It's okay, [ Robby says, words that feel like he's repeating them. Is he? Everything he's said has been that message in some form, attempting to make it sound true; to make it so Mister LaRusso will relax, that he'll give himself the time he needs. And he needs it, by the way he looks so ragged; not just by the marks on his face or the 5 o'clock shadow he's never seen Mister LaRusso wear. It's the way his eyelids weigh down on his face despite his attempts, and that's at least one side effect of drinking too much.
How easy it can be to sleep. Robby watches it happening to him, tugging on a lop-sided smile, pressing his hand to the back of Mister LaRusso's around his wrist; so he can take it, slip it down so he can cup the older hand in both of his, wait until his first sensei's eyes have closed--and been closed for a while--before he leaves it to rest on the bed.
And then Robby stands there, in case Mister LaRusso might stir again, look up; or if he might disappear, like he still isn't sure won't happen. It doesn't come to pass, and eventually he decides he should get a class of water and the panadol he promised, leave it in a spot where Mister LaRusso can reach it when he wakes up. Make him some dried toast, maybe--he doesn't know if he has bacon, but he could go and get some. Bacon, toast, and scrambled eggs.
But one try of the door does nothing but rattled the handle. The same on the second try, the same on the third.
Robby stares at it, and he'll do that a few times; he'll even try pushing against it (not throw--he doesn't want to wake Mister LaRusso up), but nothing will convince it to open. He's locked in here, with nothing but a sleeping man and a desk with his rubbish on it, some clothes that will get shoved into the one drawer in the room.
And he doesn't exactly have a lot of urge to sleep. The door worries him, but anything he can do about it will have to wait for the man in the room with him to be awake, would make too much noise otherwise; so he has nothing to do but to settle, somewhere. Somehow. A few times at the desk and chair, other times on the floor by the bed, when the seat becomes uncomfortable under him. He tries sleeping on that floor, a hand tucked under his head for a pillow. Maybe it works. But he still comes to either way, the photograph left on the ground where idleness left it after re-examination after re-examination.
It's not a fun time. When in this City has there ever been a fun time? It's just a game of waiting, and now so is this, with Robby's back to the bed, sighing with his arms hanging off from his knees, hands joined as he's left with nothing else but his thoughts.
no subject
How easy it can be to sleep. Robby watches it happening to him, tugging on a lop-sided smile, pressing his hand to the back of Mister LaRusso's around his wrist; so he can take it, slip it down so he can cup the older hand in both of his, wait until his first sensei's eyes have closed--and been closed for a while--before he leaves it to rest on the bed.
And then Robby stands there, in case Mister LaRusso might stir again, look up; or if he might disappear, like he still isn't sure won't happen. It doesn't come to pass, and eventually he decides he should get a class of water and the panadol he promised, leave it in a spot where Mister LaRusso can reach it when he wakes up. Make him some dried toast, maybe--he doesn't know if he has bacon, but he could go and get some. Bacon, toast, and scrambled eggs.
But one try of the door does nothing but rattled the handle. The same on the second try, the same on the third.
Robby stares at it, and he'll do that a few times; he'll even try pushing against it (not throw--he doesn't want to wake Mister LaRusso up), but nothing will convince it to open. He's locked in here, with nothing but a sleeping man and a desk with his rubbish on it, some clothes that will get shoved into the one drawer in the room.
And he doesn't exactly have a lot of urge to sleep. The door worries him, but anything he can do about it will have to wait for the man in the room with him to be awake, would make too much noise otherwise; so he has nothing to do but to settle, somewhere. Somehow. A few times at the desk and chair, other times on the floor by the bed, when the seat becomes uncomfortable under him. He tries sleeping on that floor, a hand tucked under his head for a pillow. Maybe it works. But he still comes to either way, the photograph left on the ground where idleness left it after re-examination after re-examination.
It's not a fun time. When in this City has there ever been a fun time? It's just a game of waiting, and now so is this, with Robby's back to the bed, sighing with his arms hanging off from his knees, hands joined as he's left with nothing else but his thoughts.
Cool. Great. ]