and, oh, the flames were as gold
It's lucky, Dieter supposes, that there are only a handful of people on the island that he's had more than one conversation with.
Fight Club was - a bit of a catharsis, honestly. He's felt the need to lash out for a while, now, and where better to do it than in an arena in which there aren't any consequences? Not many consequences, at least, not for him. As chipper as the island's population generally is, and given the recent events, injuries aren't an anomaly. He keeps to himself. Nobody asks, so he doesn't have to worry about breaking any of the rules. He doesn't lie. He knows how to deflect conversation, but it isn't a tactic he's necessarily fond of using. He can manipulate words with the best of them, but still.
He sports a cut on his lip and bruise on his cheek for his trouble. (There are others on his body, just nothing else quite as visible.) Despite that, he looks more relaxed than he's been for a long time. He has never been much of a brawler, but he knows how to hold his own in a fight. Given that and all of the energy and restlessness that's been pent up in him for the last several months, he almost looks happy.
Standing at the kitchen sink, he's washing his hands, a little bruising apparent on his knuckles, although he doesn't seem to be feeling any pain. (He is, but that's never been something he's been willing to show unless caught by surprise. Emotional or physical.) Switching off the faucet, he turns away, shaking his hands to dry them out, pausing as he realizes that the cut on his lip has opened up again, alerted by the telltale taste of iron on his tongue.
He hisses under his breath, brow furrowing in mild frustration as he casts about for a paper towel or something of the like.
Fight Club was - a bit of a catharsis, honestly. He's felt the need to lash out for a while, now, and where better to do it than in an arena in which there aren't any consequences? Not many consequences, at least, not for him. As chipper as the island's population generally is, and given the recent events, injuries aren't an anomaly. He keeps to himself. Nobody asks, so he doesn't have to worry about breaking any of the rules. He doesn't lie. He knows how to deflect conversation, but it isn't a tactic he's necessarily fond of using. He can manipulate words with the best of them, but still.
He sports a cut on his lip and bruise on his cheek for his trouble. (There are others on his body, just nothing else quite as visible.) Despite that, he looks more relaxed than he's been for a long time. He has never been much of a brawler, but he knows how to hold his own in a fight. Given that and all of the energy and restlessness that's been pent up in him for the last several months, he almost looks happy.
Standing at the kitchen sink, he's washing his hands, a little bruising apparent on his knuckles, although he doesn't seem to be feeling any pain. (He is, but that's never been something he's been willing to show unless caught by surprise. Emotional or physical.) Switching off the faucet, he turns away, shaking his hands to dry them out, pausing as he realizes that the cut on his lip has opened up again, alerted by the telltale taste of iron on his tongue.
He hisses under his breath, brow furrowing in mild frustration as he casts about for a paper towel or something of the like.