( even though ash doesn't, arguably, say too much, it feels like a lot to take in. yin han does his best, trying to maintain his focus while the world around him seems to want to swim, aggravating the sick feeling that has yet to subside. he's grateful at least that ash doesn't push for the why of having no one to call. though he refuses to admit it, it would probably shatter what's left of his resolve right now, the tenuous strings that hold him up and almost normal save for the altercation he just went through.
inwardly he sighs. starting out owing people is not ideal. even through his murky unwellness, he has that thought, but none of it shows on his face. quietly calm and neutral despite everything. suspiciously so, perhaps.
watching ash as he speaks, yin han has this odd sense of him. like he's more than he seems though he can't quite put his finger on it. this kind of thing does not feel like it has phased him greatly or even is unusual. it does make him curious of him, but whether the concussion or everything else or both, he hasn't the wherewithal to dig into that.
instead, he offers a small smile of his own. it's disarming, emphasizes how young yin han looks -- the sort of face that someone would believe him if he said he was 14 or 15 despite being as beautiful as he is, and on the flip side if he told someone he was 25 they might also believe this. as it is, 17 does not feel any particular way to him. the world is alien after all that has happened, and the slow seeding ache for some kind of resolution hasn't even fully taken form.
not yet, anyway. )
I will trouble you for tonight then. I'm --
( from pale to sheet white, yin han slumps forward. vision white then black. why does it feel like he's underwater? he's never had a concussion before, but the truth is this is likely the culmination of exhaustion and loss as much as anything else. if he knocks anything over, he doesn't notice, though one of his hands ends up fisted in the bedding, not that it's much of an anchor. )
no subject
inwardly he sighs. starting out owing people is not ideal. even through his murky unwellness, he has that thought, but none of it shows on his face. quietly calm and neutral despite everything. suspiciously so, perhaps.
watching ash as he speaks, yin han has this odd sense of him. like he's more than he seems though he can't quite put his finger on it. this kind of thing does not feel like it has phased him greatly or even is unusual. it does make him curious of him, but whether the concussion or everything else or both, he hasn't the wherewithal to dig into that.
instead, he offers a small smile of his own. it's disarming, emphasizes how young yin han looks -- the sort of face that someone would believe him if he said he was 14 or 15 despite being as beautiful as he is, and on the flip side if he told someone he was 25 they might also believe this. as it is, 17 does not feel any particular way to him. the world is alien after all that has happened, and the slow seeding ache for some kind of resolution hasn't even fully taken form.
not yet, anyway. )
I will trouble you for tonight then. I'm --
( from pale to sheet white, yin han slumps forward. vision white then black. why does it feel like he's underwater? he's never had a concussion before, but the truth is this is likely the culmination of exhaustion and loss as much as anything else. if he knocks anything over, he doesn't notice, though one of his hands ends up fisted in the bedding, not that it's much of an anchor. )