12-08-2019, 12:49 AM
[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]He feels - awkward, here. He knows his place is elsewhere, that he's procured quite an image and it was never meant to be placed in such a quiet sanctuary, and yet.
And yet.
When he was a child, his mother read him the works of Sagawa Chika by firelight.
Later he would keep Neruda in his rucksack, Cummings on a crumpled, water-stained sheet of notebook paper by which he'd scribbled his favorite verses. Kazuhira had a life beyond the hardened gaze with which he looked out upon the world - they just had not yet seen him for who he truly was. His mother had not asked for a fighter of a son. Part of him wanted to live up to her wishes, if only to have something to remember her by.
(When he began to lose her, he repeated those words over her tired and frail body. I wait for the return of those who sleep. I lose countless images to that other side. Empty white house where no one lives.)
(Empty white house where no one lives -)
He's lingering in the entryway, half-haloed by the last slivers of light that catch between the double doors as they fall shut behind him. He doesn't take his glasses off; the windows are too wide, the sunlight too harsh as it fell in wide, slanted columns across the main hall. His sharp nails worry at a pull in the well-trampled doormat, not quite certain if this is even his place to make his presence known. There's a tension, here. Too many old memories he isn't ready to dredge up - he spent enough time compartmentalizing his life to be thrown astray by stacks of old, dusty books. That spider, again, makes his shoulders stiffen, but he's reached a point of desensitization where the sight of a massive arachnid no longer elicits the original knee-jerk reaction of disgust. Abathur has come to pique his interest, in all honesty. He'd like to know how, exactly, such a giant creature came to be, when so few others seemed to exist in this region (or the world altogether). He'd like to figure out how to make Abathur useful.
But there's an image he's created and thus an image he must maintain, so as Kazuhira finally approaches the pair, he first gives Abathur's stack of books a rough prod. He's not quite antagonistic, just demanding. "Botany for Beginners? Darwin? What are you, some kind of nerd?" And then he grins, toothy and wide, because he really does think he's funny when he puts on a show like this.
They didn't need to get to know him beyond the surface. Being a rock was enough.
And yet.
When he was a child, his mother read him the works of Sagawa Chika by firelight.
Later he would keep Neruda in his rucksack, Cummings on a crumpled, water-stained sheet of notebook paper by which he'd scribbled his favorite verses. Kazuhira had a life beyond the hardened gaze with which he looked out upon the world - they just had not yet seen him for who he truly was. His mother had not asked for a fighter of a son. Part of him wanted to live up to her wishes, if only to have something to remember her by.
(When he began to lose her, he repeated those words over her tired and frail body. I wait for the return of those who sleep. I lose countless images to that other side. Empty white house where no one lives.)
(Empty white house where no one lives -)
He's lingering in the entryway, half-haloed by the last slivers of light that catch between the double doors as they fall shut behind him. He doesn't take his glasses off; the windows are too wide, the sunlight too harsh as it fell in wide, slanted columns across the main hall. His sharp nails worry at a pull in the well-trampled doormat, not quite certain if this is even his place to make his presence known. There's a tension, here. Too many old memories he isn't ready to dredge up - he spent enough time compartmentalizing his life to be thrown astray by stacks of old, dusty books. That spider, again, makes his shoulders stiffen, but he's reached a point of desensitization where the sight of a massive arachnid no longer elicits the original knee-jerk reaction of disgust. Abathur has come to pique his interest, in all honesty. He'd like to know how, exactly, such a giant creature came to be, when so few others seemed to exist in this region (or the world altogether). He'd like to figure out how to make Abathur useful.
But there's an image he's created and thus an image he must maintain, so as Kazuhira finally approaches the pair, he first gives Abathur's stack of books a rough prod. He's not quite antagonistic, just demanding. "Botany for Beginners? Darwin? What are you, some kind of nerd?" And then he grins, toothy and wide, because he really does think he's funny when he puts on a show like this.
They didn't need to get to know him beyond the surface. Being a rock was enough.
[align=center][div style="font-size:12pt;font-family:verdana;color:#4c5461;letter-spacing:-2pt;"][i][b]—-— I GET [color=#4c5461]MEAN WHEN I'M
NERVOUS, LIKE A BAD DOG
NERVOUS, LIKE A BAD DOG