@rockefcllcr
Prison was not a good look on James. He did what he could, of course, but it was a far stretch from the luxury he had gotten used to, the same luxury that had been so quickly seized from him. He worried about his skin, his hair, the way his clothes contrasted with his skin tone, and he did all this while happily shoving down thinking about the fact that it was very likely that he would spend the rest of his life in this damned hellhole. Somewhere, somehow, there was still a part of him that believed that there was a future; that this was temporary, some kind of charitable trip to some indigent wasteland, that he would get to see his friends in Jupiter again, that he would get to see Jupiter’s twinkling lights or the many moons that glittered his sky — there was only one moon on Earth and it made him feel sick, empty, like there was something missing.
There was nothing more that made him feel sick to the stomach of what he used to have, of course, than the sight of Estlin Rockefeller, who gave him everything that he had to lose. All of which he had lost in one tumble down a cliff, everything gone in a single blink. Their last interactions had been tense — not heated, but cold, rigid, with full recognition of what they had done to each other. It was several weeks now since the last time they had spoken, and — well, James had had some time to think since then. It was fate (or, perhaps, a cruel, knowing watcher) that now brought them together. “I understand why you did what you did, darling,” he said, his arms crossed against his chest, though there was no fire in his voice, only tired resignation. “But let me say it. Just once.” He shoved weakly at his chest. “Fuck you.”
