You're not paying for shit. ( muttered, irritated--and he makes sure of it, his free hand lifting to make sure that the bartender understands it's an order of two, not just one for the one that kajiyama's thrown back, and that they're on his tab for the evening. it would be easy enough to turn on his shitty attitude and ask for something back: funnily, he would have considered asking for kajiyama's shirt in return, which maybe does show how much the guy knows him, now. that's a terrifying thought.
still, even as he works to finish his own drink in anticipation of his next, he can't help but feel a little--well, vindicated. a little relieved. kajiyama doesn't ask, and continues on, and maybe that means he won't have to tell him anything further, maybe that means he won't be interested. it's a story that ends in a terrible way, anyway, in all the ways that he thinks someone like kajiyama will hate: all the crimes, all the plans, all the murder, all the villainy. who's going to keep fucking a guy that wanted--and still wants--to murder his own brother in cold blood? to do anything necessary to make his father suffer?
it's a relief, getting kajiyama to keep talking. to keep spilling his secrets. quiet things that he thinks kajiyama hasn't told anyone else, here--and some greedy, nasty little part of him trembles in excitement at the thought. he's always tried to have some lackadaisical air to their interactions, as though he could care less where kajiyama spends his time, who he lays under, who he talks to in the late hours or when he can't sleep. maybe that's always been a mask for something else, or maybe the liquor is doing something to him: he feels keenly pleased that he's the one here, on this makeshift date, listening to his secrets; he feels like, boldly, he's the only one entitled to them. the only one who should have his arm wrapped around him like this, curled in against him like the wolf circled around little red riding hood.
a machine to prove one's guilt, then? no, something like that couldn't exist. if it did, how would it differentiate the actual guilt from someone's feelings? their perceptions, their thoughts, even their memories would be warped by their own view: or maybe that's the point, in the end. if kajiyama--and the nine others, a sobering number--believed themselves to be guilty of whatever they were accused of, would that not be more important than standing trial in front of a jury of unknown people? naturally the warden could make their own determination based solely on their own beliefs, but why have the machine at all, in that case?
he's mulling it over, considering, his palm sliding, fingers curling in at kajiyama's side, as though to snake him in closer--he knows he should ask it, the question that kajiyama has to know he'll ask: guilty of what?
but he doesn't get the chance. one drink, placed in front of kajiyama, and another few beats later, his own. he's used to drinking a lot--kajiyama already sounds a little slurred. )
...Half-Cold, Half-Hot. ( it's hard to even say the words: they grit through his teeth with a slow drip of ire. ) Ice, to combat the fire. Fire, to combat the ice. To keep balance. Can't overheat or get frostbite if you use either one too much.
( his chin ducks a little, his head tilting in towards kajiyama's, like they might touch there, temple to temple; like they're capable of saying sweet, quiet things in against each other. and maybe they are, maybe they would be, if they weren't both digging into the worst things either of them could want to share; his free hand moves, palms itself open between both of their glasses, wrist bent back against the bar's edge.
just one blossom, one quick puff of blue flame, arced up in a sizzle of smoke past his fingertips before he clenches his fingers in to put it out. )
They fucked up. We'll get to that. What were you guilty of?
no subject
still, even as he works to finish his own drink in anticipation of his next, he can't help but feel a little--well, vindicated. a little relieved. kajiyama doesn't ask, and continues on, and maybe that means he won't have to tell him anything further, maybe that means he won't be interested. it's a story that ends in a terrible way, anyway, in all the ways that he thinks someone like kajiyama will hate: all the crimes, all the plans, all the murder, all the villainy. who's going to keep fucking a guy that wanted--and still wants--to murder his own brother in cold blood? to do anything necessary to make his father suffer?
it's a relief, getting kajiyama to keep talking. to keep spilling his secrets. quiet things that he thinks kajiyama hasn't told anyone else, here--and some greedy, nasty little part of him trembles in excitement at the thought. he's always tried to have some lackadaisical air to their interactions, as though he could care less where kajiyama spends his time, who he lays under, who he talks to in the late hours or when he can't sleep. maybe that's always been a mask for something else, or maybe the liquor is doing something to him: he feels keenly pleased that he's the one here, on this makeshift date, listening to his secrets; he feels like, boldly, he's the only one entitled to them. the only one who should have his arm wrapped around him like this, curled in against him like the wolf circled around little red riding hood.
a machine to prove one's guilt, then? no, something like that couldn't exist. if it did, how would it differentiate the actual guilt from someone's feelings? their perceptions, their thoughts, even their memories would be warped by their own view: or maybe that's the point, in the end. if kajiyama--and the nine others, a sobering number--believed themselves to be guilty of whatever they were accused of, would that not be more important than standing trial in front of a jury of unknown people? naturally the warden could make their own determination based solely on their own beliefs, but why have the machine at all, in that case?
he's mulling it over, considering, his palm sliding, fingers curling in at kajiyama's side, as though to snake him in closer--he knows he should ask it, the question that kajiyama has to know he'll ask: guilty of what?
but he doesn't get the chance. one drink, placed in front of kajiyama, and another few beats later, his own. he's used to drinking a lot--kajiyama already sounds a little slurred. )
...Half-Cold, Half-Hot. ( it's hard to even say the words: they grit through his teeth with a slow drip of ire. ) Ice, to combat the fire. Fire, to combat the ice. To keep balance. Can't overheat or get frostbite if you use either one too much.
( his chin ducks a little, his head tilting in towards kajiyama's, like they might touch there, temple to temple; like they're capable of saying sweet, quiet things in against each other. and maybe they are, maybe they would be, if they weren't both digging into the worst things either of them could want to share; his free hand moves, palms itself open between both of their glasses, wrist bent back against the bar's edge.
just one blossom, one quick puff of blue flame, arced up in a sizzle of smoke past his fingertips before he clenches his fingers in to put it out. )
They fucked up. We'll get to that. What were you guilty of?