Why would I bother asking for economy, when I'm used to first class?
( There is a difference between their skills, he needn't point out, that sums talent, experience, breeding and education in ways more profoundly divisive than night and day. He blinks at her, long-lashed and pointed and making a show of his stark stupor. Why, indeed, would he ask anything of her...?
Other than the bowl he accepts in both hands, like a monk his execution order, before hastening to hand over a fork each for the taking. The world and this house may be deteriorating, veil by veil of fungus, but they'll eat like civilised creatures, with the appropriate cutlery.
In fact, his first mouthful finds him — perhaps unexpectedly sedate. He chews, swallows, dives in again, still standing. Chews, swallows, registers little, appreciates less. Calories. Fuel. Practicality takes precedence to whims. )
Thanks for the meal. I assure you, it won't be the worst I've ever had. ( Sumeragi Subaru's brave confections and the sad slop of his own early adolescence would likely take the crown. ) I didn't grow up with a mother's cooking, either.
[ Seishirou has a knack for getting under her skin, and Sharon rolls her eyes at him. Economy. Right. That's all she is in his mind—something pared down, simplified in comparison to him. Not a woman carrying decades of memory in a body that doesn't match, not someone with enough rage to bury a town in ashes.
And still, he eats. He takes in the lurid orange noodles, chews, swallows. Offers a thin scrap of gratitude. Sharon shrugs it off like it barely registers and takes a bite of her own. It'd be better with milk and butter, done properly, but cracking open a can of evaporated milk for Seishirou would've been a waste. He wouldn't appreciate it anyway. ]
What happened to her? [ Nosy, already turning, guiding him toward the dining room. The space is put together well enough, polished in that modern way, deep green walls and golden framed photos of landscapes. Not a room that sees much use. A rifle case leans against the wall, a zipped duffel bag resting beside it like it's waiting for something. Sharon drops into one of the chairs, tucking one leg beneath her.
Hmmmm? ( This, between further methodical, completely unnecessary chewing. They're both aware, assuredly, that the goop generously presented before Seishirou requires neither not the escalated violence nor the concerted effort of mastication. The orange cement will slide right down. )
...oh. ( His mother. Yes. The line of his brows breaks, then picks up jubilantly, as he bides another few heartbeats to swallow with such heft that his throat briefly rejects the mission. ) She died an especially painful death before my eyes.
( Presumably, as one does, a vision of tragic beauty, blooded and selflessly expire to ensure the survival of her one son and his thriving future. Poems and books might have been written about Sakurazuka Setsuka, all profoundly incapable of capturing her glory. If Seishirou's face weren't devoid of any single expression past confusion at what's just assaulted his taste buds, he might incline his head to mourn.
A dutiful son, in all things, stands before Sharon. And his hands goes out, weed-like, drifting. )
[ Seishirou says it simply, like it weighs nothing at all, not a trace of pain in that dark eye, and then, just as casually, asks for the salt. Sharon reaches for the shaker, a ceramic chicken, and passes it over without comment. She takes another bite of her noodles as if her mind isn't swarming, as if a hundred questions aren't pressing at the edges of her thoughts, obvious behind her eyes like something out of a cartoon.
Is that what shaped him? Trauma too early, cutting a piece of him loose before it ever had the chance to grow? ] That must've been awful. [ Genuine sympathy, if stilted. Rose had been stabbed in the chest, and watching her bleed out, terrified she was going to die, had, in fact, been awful. ] How'd it happen?
[ Maybe she shouldn't dig. Maybe she should leave it where it lies. But he hasn't given her any sign to stop—and even if he did, it's hard to say if she would. Sharon has never been good at letting things go once they've caught her interest. ]
( A... pedestrian household chicken, destined for the glory of improving Seishirou's cement meal. He takes it with all the solemnity that befits its station, nodding along before raising it in hand and shaking it, as if the chicken is experiencing a seizure — or pecking. )
( Well, Hokuto would have laughed. And though he briefly waits and bats his lashes, he rather suspects Sharon da Silva won't be affording him the same humour and sheepishly tops his goop with a healthy add-on.
The shaker is returned to its counter station, as Seishirou sets against another mouthful of mac-and-cheese nightmare, humming serenely. His mother. How did that happen. His hand, her chest, the physics of the assassination world. He considers, every word trickled and terrible. )
She was very unwell. I suppose it wouldn't be unfair to say she suffered from a... mental health condition. Though the family never proceeded with a medical assessment.
( Why would they have? More volatile than most, certainly, but Sakurazuka Setsuka was still possessed of every sliver of the Sakurazukamori's efficiency that they preferred to encourage. )
She wasn't under the appropriate care. It harmed her, when she lost control.
[ Sharon lifts a brow at the display, and then she snorts, shaking her head, eyes rolling at the sheer absurdity of it. It feels so unlike the man she's come to know, like a mask she isn't used to seeing him wear, but she doesn't mind it. If anything, there's something strangely, almost painfully normal about it on him.
It doesn't last. Of course it doesn't. The moment flickers in, settles just long enough to register, and then it's gone again, the shaker set back where it belongs.
His mother. Sick. A mental health condition, he says. The way he puts it, it almost sounds like she did it to herself. And what kind of mother lets her child see that? The thought sits wrong in Sharon's chest as she takes another bite, though the food has lost whatever appeal it had a moment ago. ]
I'm sorry. [ She says after a beat, once she's swallowed, her voice quieter now, more grounded. Her brows draw together beneath the bleached fringe of her bangs. ] No kid should have to watch a parent die like that. That'd fuck anyone up.
That's a smooth way of saying I'm — ( Here, his brows perk up, rather naughtily. Will he say it, the slur? Oh, from these prim and proper lips? ) — 'fucked up.'
( 'lo and behold, an Olympic feat, verbal mud slug between two swine feasting on radioactive orange sludge. He has convinced himself, like any good soldier, that mutely accepting his fate and his every bite and carrying on is the way of both survival and least resistance. Sharon won't take pity on the intestinally weak.
He hopes one day he will find a creature as devoted to him as this macaroni concoction is to the taste and texture of wet cardboard. Love yourself, Sakurazuka Seishirou. Aim high. )
Don't spare me too much sympathy. I was already an adolescent. ( 'A man,' in the way of those times' world. ) There are worse things to be in life than an orphan, aren't there? ( Such as a living person, forced to share this breakfast. ) You've gone through your share.
[ Seishirou echoes it back—fucked up—and it lands strangely coming from him, out of place on those lips. Sharon's mouth quirks upward for a second before she reins it in. What a terrible influence she is. She lifts a brow at him, a silent dare to deny it. He's fucked up. She's fucked up. Just about everyone here is, one way or another.
She takes another bite while he keeps talking, actually enjoying the food even if he clearly isn't. Sucks to suck. ] The devil doesn't know what to do with that. [ Her gaze flicks up to meet his. Yeah, she remembers, even if it comes back in fragments. ]
There are worse things to end up as. A witch. A demon. Sin incarnate. [ A faint exhale, almost thoughtful. ] I don't think being a devil sounds all that great either.
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no subject
( There is a difference between their skills, he needn't point out, that sums talent, experience, breeding and education in ways more profoundly divisive than night and day. He blinks at her, long-lashed and pointed and making a show of his stark stupor. Why, indeed, would he ask anything of her...?
Other than the bowl he accepts in both hands, like a monk his execution order, before hastening to hand over a fork each for the taking. The world and this house may be deteriorating, veil by veil of fungus, but they'll eat like civilised creatures, with the appropriate cutlery.
In fact, his first mouthful finds him — perhaps unexpectedly sedate. He chews, swallows, dives in again, still standing. Chews, swallows, registers little, appreciates less. Calories. Fuel. Practicality takes precedence to whims. )
Thanks for the meal. I assure you, it won't be the worst I've ever had. ( Sumeragi Subaru's brave confections and the sad slop of his own early adolescence would likely take the crown. ) I didn't grow up with a mother's cooking, either.
no subject
And still, he eats. He takes in the lurid orange noodles, chews, swallows. Offers a thin scrap of gratitude. Sharon shrugs it off like it barely registers and takes a bite of her own. It'd be better with milk and butter, done properly, but cracking open a can of evaporated milk for Seishirou would've been a waste. He wouldn't appreciate it anyway. ]
What happened to her? [ Nosy, already turning, guiding him toward the dining room. The space is put together well enough, polished in that modern way, deep green walls and golden framed photos of landscapes. Not a room that sees much use. A rifle case leans against the wall, a zipped duffel bag resting beside it like it's waiting for something. Sharon drops into one of the chairs, tucking one leg beneath her.
Please take a seat, sir. ]
no subject
...oh. ( His mother. Yes. The line of his brows breaks, then picks up jubilantly, as he bides another few heartbeats to swallow with such heft that his throat briefly rejects the mission. ) She died an especially painful death before my eyes.
( Presumably, as one does, a vision of tragic beauty, blooded and selflessly expire to ensure the survival of her one son and his thriving future. Poems and books might have been written about Sakurazuka Setsuka, all profoundly incapable of capturing her glory. If Seishirou's face weren't devoid of any single expression past confusion at what's just assaulted his taste buds, he might incline his head to mourn.
A dutiful son, in all things, stands before Sharon. And his hands goes out, weed-like, drifting. )
Pass the salt?
no subject
Is that what shaped him? Trauma too early, cutting a piece of him loose before it ever had the chance to grow? ] That must've been awful. [ Genuine sympathy, if stilted. Rose had been stabbed in the chest, and watching her bleed out, terrified she was going to die, had, in fact, been awful. ] How'd it happen?
[ Maybe she shouldn't dig. Maybe she should leave it where it lies. But he hasn't given her any sign to stop—and even if he did, it's hard to say if she would. Sharon has never been good at letting things go once they've caught her interest. ]
no subject
Kluk-kluk? Kluk-kluk-kluk-kluk-kluk. Kluuuuuuuuuuuuk.
( Well, Hokuto would have laughed. And though he briefly waits and bats his lashes, he rather suspects Sharon da Silva won't be affording him the same humour and sheepishly tops his goop with a healthy add-on.
The shaker is returned to its counter station, as Seishirou sets against another mouthful of mac-and-cheese nightmare, humming serenely. His mother. How did that happen. His hand, her chest, the physics of the assassination world. He considers, every word trickled and terrible. )
She was very unwell. I suppose it wouldn't be unfair to say she suffered from a... mental health condition. Though the family never proceeded with a medical assessment.
( Why would they have? More volatile than most, certainly, but Sakurazuka Setsuka was still possessed of every sliver of the Sakurazukamori's efficiency that they preferred to encourage. )
She wasn't under the appropriate care. It harmed her, when she lost control.
no subject
It doesn't last. Of course it doesn't. The moment flickers in, settles just long enough to register, and then it's gone again, the shaker set back where it belongs.
His mother. Sick. A mental health condition, he says. The way he puts it, it almost sounds like she did it to herself. And what kind of mother lets her child see that? The thought sits wrong in Sharon's chest as she takes another bite, though the food has lost whatever appeal it had a moment ago. ]
I'm sorry. [ She says after a beat, once she's swallowed, her voice quieter now, more grounded. Her brows draw together beneath the bleached fringe of her bangs. ] No kid should have to watch a parent die like that. That'd fuck anyone up.
no subject
( 'lo and behold, an Olympic feat, verbal mud slug between two swine feasting on radioactive orange sludge. He has convinced himself, like any good soldier, that mutely accepting his fate and his every bite and carrying on is the way of both survival and least resistance. Sharon won't take pity on the intestinally weak.
He hopes one day he will find a creature as devoted to him as this macaroni concoction is to the taste and texture of wet cardboard. Love yourself, Sakurazuka Seishirou. Aim high. )
Don't spare me too much sympathy. I was already an adolescent. ( 'A man,' in the way of those times' world. ) There are worse things to be in life than an orphan, aren't there? ( Such as a living person, forced to share this breakfast. ) You've gone through your share.
no subject
She takes another bite while he keeps talking, actually enjoying the food even if he clearly isn't. Sucks to suck. ] The devil doesn't know what to do with that. [ Her gaze flicks up to meet his. Yeah, she remembers, even if it comes back in fragments. ]
There are worse things to end up as. A witch. A demon. Sin incarnate. [ A faint exhale, almost thoughtful. ] I don't think being a devil sounds all that great either.