[That despondent look starts to shift as Sun talks. That more familiar look of anger resurfacing. Not at the lack of sympathy, but at what else Sun has to say. It's true, they can't just avoid each other all the time, and they both have kinda been dicks, but Guzma especially. He can't help it.
Well, he can. It's just hard, he doesn't know how to deal with these complex situations, and even less so when he's drunk. Especially when he's hurt like this, a wound that was already freshly made, just being cut deeper, what scabbing there was merely scrubbed away without mercy.
The casual mention of suddenly disappearing riles Guzma, not because he's particularly worried about Sun doing so, but it just brings back the fact Jill's gone. Settles it right in the foreground of Guzma's mind, and the flippancy in which he says it just makes it all the worse.
As Sun rises, so too does Guzma (he's also dropping that bottle, which thankfully doesn't break when it hits the floor, but it does spill), and with one hand he swiftly catches Sun in the chest, shoving him back onto the couch.]
Where the fuck d'ya think you're goin', kid?!
[He's not done... doing whatever this is, ok!? He's drunk, and mad, and he doesn't even know what he wants, or what he needs at this point. He just has too many emotions, and the tension in the house is crushing. To a point that it's making the whole place tremble as Guzma stares down at Sun with renewed drunken hostility.]
You came over here—with that face of yours! You knew she wasn't around—you tried to get a hold of her, and couldn't! You just wanted to rile me, huh? You wanted to piss me off while I was-was—
[Weak. Vulnerable. Pathetic. He can't say it, but they're there, and he's pissed, his mind is swimming with emotions and half-thoughts, and the haze of the booze doesn't make any of this clearer. His fists are white-knuckled with their clenching, and he looks like he might very well beat Sun down right here and now if the kid doesn't think fast—or someone doesn't intervene.]
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Well, he can. It's just hard, he doesn't know how to deal with these complex situations, and even less so when he's drunk. Especially when he's hurt like this, a wound that was already freshly made, just being cut deeper, what scabbing there was merely scrubbed away without mercy.
The casual mention of suddenly disappearing riles Guzma, not because he's particularly worried about Sun doing so, but it just brings back the fact Jill's gone. Settles it right in the foreground of Guzma's mind, and the flippancy in which he says it just makes it all the worse.
As Sun rises, so too does Guzma (he's also dropping that bottle, which thankfully doesn't break when it hits the floor, but it does spill), and with one hand he swiftly catches Sun in the chest, shoving him back onto the couch.]
Where the fuck d'ya think you're goin', kid?!
[He's not done... doing whatever this is, ok!? He's drunk, and mad, and he doesn't even know what he wants, or what he needs at this point. He just has too many emotions, and the tension in the house is crushing. To a point that it's making the whole place tremble as Guzma stares down at Sun with renewed drunken hostility.]
You came over here—with that face of yours! You knew she wasn't around—you tried to get a hold of her, and couldn't! You just wanted to rile me, huh? You wanted to piss me off while I was-was—
[Weak. Vulnerable. Pathetic. He can't say it, but they're there, and he's pissed, his mind is swimming with emotions and half-thoughts, and the haze of the booze doesn't make any of this clearer. His fists are white-knuckled with their clenching, and he looks like he might very well beat Sun down right here and now if the kid doesn't think fast—or someone doesn't intervene.]