[the harsh flinch at the increased touch is probably expected, but that he jitters himself beneath it until he's settled again, like a child rocking themselves back to sleep from a nightmare, probably isn't. he's starved for it, for contact that doesn't hurt but still stings, for affection that's sought after, not freely offered; Sakamoto is keeping that bag of bones from clattering right apart]
[what should have sounded like platitudes hits hard; back home, their problems didn't get fixed (rarely even got understood), but they were always listened to, if someone chose to speak (and they did)]
[I fuckin' hate school, Badou would yell and mean a hundred other things, about isolation and fear and anger]
[Ah, cigarettes are gettin' too expensive, Dave would mutter and mean a hundred more, about desperation and practicality and truth]
[listening mattered then and it matters now, with a man who isn't his brother, but is someone Badou -- falteringly, with such stupid blindness -- trusts]
[those knocking bones slowly settle more, but his shallow, ragged breathing does not, and he fumbles a hand down, pulling out a pack of cigarettes (Hijikata's) and a lighter (his own) from that stupid coat]
[Sakamoto had assumed he doesn't smoke; he doesn't. he just wants to pull heat back into himself, put something in his lungs that isn't loss (which coincides with the oxygen he keeps choking on)]
Re: action mofo
[what should have sounded like platitudes hits hard; back home, their problems didn't get fixed (rarely even got understood), but they were always listened to, if someone chose to speak (and they did)]
[I fuckin' hate school, Badou would yell and mean a hundred other things, about isolation and fear and anger]
[Ah, cigarettes are gettin' too expensive, Dave would mutter and mean a hundred more, about desperation and practicality and truth]
[listening mattered then and it matters now, with a man who isn't his brother, but is someone Badou -- falteringly, with such stupid blindness -- trusts]
[those knocking bones slowly settle more, but his shallow, ragged breathing does not, and he fumbles a hand down, pulling out a pack of cigarettes (Hijikata's) and a lighter (his own) from that stupid coat]
[Sakamoto had assumed he doesn't smoke; he doesn't. he just wants to pull heat back into himself, put something in his lungs that isn't loss (which coincides with the oxygen he keeps choking on)]