[ As always, he hates it when he feels like he's been caught on the back foot.
He'd been distractedly watching Tomura brush his arm through his hair, gaze oddly captured by the cascade of his hair and the faint sheen of sweat against the column of his throat, and Fuuta needs a second to process what he's being told. (Why does his head feel weirdly foggy? There's no reason for him to be feeling this heated when he's surrendered his hoodie.) It's only once his brain catches up that he makes an indignant little bark of a noise, expression hardening in irritation. ]
That's --
[ 'not true,' he starts to say. Except the words catch on his tongue, because it'd be a bald-faced lie. He wants to be right, after all. He wants to run his mouth, and he wants to argue, but more than either of those, he wants to be acknowledged as right. ]
-- w-who said I can't take it, huh?! [ Weak. Even as he says it, he knows this is fucking cringe. ] People can say whatever they want?! It's not like I was saying you ... can't. I’m — just allowed to say I think you’re overreacting! ‘Cause you did! So I didn’t —
[ Of course it all circles back to that insistence that he wasn’t in the wrong, that he wasn’t the one who said anything bad. But before he can repeat himself for the Nth time, he’s interrupted as he stumbles over his own feet; he catches himself before he can fall, but it does jolt him out of his thoughts as he’s abruptly made aware of his condition. ]
… why’s it so hot in here. [ He feels itchy with heat, almost a little dizzy, and even as he gives that low mutter under breath, he’s aware of what the alternative possibility is. That it’s very likely it’s not their surroundings that are heating up, but him . — he doesn’t want to think about it. A nervous swallow as he swipes the back of his hand over his jaw to catch a stray bead of sweat. ] Hey, where’re you even going. You’re the one who said to follow …
no problem, sorry for the delay on my end as well, hope you're faring better now!
He'd been distractedly watching Tomura brush his arm through his hair, gaze oddly captured by the cascade of his hair and the faint sheen of sweat against the column of his throat, and Fuuta needs a second to process what he's being told. (Why does his head feel weirdly foggy? There's no reason for him to be feeling this heated when he's surrendered his hoodie.) It's only once his brain catches up that he makes an indignant little bark of a noise, expression hardening in irritation. ]
That's --
[ 'not true,' he starts to say. Except the words catch on his tongue, because it'd be a bald-faced lie. He wants to be right, after all. He wants to run his mouth, and he wants to argue, but more than either of those, he wants to be acknowledged as right. ]
-- w-who said I can't take it, huh?! [ Weak. Even as he says it, he knows this is fucking cringe. ] People can say whatever they want?! It's not like I was saying you ... can't. I’m — just allowed to say I think you’re overreacting! ‘Cause you did! So I didn’t —
[ Of course it all circles back to that insistence that he wasn’t in the wrong, that he wasn’t the one who said anything bad. But before he can repeat himself for the Nth time, he’s interrupted as he stumbles over his own feet; he catches himself before he can fall, but it does jolt him out of his thoughts as he’s abruptly made aware of his condition. ]
… why’s it so hot in here. [ He feels itchy with heat, almost a little dizzy, and even as he gives that low mutter under breath, he’s aware of what the alternative possibility is. That it’s very likely it’s not their surroundings that are heating up, but him . — he doesn’t want to think about it. A nervous swallow as he swipes the back of his hand over his jaw to catch a stray bead of sweat. ] Hey, where’re you even going. You’re the one who said to follow …