So trusting. It sounded almost like fact, her reassurance, and not bravery. It made him feel hopeless. Here he was, a cauldron of all the vile things his real mind could cook up, and she didn't think anything of it. It almost seemed she was without a chance in this, and that she invited it. She read what he wrote, and looked at the large canvasses it was echoed on, but what if she didn't see him, and she didn't, no one would. It should have made him sullen, but it made him mad. Roan looked at her hand around his, where he had a grip on her throat. Her pretty throat.<br/><br/>A myriad of images of different dismays for her played behind his eyes. They were all delicious, satisfying. "I don't know." he breathed. But he wanted to. It is part of the man, always, to express harm onto the world. She'd be so glorious, wouldn't she, his calm Iris who lived like a benign ghost with him in her house. What if she finally moved unruly, and showed him a part of her that had great emotion? He shook his head at the ill intent that crawled out of every crevice he'd stuffed it. She wouldn't misunderstand him then, in that transference of truth.<br/><br/>He kissed her again, deeply, rough, like it was vengeance, and then sat up, letting go of her and tossing his head to the side. "No, I guess." he muttered, disappointed - whether it be in himself or to have lost the chance to be so passionate about such a primal impulse - he didn't leave in the air. The thin skin on her neck had given him her heartbeats flawlessly. He tried not to think about it. He'd already chosen not to do something so indulgent and rash. He was in a foul mood again, and stood up without looking at her. He'd put her there, which was unfair.<br/><br/>He stroked his arm and pulled the tie out of his hair to run his hands through it a few times. A wild, pretty halo, almost too short to be held back, but long enough to be dramatic and to one side now. He sighed and turned away from her, rolling the band onto his wrist before shoving hands into his pockets. Roan found his room and settled his anger into brood finally. Sitting on the floor with the edge of his bed as support for his back, he hung his forearms on his knees. Hands floated like pretty rags. It was a familiar conflict, but it had been a good evening. He bent his head back to rest it on the bed.<br/><br/>Closing his eyes he saw some slivers of his usual inspiration, and made up stories to come with them. They felt like contemporary relationships, with their rending and their betrayal. Real heaven beside the sacrilegious heights men would take their emotions to. Roan laughed with his outstretched throat. He licked his lips and listened to the blood in his ears. His shoulders shook slightly. Why had be always been these two things? He missed suppressing himself in chemicals. He missed getting to purge into other bodies, and hear them moan gratefully.