's being paired with Rhys—who seems, at his worst, like a grotesque exaggeration of everything William hates, a slavering cartoon with dollar signs for eyes. Who keeps proposing harebrained schemes to turn a dimension-hopping spaceship into a rigged carnival game. Maybe it's the way Theo looks, dull-eyed and alone. The way he almost reaches for William—who steps back automatically but can still imagine Theo's touch, boney-fingered and desperate.
He looks from the machine to Theo—worse now than ever, less a person than a twitching, exposed nerve. Remembers promising he didn't want to see him broken, abject. He'd probably lick the floor if he thought there were tobacco flakes on it.
He doesn't approach the machine to read what's on offer, doesn't look at it again. He wants no part of this.
Posture tightening, he thrusts his tickets—there are only two, still in the envelope—at Theo. If Theo doesn't take them quickly enough, they'll flutter to the ground as William turns to walk away. ]
no subject
He looks from the machine to Theo—worse now than ever, less a person than a twitching, exposed nerve. Remembers promising he didn't want to see him broken, abject. He'd probably lick the floor if he thought there were tobacco flakes on it.
He doesn't approach the machine to read what's on offer, doesn't look at it again. He wants no part of this.
Posture tightening, he thrusts his tickets—there are only two, still in the envelope—at Theo. If Theo doesn't take them quickly enough, they'll flutter to the ground as William turns to walk away. ]