Whatever Seoraj thought - a week ago in his kitchen, months ago in the woods, right now - Bruce does not need him. Still, he needs so very little. He doesn't need other people or validation or his millions in Gotham or cars or smokescreens. He needs oxygen, he needs his heart to keep beating. Everything else is desire, and no one takes a precision scalpel to desire like Bruce Wayne.
It would have done him some good, to need Seoraj. Or to need Hasibe, or even Vanessza. He remembers needing people; his parents, Rachel. Henri. He's burned it out of him, like curing a wound. He'll only get it back if it grows now, if he's crippled long enough for it to culture. A glance, a half-heartbeat of distraction, and for this split-second he wants to move across the Arena.
It's meaningless when it shouldn't be. And it's one of the reasons he never walks out.
Their eyes don't meet. Bruce doesn't see him again.
no subject
It would have done him some good, to need Seoraj. Or to need Hasibe, or even Vanessza. He remembers needing people; his parents, Rachel. Henri. He's burned it out of him, like curing a wound. He'll only get it back if it grows now, if he's crippled long enough for it to culture. A glance, a half-heartbeat of distraction, and for this split-second he wants to move across the Arena.
It's meaningless when it shouldn't be. And it's one of the reasons he never walks out.
Their eyes don't meet. Bruce doesn't see him again.