[a smaller idiot shows up (late, again, maybe it's something in his blood), although this one is wearing a brown coat, oversized and incredibly grubby]
[he had been -- not excited, nothing so kiddish as that, surely -- interested! interested, to see what Sakamoto had for him, on a day that coincidentally happened to be his fourteenth birthday, even if it wasn't really a birthday, even if it wasn't really a year worth celebrating]
[but now, his face doesn't speak of that enthusiasm; when Badou plunks down beside Sakamoto, his face looks brittle, his eye too dry, and his mouth too thin]
[and he smells, overfuckingwhelmingly, of cigarettes]
[ he hears Badou before he sees him, but surprisingly, he smells him before he ever gets close enough to see, too. he knew the boy wasn't a smoker, knows that nobody in that household was save for Toushirou. this, though, isn't anything near what the Shinsengumi vice-chief smoked.
he smiles to the sky when the kid sits down, though, watching him sidelong and so carefully neutral. takes note of what he can see of the boy's face, his expression, the set of bony shoulders.
the coat.
ah. ]
Would you like it now, or do want to enjoy the scenery a little more?
[he's not good at answering questions on, really, his best days; living in an infohound's den was bound to fuck with your sense of other people's curiosity (if words are weapons, how can they ever leave your mouth painlessly?)]
[so the response is a shrug, and an empty ache where he should feel something]
[his goal, his hate, that ten fucking K to that fucking asshole, he can't even focus on those tried and true distractions; it's nothing but static and echoes]
[ like he'd ever forget the weight, no matter how small the object. but it's with a small laugh, a chuckle, that he brings the box forward, simple cardboard kept closed with tape around an embarrassing wad of crumpled newspaper, a poor man's wrap-job.
better action than words, in this situation. the stench of old cigarette smoke is almost overwhelming, less for the acrid aroma than the faded sense to it.
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Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
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aint it
like a lady in a cake
w/ a sash that says
WELCOME 2 ADULTHOOD
or something
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its something better
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
is better than that
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im gonna shit in ur fridge
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def the fridge tho
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
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oh we should meet somewhere
maybe by the shore???
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i guess thats
good ?
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Just don't tell carol
and bring some alcohol
a cup will do even a thimble
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can u do w/ a thimble of booze
r u gonna cut me
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im terrible w/ sharp things anyway so no
no cutting or sharp things
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fine
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ill see u whenever just txt me when ur free
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
action mofo
an idiot in a red coat watches the distant horizon ]
Re: action mofo
[he had been -- not excited, nothing so kiddish as that, surely -- interested! interested, to see what Sakamoto had for him, on a day that coincidentally happened to be his fourteenth birthday, even if it wasn't really a birthday, even if it wasn't really a year worth celebrating]
[but now, his face doesn't speak of that enthusiasm; when Badou plunks down beside Sakamoto, his face looks brittle, his eye too dry, and his mouth too thin]
[and he smells, overfuckingwhelmingly, of cigarettes]
Re: action mofo
he smiles to the sky when the kid sits down, though, watching him sidelong and so carefully neutral. takes note of what he can see of the boy's face, his expression, the set of bony shoulders.
the coat.
ah. ]
Would you like it now, or do want to enjoy the scenery a little more?
Re: action mofo
[so the response is a shrug, and an empty ache where he should feel something]
[his goal, his hate, that ten fucking K to that fucking asshole, he can't even focus on those tried and true distractions; it's nothing but static and echoes]
Re: action mofo
[ like he'd ever forget the weight, no matter how small the object. but it's with a small laugh, a chuckle, that he brings the box forward, simple cardboard kept closed with tape around an embarrassing wad of crumpled newspaper, a poor man's wrap-job.
better action than words, in this situation. the stench of old cigarette smoke is almost overwhelming, less for the acrid aroma than the faded sense to it.
it smelled like things gone. ]
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