[he sighs, relieved, as they remove their cane from the nape of his neck, only to tense again as light, blinding, hot, white, floods his retinas. He uses one hand to shield his face from the overhead fluorescents, head pounding brutally. Jesus Christ, it’s bright. Like the sun itself had lifted the ceiling and let herself in. With this illumination, comes a face, an identity. His face, round and downturned in its features, speckled with acne scars and remnants of sunburn, only outlier in his visage being a gash over his temple, stitched closed with what must’ve been even hands- probably Ilya’s work. And to him, a sunken face, maybe mildly deprived of resources, hungry and suspicious of danger, thick eyebrows hardly visible beneath their ginger-white bangs. They look like they could eat him alive, if they liked, but also like they could be the gentlest animal on the planet if they so chose.]
[it takes him a moment to realize what they’re handing him, but the moment his dies, he goes for it like a man starved, holding it like it’s some exceptional treasure. He tilts his head back up at this threat-turned-godsend as they begin speaking again, watching with unevenly sized pupils.]
Uh, yeah… on the dash when I was driving last night. Um.. deer or somethin’… [he shakes his head, finally dropping his hand from over his eyes with a slight wince. He doesn’t hardly look old enough to be driving here yet. In the US, sure, but he’d have to be at least eighteen to be legally driving in Russia… maybe he is. But by his appearance probably not.]
[he retracts into himself as they get on his level, afraid to be hit, or scolded still. He relaxes again as they begin speaking, wary and perhaps slightly dazed in his expression. Eventually, he nods, some slight acknowledgment, before his voice comes to him.]
That’s okay.. I’d have prolly done the same, if I were you..
[he sounds like he’d like to add more, but he trails off, looking at the injury in their leg. He gets the urge to ask them about it, but afraid to be rude, he closes his mouth and bites his tongue, before anything can get past his teeth.]
[rather, he directs his attention to the phone in his hand, flicking it open, and dialing some number hopefully. He brings it to his ear while it rings, anxious, begging, pleading nearly with his eyes. It gives him nothing, so he tries again, dependent on this technology to get him home. It only hushes abruptly, nothing again. Once more…? It giggles in his ear, fueling hope that this will be the time, he’ll get through with this one… leave a voicemail. He’d rather not. Fucking figures. He closes it again, and hands it forward to them, though he feels far more like snapping it in half or throwing it across the room, dejected in his failed attempts. Maybe he’d gotten the wrong number. He’d been struggling to recall it when dialing… maybe he’s only a digit short of his mother’s voice. Maybe they’d ignored him on purpose. Maybe they aren’t worried at all. He doesn’t know. Whatever. He wipes his palms on the fronts of his jeans, offering them a tentative and obviously forced smile as compensation for their help.]
Uh…. It’s… that’s okay. Thanks, anyways. …You’re American?.. or…? Your accent’s kinda cool, like how they’ve got on TV and stuff…