[ Expecting Hikage to think about anyone else is a mistake. He can of course, and he has even by measure of him coming to Minnesota (discounting how badly he's fumbled this reunion), but it's all very much a work in progress; a perilous lattice built of fragile crystal that's grown out erratically, brittle at points. This isn't a proper excuse all things considered either, but he's as much finding himself as he is finding out how he can connect with others.
The silverware clangs, the cockatoo squawks, and Hikage flinches and then goes very still. Memories are a strange thing, he has so many, many more than he has pieces of himself. It's only been a little while since he's reclaimed his own, which may be why they burn bright and hot, and why he's only glanced at them from the side in passing. When he has the choice in the matter at least.
A long time ago, he sat at a table similar to this one, with a setting similar to this one, and listened to his step mother descend into rant after rant about this or that. The subject hardly mattered and it varied daily besides, but the real target was always obvious. He's honestly not sure which was better (worse), thrown porcelain or insects in his food. It doesn't matter that this situation isn't the same on most fronts, and it doesn't matter that the memory is over a century old (time really is cruel in its machinations). The echoes of it are there, briefly like a spark.
It takes a second for Hikage to catch himself, but he does, his right eye lighting up in tandem like a switch. The only warmth in his form emanates from that singular flare of red, all traces of it gone from the way he holds himself and moves as he sets the tea cup down. He won't rise, but he does meet Saphir's eyes; they're as piercing as they are dark, a story told not in the shades of miasma but his own personal shadows. ]
...the truth is like that, isn't it? It's nice to know that lying is better, like I expected, all along. [ He very nearly laughs but not quite, and his words have that honeyed quality to them that both Subete and Saphir should recognize. There's no smile to match, though. ]
But yes, of course—our layover in Chicago was fine, we even had time to share a chocolate croissant.
no subject
The silverware clangs, the cockatoo squawks, and Hikage flinches and then goes very still. Memories are a strange thing, he has so many, many more than he has pieces of himself. It's only been a little while since he's reclaimed his own, which may be why they burn bright and hot, and why he's only glanced at them from the side in passing. When he has the choice in the matter at least.
A long time ago, he sat at a table similar to this one, with a setting similar to this one, and listened to his step mother descend into rant after rant about this or that. The subject hardly mattered and it varied daily besides, but the real target was always obvious. He's honestly not sure which was better (worse), thrown porcelain or insects in his food. It doesn't matter that this situation isn't the same on most fronts, and it doesn't matter that the memory is over a century old (time really is cruel in its machinations). The echoes of it are there, briefly like a spark.
It takes a second for Hikage to catch himself, but he does, his right eye lighting up in tandem like a switch. The only warmth in his form emanates from that singular flare of red, all traces of it gone from the way he holds himself and moves as he sets the tea cup down. He won't rise, but he does meet Saphir's eyes; they're as piercing as they are dark, a story told not in the shades of miasma but his own personal shadows. ]
...the truth is like that, isn't it? It's nice to know that lying is better, like I expected, all along. [ He very nearly laughs but not quite, and his words have that honeyed quality to them that both Subete and Saphir should recognize. There's no smile to match, though. ]
But yes, of course—our layover in Chicago was fine, we even had time to share a chocolate croissant.