[The drink splashes a plain, white, high-collared shirt buttoned to a spot just beneath collarbones where it gapes to show skin; the stain blooms dark over the fabric, and he can smell it under his nose, sourly acerbic. It brings him out of the dark daze of his thoughts, but the look he turns onto the stranger is glowering, a snap of irritation that isn't smoothed by the nervy composure he feels on better days. This is a worst day — as the silken piece of cloth is offered out, Sasuke looks at it, then past it, then snatches that slender wrist and yanks in an almost perfect imitation of their first meeting, whipping Laurent around and throwing him against the streetlight he had previously occupied. The same arm falls over Laurent's chest like a steel bar, unwilling to let him move from beneath its pressure.]

You again. [His eyes are burning, iridescent red and pale purple, like two vivid candles.] I considered breaking your arm last time, should I do it now? There's nothing you could do to stop me if I tried. I can tell that you're weak.

[His thoughts are mired in a film of darkness, and for a moment it isn't a stranger in front of him, but another blond-haired, blue-eyed young man, and he had promised that person once that he would end his life. 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐢𝐭?

Sasuke's brow wrinkles, the crease tight between his eyes as the hazy cloud of intoxication floats in and out of awareness. That crushing pressure eases on Laurent's chest; he takes a deliberate step back.] You're nothing like him. Who are you.