everything about this frame is perfect to convey how Bad it would feel to be in this room, the set up that the entire room spells of perscriptive drugs, which is a very specific scent, the slight splatter of blood on the couch, the gnarled fingers on his hands that are forced to show the age he dispises so much, the horrifying effects of the growth horomones he takes, its all so fucking intense and insane
and its all in service to make the charecters around him feel smaller, insignificant both in their status and in their reaction, its to make it clear that there is a clear differance in What they are, the princable has happily stepped off the precipice of what it means to be a human and has contorted himself endlessly and relentlessly in persuit of a perfected self image all the way up to the vary second he dies, his organs giveing up. You listen to him out of a mixture of fear and guilt, the fear of seeing something that is so far beyond what is acceptable of the human form to do and the guilt of knowing that dispite it all, you are speaking to an impossibly old man, and impossibly old dyeing man. dispite hateing the pity one gets as a geriatric, he uses it perfectly as a weapon