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[ - it's a little odd. he snorts, not out of genuine amusement, but out of this weird feeling of... having someone care about him? someone that up in arms in his behalf. what a weird feeling, after he's gotten so used to fighting all his battles by himself.
. . . ]
Thanks for caring.
[just, softly - but genuinely. like he's still not used to the notion of someone so openly showing that they're concerned about him]
.... yeah. After he died, I was in denial. I thought there's no way that Fuji-senpai, who taught me everything I knew about justice, could be a dirty cop. But... I kept running into proof. Time after time. He really...
[ . . . he really did all those things. and mineo lost sight of what it meant to be just after all.
he taps his fingers on the counter then, feeling the ice pack slowly melt under his touch.]
.... I couldn't really take it. That guy did everything to try to improve his ranks in the police - but then once he was condemned, the higher-ups left him out to dry. No one even cared about the investigation... I had to do it all myself. It was all so.... [fucked.]
So I left.
. . . ]
Thanks for caring.
[just, softly - but genuinely. like he's still not used to the notion of someone so openly showing that they're concerned about him]
.... yeah. After he died, I was in denial. I thought there's no way that Fuji-senpai, who taught me everything I knew about justice, could be a dirty cop. But... I kept running into proof. Time after time. He really...
[ . . . he really did all those things. and mineo lost sight of what it meant to be just after all.
he taps his fingers on the counter then, feeling the ice pack slowly melt under his touch.]
.... I couldn't really take it. That guy did everything to try to improve his ranks in the police - but then once he was condemned, the higher-ups left him out to dry. No one even cared about the investigation... I had to do it all myself. It was all so.... [fucked.]
So I left.
[he glances away, flustering at mineo's thanks, before he moves his ice pack to his forehead despite the lack of bruising there. it has the benefit of making him feel less visible, at least.]
... Yeah, higher-ups tend to suck. Yours can eat shit.
[...]
Sounds like you didn't want to stop helping people entirely, though.
... Yeah, higher-ups tend to suck. Yours can eat shit.
[...]
Sounds like you didn't want to stop helping people entirely, though.
[ . . . . . he smiles at that but - it lacks the usual light. it's more self-deprecating, more....
conflicted.]
.... wouldn't say I was helping anybody before I got here.
I completely stalled. No progress on the case, no progress on the mysteries, just...
[a shrug.
and he shifts for a second, holding up his hand - Sloth tattoo emblazoned on the back of it. accomplishing absolutely nothing until the day that he died.
he thinks it spells out a pretty clear picture.]
conflicted.]
.... wouldn't say I was helping anybody before I got here.
I completely stalled. No progress on the case, no progress on the mysteries, just...
[a shrug.
and he shifts for a second, holding up his hand - Sloth tattoo emblazoned on the back of it. accomplishing absolutely nothing until the day that he died.
he thinks it spells out a pretty clear picture.]
Edited 2021-03-03 05:50 (UTC)
[...]
You don't owe the world anything. You don't—have to be some hero. Fuck, if I were in your shoes, I would've run off to become a hermit.
[he shrugs, wincing as he does so.]
The fact you're beating yourself up for not doing better is already more investment than the world gets to ask of you, in my opinion.
You don't owe the world anything. You don't—have to be some hero. Fuck, if I were in your shoes, I would've run off to become a hermit.
[he shrugs, wincing as he does so.]
The fact you're beating yourself up for not doing better is already more investment than the world gets to ask of you, in my opinion.
[ . . . is he beating himself up? he doesn't know. he thought that he was letting himself off so easy, for so long. people here tell him that it's okay, to care a little less but - is it? his heart aches with the idea of slowing down again.
of becoming such a wretched person again, who only breathed and barely lived.]
.... my friend died. [he says this softly, like being mindful of a raw wound] I think.... I have to find out why. I don't think I get to give up anymore.
[his tattooed hand clenches into a fist]
I don't want to be someone who wants to run away again.
of becoming such a wretched person again, who only breathed and barely lived.]
.... my friend died. [he says this softly, like being mindful of a raw wound] I think.... I have to find out why. I don't think I get to give up anymore.
[his tattooed hand clenches into a fist]
I don't want to be someone who wants to run away again.
[ . . . . he snorts a little bit at that. well it feels a little bit like drowning in despair but - well, he wonders if that's part of the weird mood of the week. he gestures for white to come closer.]
That's the goal.
C'mere, did I smack you in the head too hard or something?
That's the goal.
C'mere, did I smack you in the head too hard or something?
[he responds by lightly smacking the palm of his hand against white's forehead - it's actually not enough to hurt at all. it's more of a pat.
before mineo leans over to press a kiss to his forehead.
it just - feels like an appropriate token after white listened to him pour his heart out.]
There. Feel better.
before mineo leans over to press a kiss to his forehead.
it just - feels like an appropriate token after white listened to him pour his heart out.]
There. Feel better.
[ah.
white freezes in shock, just for a moment. then, he turns bright red, stumbling back a step as he unconsciously presses his free hand against his forehead.
heart thumping in his chest, he stares at mineo.
he opens his mouth—and then closes it, mortification flooding his face when he apparently thinks better about whatever he was going to say. as if to make sure, he moves his hand to cover his mouth,
...
glancing away, he instead blurts out—]
Charles Frederick Shaw.
[what.]
white freezes in shock, just for a moment. then, he turns bright red, stumbling back a step as he unconsciously presses his free hand against his forehead.
heart thumping in his chest, he stares at mineo.
he opens his mouth—and then closes it, mortification flooding his face when he apparently thinks better about whatever he was going to say. as if to make sure, he moves his hand to cover his mouth,
...
glancing away, he instead blurts out—]
Charles Frederick Shaw.
[what.]
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