Will's dialogue takes a turn that Rust wouldn't have anticipated, even if he could pause the moment and observe it from the outside like a snow globe. Where Will had been putting into words the very idea and feelings of someone who is trapped, he begins to speak words of triumph. Strings of memories of manipulation, of deception, evil and personal crimes posed against him -- suddenly alight with a flame that cuts through them as it declares, 'I won.'
Rust's face softens as he listens, his ferocity toward Will's dilemma cooling when he hears and sees the complete tonal shift in the other man. He doesn't need convincing, just an echo chamber, only an honest one. His hands no longer feel like silent demands for the other man's attention, but now they feel like a cabin in the middle of the wilderness: Rust feels like a shelter.
He hasn't felt like that in a long time. He's always distanced himself from the personal affairs of those around him, turning away sternly any time someone has presented to him their vulnerable underbelly. It's a weight of responsibility that Rust doesn't have the time or patience for, and definitely not for a long haul...not with the weight of his own world on his shoulder.
But this...is different. Rust made a quick assumption that Will came to him for the safety of a neutral party's opinion, because that's exactly the refreshing security of their very airy friendship. Will isn't clamoring desperately for the closest person to him -- he wanted Rust's insight.
So he owes him this much. He nods his head, agreeing and understanding, because make no mistake: Rust can smell the faint burning smoke smell that's hiding underneath Will's words. "That's exactly it, man. That brand is only skin deep. That's the only beauty in this linear existence: the universe is chaos. We invented obedience, but you can break out of it."
From this close, Rust's pale eyes wander over Will's torso like the exploratory beam from a flashlight. He squeezes Will's deltoids, then pats one of them firmly. The shoulders in his grasp shudder and twitch despite his own stable hold, and Rust lets his hands linger to feel the shapes under his palms rattle for another thorough moment, before they drift off and away, wood floating down a stream. "...You should take that jacket off. That towel ain't doing shit for you with you still in it."
Rust's cigarette's probably dead by now, but he isn't agitated enough to light up another. He glances back over to the kitchen. "I can make some coffee, if you're cold."
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Rust's face softens as he listens, his ferocity toward Will's dilemma cooling when he hears and sees the complete tonal shift in the other man. He doesn't need convincing, just an echo chamber, only an honest one. His hands no longer feel like silent demands for the other man's attention, but now they feel like a cabin in the middle of the wilderness: Rust feels like a shelter.
He hasn't felt like that in a long time. He's always distanced himself from the personal affairs of those around him, turning away sternly any time someone has presented to him their vulnerable underbelly. It's a weight of responsibility that Rust doesn't have the time or patience for, and definitely not for a long haul...not with the weight of his own world on his shoulder.
But this...is different. Rust made a quick assumption that Will came to him for the safety of a neutral party's opinion, because that's exactly the refreshing security of their very airy friendship. Will isn't clamoring desperately for the closest person to him -- he wanted Rust's insight.
So he owes him this much. He nods his head, agreeing and understanding, because make no mistake: Rust can smell the faint burning smoke smell that's hiding underneath Will's words. "That's exactly it, man. That brand is only skin deep. That's the only beauty in this linear existence: the universe is chaos. We invented obedience, but you can break out of it."
From this close, Rust's pale eyes wander over Will's torso like the exploratory beam from a flashlight. He squeezes Will's deltoids, then pats one of them firmly. The shoulders in his grasp shudder and twitch despite his own stable hold, and Rust lets his hands linger to feel the shapes under his palms rattle for another thorough moment, before they drift off and away, wood floating down a stream. "...You should take that jacket off. That towel ain't doing shit for you with you still in it."
Rust's cigarette's probably dead by now, but he isn't agitated enough to light up another. He glances back over to the kitchen. "I can make some coffee, if you're cold."