[ Godddd at least the phones have solitaire on it.
Which is what Robby's been getting well-acquainted with. A couple of games he opened up and refused to become invested in, and then conceded. It's better than the Pong game; that one requires a patience where you're not itchy about being stuck in a room (and he's not that far gone yet), and Robby can make his way through cards where there's no timer or rush to it. Throw in some thoughts about his current state of affairs, look at the door locking him in here like it's the enemy.
And then the bed sighs; a sound he doesn't immediately understand, until the croaking of his name behind him spins him around, the phone discarded on the ground. ]
Mister LaRusso! Hey, yeah-- [ Nothing about that sleep has changed anything about Mister LaRusso's appearance, that's for sure. He looks around, considering his next move, an arm slung up on the side of the bed. ] You want a drink? The door jammed, but...
[ But I can try it now, is what he would say, another time. But he leaves the question there in the air, his gaze now looking at Mister LaRusso for some other question, for something else. It's been how long since they've both been here? And it's been how long since they've spoken to each other, been alone with one another in a room?
And how long has it been since that anger in him died for people he used to trust--and has anything changed for those people? Those people, that person--the one looking back at him right now, who would have every reason to feel differently about him after trying to reach out to him, again and again--
and whose teachings and dojo he sold off, chewed up, and spat out?
He looks for any certainty, for any reason--the absence of anger, of hurt or disgust--for his lips to roll together, and to smile into his cheek. ]
...Hey.
[ But, you know what, he can handle hurt. He can handle disgust, too. ]
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Which is what Robby's been getting well-acquainted with. A couple of games he opened up and refused to become invested in, and then conceded. It's better than the Pong game; that one requires a patience where you're not itchy about being stuck in a room (and he's not that far gone yet), and Robby can make his way through cards where there's no timer or rush to it. Throw in some thoughts about his current state of affairs, look at the door locking him in here like it's the enemy.
And then the bed sighs; a sound he doesn't immediately understand, until the croaking of his name behind him spins him around, the phone discarded on the ground. ]
Mister LaRusso! Hey, yeah-- [ Nothing about that sleep has changed anything about Mister LaRusso's appearance, that's for sure. He looks around, considering his next move, an arm slung up on the side of the bed. ] You want a drink? The door jammed, but...
[ But I can try it now, is what he would say, another time. But he leaves the question there in the air, his gaze now looking at Mister LaRusso for some other question, for something else. It's been how long since they've both been here? And it's been how long since they've spoken to each other, been alone with one another in a room?
And how long has it been since that anger in him died for people he used to trust--and has anything changed for those people? Those people, that person--the one looking back at him right now, who would have every reason to feel differently about him after trying to reach out to him, again and again--
and whose teachings and dojo he sold off, chewed up, and spat out?
He looks for any certainty, for any reason--the absence of anger, of hurt or disgust--for his lips to roll together, and to smile into his cheek. ]
...Hey.
[ But, you know what, he can handle hurt. He can handle disgust, too. ]