08-29-2018, 07:07 AM
It's easily be both fascinated and bored by the ocean and its splendor. On one hand, Bakugou fails to see the wonder which came by the rising and falling tides. The blankness which spread before him, daringly touching the horizon with indifferent hands, makes him feel tired. There was always a fragile nonchalance which drew the strength of the waters - fragile because the water did not like to be controlled or restricted and could grow wild at any moment, pouring devastating effects. Despite the similarities, however, water was nothing like his fire. No, it was much scarier. It was fluid, capable of bending in ways that fire could only dream to destroy and decimate, capable of being so much more than his fire. The only thing he could do was turn it to steam if he tried hard enough, but it was draining. He supposes that brings him to his next point - water is fascinating, a body of life and possibilities, creatures swimming within the darkness and murk. There is a strange relationship between the sea and the moon, living on each other's push and pull.
Bakugou says nothing when he sees Kirishima stumble across a stranger, eyes glistening when he looks at the male. He wonders why his friend is even up and moving after being so brutally attacked, surprised that the perpetrator had left him alive. If it had been Bakugou, he would have finished the job. He supposes, however, he should be glad that the red-furred male was alive. God only knew how the privateer might have reacted if a life had been taken that day. Not wishing to sit and ponder the well being of Eijirou or philosophically think of the ocean, he turns his critical gaze towards the border collie, a silent judgement befalling the stranger. No words escape him and one can only see the soft but visible wrinkles forming between his brows that must have been furrowing at the male, smoke puffing from his nostrils as though he were a fire-breathing dragon.
Bakugou says nothing when he sees Kirishima stumble across a stranger, eyes glistening when he looks at the male. He wonders why his friend is even up and moving after being so brutally attacked, surprised that the perpetrator had left him alive. If it had been Bakugou, he would have finished the job. He supposes, however, he should be glad that the red-furred male was alive. God only knew how the privateer might have reacted if a life had been taken that day. Not wishing to sit and ponder the well being of Eijirou or philosophically think of the ocean, he turns his critical gaze towards the border collie, a silent judgement befalling the stranger. No words escape him and one can only see the soft but visible wrinkles forming between his brows that must have been furrowing at the male, smoke puffing from his nostrils as though he were a fire-breathing dragon.