( a rattle of the stools, and he tips forward despite himself--one foot braces, toes arched up to keep his balance from falling right into kajiyama's lap, but it's the hands fisting up his shirt that get his attention, that draw it away from the clatter of his glass against the bar, the muffled conversation of couples and pairs around them. the insistence isn't because kajiyama wants to be held, or because he wants to be comforted, but rather, because he wants to be recognized. wants to be listened to, understood: and it's oddly in this moment that he realizes, abruptly, how alike they are in that. he lets his fingers curl there, lets him pull and strain and ease up against him, and quiet, he keeps his arm looped around his back, keeping him close, refusing to let him draw back out of it. there's no going back on his word now, no avoiding the answer, or shushing it away for another time.
kajiyama's breath clatters over his skin, and he barely feels it above the heat that's already scraping at his insides, trying to break free. barely hears it right, the words, until they're there in his head and he can't stop turning them over. so the guy got someone killed, that's it? and they sent him away to some fucked up prison for something like that? because he called someone out on their behavior and they suffered the consequence?
a good person could recognize the right thing to say, here. he can see it, even if he doesn't believe it: to console kajiyama just as to gently correct him. to tell him that people are responsible for their own choices, but that it's a good lesson to learn, or whatever: something pathetic and trite, like that, isn't what kajiyama is looking for out of him, and isn't what he's going to get, either. those eyes plead as they look up at him, and he looks back; carefully, he takes in the sight of that pretty face, strained over with agitation, desperation, a desire to be understood.
he doesn't think this makes kajiyama a bad person--but it makes him a worse one, not to do the right thing. then again, why is it wrong to be honest? why is it wrong to say what he means, what he believes, which-- )
You reap what you sow, don't you? ( ghosting the words like they don't belong to him, even though they do: there's a calm tilt of his head, eyes narrowing slightly, awash over kajiyama's features. abruptly, he thinks of hawks, thinks of endeavor-- ) You don't deserve to be locked away for something like that. She did something wrong. It isn't wrong to call someone out for that. To show people. That's their fucking fault for doing wrong in the first place, and why shouldn't they have to take responsibility for their own actions? You can't control what they do after that.
( he doesn't seek to disrupt him, doesn't seek to pull kajiyama away--yet. rather, one of his hands lifts, angling his head up, tilted away, so that he can take his drink and down it, swallowing it in one long, smooth pull, puffing breath over the ice once it's drained. then it's set back on the bar, and he's reaching to take both of kajiyama's wrists in his hold, to pull them away only so that he can take his hands, holding them in his own. hot fingers curl in around the skin, thumb pressing over his knuckles-- )
...Come on. We're not gonna talk about all this here.
( he doesn't like the fact that there's people around. not only for his own sake, not only for kajiyama's sake, but--for the sake of having privacy with the person that he deserves to have privacy with. with the person who shouldn't be looked at, by all these people, shouldn't be seen, shouldn't be a temptation that he might be drunk enough to be snagged by someone, eager for a card or a payout or just a fuck for the sake of fucking.
deftly, he drops one of kajiyama's hands, but it's only so that he can take his sweatshirt out of his lap, drape it over his own shoulder despite the weight of it, despite the slightly damp hang to the fabric. that same hand gestures at the bartender to charge out his tab; then he's sliding onto his feet, surprisingly--and almost terrifyingly--keeping kajiyama's other hand in his hold, now pressed palm to palm, pulling him gently off his stool and to his feet. )
You're gonna stay with me, aren't you?
( for the walk they'll take, down the beach. for the talk that he isn't sure kajiyama is ready to hear. for the night. for however long he wants. there's no indication of how deep that question is, or what it's looking for: just that his gaze is focused, molten and quiet, on kajiyama as he waits for it. )
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kajiyama's breath clatters over his skin, and he barely feels it above the heat that's already scraping at his insides, trying to break free. barely hears it right, the words, until they're there in his head and he can't stop turning them over. so the guy got someone killed, that's it? and they sent him away to some fucked up prison for something like that? because he called someone out on their behavior and they suffered the consequence?
a good person could recognize the right thing to say, here. he can see it, even if he doesn't believe it: to console kajiyama just as to gently correct him. to tell him that people are responsible for their own choices, but that it's a good lesson to learn, or whatever: something pathetic and trite, like that, isn't what kajiyama is looking for out of him, and isn't what he's going to get, either. those eyes plead as they look up at him, and he looks back; carefully, he takes in the sight of that pretty face, strained over with agitation, desperation, a desire to be understood.
he doesn't think this makes kajiyama a bad person--but it makes him a worse one, not to do the right thing. then again, why is it wrong to be honest? why is it wrong to say what he means, what he believes, which-- )
You reap what you sow, don't you? ( ghosting the words like they don't belong to him, even though they do: there's a calm tilt of his head, eyes narrowing slightly, awash over kajiyama's features. abruptly, he thinks of hawks, thinks of endeavor-- ) You don't deserve to be locked away for something like that. She did something wrong. It isn't wrong to call someone out for that. To show people. That's their fucking fault for doing wrong in the first place, and why shouldn't they have to take responsibility for their own actions? You can't control what they do after that.
( he doesn't seek to disrupt him, doesn't seek to pull kajiyama away--yet. rather, one of his hands lifts, angling his head up, tilted away, so that he can take his drink and down it, swallowing it in one long, smooth pull, puffing breath over the ice once it's drained. then it's set back on the bar, and he's reaching to take both of kajiyama's wrists in his hold, to pull them away only so that he can take his hands, holding them in his own. hot fingers curl in around the skin, thumb pressing over his knuckles-- )
...Come on. We're not gonna talk about all this here.
( he doesn't like the fact that there's people around. not only for his own sake, not only for kajiyama's sake, but--for the sake of having privacy with the person that he deserves to have privacy with. with the person who shouldn't be looked at, by all these people, shouldn't be seen, shouldn't be a temptation that he might be drunk enough to be snagged by someone, eager for a card or a payout or just a fuck for the sake of fucking.
deftly, he drops one of kajiyama's hands, but it's only so that he can take his sweatshirt out of his lap, drape it over his own shoulder despite the weight of it, despite the slightly damp hang to the fabric. that same hand gestures at the bartender to charge out his tab; then he's sliding onto his feet, surprisingly--and almost terrifyingly--keeping kajiyama's other hand in his hold, now pressed palm to palm, pulling him gently off his stool and to his feet. )
You're gonna stay with me, aren't you?
( for the walk they'll take, down the beach. for the talk that he isn't sure kajiyama is ready to hear. for the night. for however long he wants. there's no indication of how deep that question is, or what it's looking for: just that his gaze is focused, molten and quiet, on kajiyama as he waits for it. )