You're pretty sure the room is holding its breath. It seems to do that around him.
You're also pretty sure you remember that smell, the incense he's burning. You think you'll probably remember it after you're dead when smell no longer makes sense. It's thick, so earthy and natural that it's strange to you, and it makes your head ache.
You might not really dig the music he's playing, but whatever. His room, his style, his choice. It creates a heluva atmosphere, you'll give him that. The room is cast soft with shadows, the only light the dim glow of some blue nightlight thing he has glowing in the corner. Looks like a ball of glass, and the patterns it makes on the walls are…well, you don't know – what, cozy? No. Not comforting, either. Peaceful, you guess. Serene. It's a word you don't normally deal in. That's okay, though. Contrast is good.
You wish you could remember to tell yourself that in the heated moments when all you wanna do is wring the condescension from his throat. You think that, and then half a second later you feel guilty. Never tell him that, though. That would upset the delicate status quo. There's a lot of shit you'd like to say to his face, but you'll be the first to admit (silently, out loud to your empty room) – you don't have the guts.
He knows you're there. No way he couldn't, not with his training. You're pretty sure he'd hear grass grow in India if he listened hard enough. You wonder if there is grass in India. It suddenly matters a lot, now that you're trying hard not to notice the fluttering under his closed eyelids or the pulse in his wrists you swear you can feel as vibrations in the concrete floor. This smell probably comes from India, or Cambodia, or some place exotic you only think about when you watch the Discovery channel for the sharks and the animal sex, wondering if, for you, it counts as porn. It's a hot tea and jungle smell, and on him it smells like confusion.
He's watching you now, expressionless. You've interrupted his state of utter zen, but if you hadn't, he'd be here all night. For all any of you know, he hardly sleeps; meditation blends into training melds into reading melts into this, the long hours of sitting on the floor doing nothing in the dark. There's a lot of stuff you do when you're alone in the dark. You wonder if he does that sort of thing, too.
You could ask. Wouldn't take much. But the incense makes your head heavy, thickens your tongue til you can't imagine speech.
He tilts his head, narrows his eyes. Smiles – not much, just a little, just enough to soften the hard lines concentration leaves on his face. There'll be a lot of You'll have to leave. I'm not finished or Aren't there more productive things you could be doing? but he'll be lying and there is nothing that could possibly be more important than this scent, the ring of hazy smoke around his body and the mystery of how it makes his skin taste. Maybe like grass in India. Maybe like secrets, or desperation, or rain. Maybe like guilt. Maybe it just tastes like Yes.
You figure you'll find out soon enough. You can tell from the look in his eyes – you're not going anywhere tonight.