[Well, Sun's worries are unfortunately made manifest. It had been a few days since Guzma had seen Jill, and that worry that gripped him like when she had, well, died was on the rise again, so he too tried to contact her.
And likewise, he got nothing.
He hadn't spoken to anyone about it, figured maybe Archie knew, but didn't know how to bring it up. Went to the wall to confirm whether she had been killed again, or if she had gone home... turned out it was the latter. In a way, that was better, he supposed, but it still hurt. Still made his chest feel like it had caved in. His heart crushed upon seeing her name.
He's never been good at not wearing his heart on his sleeve, keeping his emotions in check, but he's especially not now. It was like a horrific déjà vu, where instead of feeling an odd sense of repeated familiarity, it was like a torturous rerun of shit you never asked to be exposed to.
With that said, it's of little surprise that when he yanks that door open, he looks a bit like a mess. There's a bottle of booze loosely held in his hand, he's only wearing his sweats, and his hair is an absolute mess, and mostly in his face with how wild it is. Particularly when he's done nothing to keep it in check, and those glasses aren't keeping it out of his face.
His jaw is tight, and his glare hard when he sees Sun—probably one of the last people he wants to see when he's like this. Or at all, for that matter. Last they met he had punched the kid, and hell, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing to repeat depending on what the hell the kid even wants.]
What.
[It's not a question, more a statement. A demand, even. His voice is rough and tired, and maybe Sun's sheepishness is well placed with the impending doom of Guzma's presence and emotions. Hell, the air is heavy and thick, and might even feel a little suffocating.]
no subject
And likewise, he got nothing.
He hadn't spoken to anyone about it, figured maybe Archie knew, but didn't know how to bring it up. Went to the wall to confirm whether she had been killed again, or if she had gone home... turned out it was the latter. In a way, that was better, he supposed, but it still hurt. Still made his chest feel like it had caved in. His heart crushed upon seeing her name.
He's never been good at not wearing his heart on his sleeve, keeping his emotions in check, but he's especially not now. It was like a horrific déjà vu, where instead of feeling an odd sense of repeated familiarity, it was like a torturous rerun of shit you never asked to be exposed to.
With that said, it's of little surprise that when he yanks that door open, he looks a bit like a mess. There's a bottle of booze loosely held in his hand, he's only wearing his sweats, and his hair is an absolute mess, and mostly in his face with how wild it is. Particularly when he's done nothing to keep it in check, and those glasses aren't keeping it out of his face.
His jaw is tight, and his glare hard when he sees Sun—probably one of the last people he wants to see when he's like this. Or at all, for that matter. Last they met he had punched the kid, and hell, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing to repeat depending on what the hell the kid even wants.]
What.
[It's not a question, more a statement. A demand, even. His voice is rough and tired, and maybe Sun's sheepishness is well placed with the impending doom of Guzma's presence and emotions. Hell, the air is heavy and thick, and might even feel a little suffocating.]