( nine other people--is a lot of people for some kind of vengeance-fueled kidnapping. unless there's some way that all of them are connected, which he isn't sure of with the limited information that kajiyama has given him: it sounds like the warden likely knows the reasoning for all of them being there, or more accurately, the crimes. it's not like kajiyama would have been plucked off the street, or out of his bed, for doing nothing, but then what in the hell could this guy have done? petty theft, maybe, or pissing off the wrong person, but he just can't seem to see him as anything that could warrant a prison with no windows or doors, no right to a fair trial.
his mouth opens, and closes. kajiyama isn't giving him the chance to question it, which is a smart tactic; he would have kept gently prodding him, would have kept gently leading the conversation along until all of kajiyama's secrets were pooled on the bar top, mixed with the condensation from their drinks. he knows he's fucked up as soon as kajiyama fidgets with the little wooden pick from his drink; he's not going to let him get away with not giving his own secrets away to the space between them.
that's something he finds he doesn't like, really. their stools aren't close enough, and with one foot hooked around the leg, he slides and drags himself forward until they're sitting nearly knee to knee; the arm nearest to kajiyama drapes, casual and light, along the back of the stool, pressed lightly to the sweat-soaked fabric of the back of his shirt. idly, his thumb brushes, back and forth, a small touch near kajiyama's ribs. considering, worrying, wondering. )
A "quirk" is a... A super-human ability. Meta ability. They've called it a bunch of shit. I'm guessing where I'm from is far in the future from where you are, probably... Or maybe it's starting where you are, and neither of us know it.
( this is the part he's always dreaded, somehow. kajiyama pushes so hard for things to be 'right' and 'normal'--and there's no part of him that's normal, no part of him that could ever be normal. he doesn't have the right to be here, doesn't have the right to be thinking what he's thinking, doesn't have the right to even consider what he's feeling, if he's feeling, or whether it's fabricated by the resort, somehow. the person he told about this, here, had seemed to understand him: he doesn't know if kajiyama will, and that's fucking terrifying, somehow.
his free hand works at his own drink, dipping and stabbing the blackberry pick in towards the ice at the bottom of his drink, pushing it around idly for something to do. )
Not everyone has one, but most people do. I think they said like 80% of the population has one. You're either born with it or you're not, and you only get the one. ( --which isn't necessarily true, but it's not worth it to get into that, here. ) Usually manifests when you're a little kid, you know, four years old or something. Hereditary.
( his gaze is focused, solely, on his fingers, now twisting and working around the inner perimeter of the glass, the drink swirling slowly. )
You're probably thinking it's like, superhero shit or whatever. Sometimes it is, some people have those kinds of quirks. Superhuman strength, huge wings and sword feathers... But then sometimes a person's quirk is that they can, I don't know, stretch their fingers really long. Nothing particularly helpful.
( the hand at the back of kajiyama's stool shifts, a warm palm that presses in against his back, a little possessive. ) Is it my turn or your turn, now?
no subject
his mouth opens, and closes. kajiyama isn't giving him the chance to question it, which is a smart tactic; he would have kept gently prodding him, would have kept gently leading the conversation along until all of kajiyama's secrets were pooled on the bar top, mixed with the condensation from their drinks. he knows he's fucked up as soon as kajiyama fidgets with the little wooden pick from his drink; he's not going to let him get away with not giving his own secrets away to the space between them.
that's something he finds he doesn't like, really. their stools aren't close enough, and with one foot hooked around the leg, he slides and drags himself forward until they're sitting nearly knee to knee; the arm nearest to kajiyama drapes, casual and light, along the back of the stool, pressed lightly to the sweat-soaked fabric of the back of his shirt. idly, his thumb brushes, back and forth, a small touch near kajiyama's ribs. considering, worrying, wondering. )
A "quirk" is a... A super-human ability. Meta ability. They've called it a bunch of shit. I'm guessing where I'm from is far in the future from where you are, probably... Or maybe it's starting where you are, and neither of us know it.
( this is the part he's always dreaded, somehow. kajiyama pushes so hard for things to be 'right' and 'normal'--and there's no part of him that's normal, no part of him that could ever be normal. he doesn't have the right to be here, doesn't have the right to be thinking what he's thinking, doesn't have the right to even consider what he's feeling, if he's feeling, or whether it's fabricated by the resort, somehow. the person he told about this, here, had seemed to understand him: he doesn't know if kajiyama will, and that's fucking terrifying, somehow.
his free hand works at his own drink, dipping and stabbing the blackberry pick in towards the ice at the bottom of his drink, pushing it around idly for something to do. )
Not everyone has one, but most people do. I think they said like 80% of the population has one. You're either born with it or you're not, and you only get the one. ( --which isn't necessarily true, but it's not worth it to get into that, here. ) Usually manifests when you're a little kid, you know, four years old or something. Hereditary.
( his gaze is focused, solely, on his fingers, now twisting and working around the inner perimeter of the glass, the drink swirling slowly. )
You're probably thinking it's like, superhero shit or whatever. Sometimes it is, some people have those kinds of quirks. Superhuman strength, huge wings and sword feathers... But then sometimes a person's quirk is that they can, I don't know, stretch their fingers really long. Nothing particularly helpful.
( the hand at the back of kajiyama's stool shifts, a warm palm that presses in against his back, a little possessive. ) Is it my turn or your turn, now?