( he can't tell if it's better or worse. greedily, he thinks it's better. if someone challenges him out there, if kajiyama talks to someone else in the resort, he'll be too stubborn to go against his own beliefs, the things he's cementing here, under the alcohol, under the night sky, under the too-hot press of their palms together and the brush of kajiyama's mouth against his shoulder. he won't go back on something that he's already said is okay, won't go back on a decision that he's made, even if it's the wrong one, even if he should stick to his petty morals and selfish righteousness instead. ah, is that it? is that what's bothered him this whole time, the reason why he's found his diatribes and highlander behavior so aggravating? false heroes with put-upon morals, condoning their own wicked behavior while punishing those around them with rules they won't adhere to?
if kajiyama were someone different, he might taunt him with the realization. but in their own way, they're both the same: it doesn't matter what he did, what he does, what kajiyama did, what he's thinking. they both have the reasons for it, pushed by other people, their hands forced, and why does that make them the bad people? why does that put them in the wrong?
a prison full of murderers, and maybe kajiyama had been the only one that wouldn't be a possible instrument to the league of villains. the only one that probably didn't deserve to be there at all.
with a slow breath, like it's hard to separate, he takes a step back. it's only so that he can shake out kajiyama's hoodie, still draped over his other shoulder, flapping the fabric until he can toss it, gently, onto the sand. then, with a squeeze of his other hand, their fingers still entwined: )
Sit. You're gonna fall over otherwise.
( a soft mutter--it sounds almost fond, in some sickening way, and he forces his hand back, or tries to, anyway, dragging his fingers away from the sweaty space between kajiyama's knuckles so that he can give him a little pat at the back, instead, encouraging. he'll let kajiyama sit on his own hoodie, in lieu of a towel: on his part, he's fine with easing down onto the sand itself, sitting next to the material, his knees bent, bare feet pushed into the sand like he's rooted there. beyond them, the water laps at the shore, but it doesn't seem to be getting any closer: no moon to push and pull, maybe.
his gaze lifts, watching, waiting--it's not that he doesn't trust that kajiyama will sit down with him, but more that he doesn't like the idea of anyone else getting close, doesn't like the idea of anyone else even looking at kajiyama, when he's like this, slightly tipsy, flushed and pliant. with a wince, he glances beyond him, checking, watching the beach, twisting slowly to look over his other shoulder, like a snake that's sizing up its best prey. )
...It's gonna sound stupid. ( he admits, after a moment, like he's reluctant to say it at all. ) I told you there were heroes. I'm not one. Never got there.
( he knows the way it's going to sound, from kajiyama's perspective, but it feels like the place he has to start. ) Villains. I'm a villain. You want me to keep going?
no subject
if kajiyama were someone different, he might taunt him with the realization. but in their own way, they're both the same: it doesn't matter what he did, what he does, what kajiyama did, what he's thinking. they both have the reasons for it, pushed by other people, their hands forced, and why does that make them the bad people? why does that put them in the wrong?
a prison full of murderers, and maybe kajiyama had been the only one that wouldn't be a possible instrument to the league of villains. the only one that probably didn't deserve to be there at all.
with a slow breath, like it's hard to separate, he takes a step back. it's only so that he can shake out kajiyama's hoodie, still draped over his other shoulder, flapping the fabric until he can toss it, gently, onto the sand. then, with a squeeze of his other hand, their fingers still entwined: )
Sit. You're gonna fall over otherwise.
( a soft mutter--it sounds almost fond, in some sickening way, and he forces his hand back, or tries to, anyway, dragging his fingers away from the sweaty space between kajiyama's knuckles so that he can give him a little pat at the back, instead, encouraging. he'll let kajiyama sit on his own hoodie, in lieu of a towel: on his part, he's fine with easing down onto the sand itself, sitting next to the material, his knees bent, bare feet pushed into the sand like he's rooted there. beyond them, the water laps at the shore, but it doesn't seem to be getting any closer: no moon to push and pull, maybe.
his gaze lifts, watching, waiting--it's not that he doesn't trust that kajiyama will sit down with him, but more that he doesn't like the idea of anyone else getting close, doesn't like the idea of anyone else even looking at kajiyama, when he's like this, slightly tipsy, flushed and pliant. with a wince, he glances beyond him, checking, watching the beach, twisting slowly to look over his other shoulder, like a snake that's sizing up its best prey. )
...It's gonna sound stupid. ( he admits, after a moment, like he's reluctant to say it at all. ) I told you there were heroes. I'm not one. Never got there.
( he knows the way it's going to sound, from kajiyama's perspective, but it feels like the place he has to start. ) Villains. I'm a villain. You want me to keep going?