well. this. fucking. sucks.
by now, the words have become somewhat of a mantra smashing itself against Hidan’s skull for the nth time, as the chilly crispness of the weather sinks its teeth deeper into his flesh. he’s usually favorable to, even inclined to, a good thunderstorm ( the violent sort that screeches out all of its animosity towards the whole world, even as it tears open the skies to chew up the heavens —— loud enough, violent enough, to give you permission to do the same ). but not when it’s at his own expense.
still, he’s lucky to have found shelter before being soaked through. the world’s a mess to the senses. the loud drumming of water hitting the pavement, the heavy curtain of rain shielding almost everything from view. it could be fucking eerie if you allowed it to be. but Hidan was never inclined to that sort of drama. it was just. . . . so fucking inconvenient, you know?
he’s in the midst of contemplating crouching down to sorta rest when his thoughts are interrupted.
by instinct, he glares, defiantly. ( he was doing just fine with his own thoughts, thanks, and he is in no mood to entertain. escaping having to entertain —to pretend, to play out a part in a masquerade not of his own making— was the main reason why he is where he is at present. he didn’t run away from one bullshit situation only to stumble into the arms of another. fuck that. and fuck whoever— )
actions catch up to his thoughts, as he sweeps his gaze over the man beneath the umbrella —— takes in the whole length of him in in a manner that, while not detached per se ( Hidan could never do detached even if he were to give it his best efforts, which he never even attempted in his life — not once! ) , lacks any strong passion ( of one variety or another, ). he merely observes. the handsome features, the superficial warmth dipped in the coolness of actual indifference, typical garb and cross hanging, strikingly pure, against a black canvas.
( yeah, oh, but also: . .. uh, the fuck? does he look like some sort of charity case, now!? )
something inside of him has him clenching his teeth, tension morphing into a pang of pain in his jaw. but he’s not disrespectful enough to spit upon another’s sacredness just because. ( as unbidden as the thought comes, so does his mother's catholic worship, digging its nails into his very narrow, cracking his spine, vertebrae after vertebrae after vertebrae. he wants to scream. instead, he is polite enough to veil his disdain behind socially-acceptable behaviour. holy is holy? who says, and by what right? the weight of too many whispered prayers, woven together to birth it forth? )
he’s not enough of a hypocrite to smile. instead, he watches, gaze in a straight line. unwavering and bold.
“ not the best time to be wandering the streets. . . Father. ” his tongue clicks in the aftermath of his own retort, like a gunshot. as if he could k.o. that term by will alone, disgusted by the training that bid it forth in the first place. like Pavlov’s fucking dog, childhood rears its ugly head and clings to his heels ( force-fed happiness and laughter, and the distilled, unmistakable idea: it’s not about what you want ). “ what’s it to you? ” Hidan knows people. it comes naturally, and he’s watched them long enough ( been reminded long enough of the many ways in which he fell far off from the mould, had his face shoved into every. single. broken facet of his differences ) to discern their intent. genuine charity and selflessness are hard to find, far in between. fables and figments of dreams, wishful thinking built upon foundations of sand due to the very weakness of human nature. ( see, for example: communism is a fabulous fucking idea. in principle. in practice, oh, how short it falls from its ideals. human. fucking. nature. ) people always want something from you, the footnote to every hand extended your way. “ . . . …I ain’t got cash. ”
it’s no excuse, and thus he never once apologizes for it. charity is well and good in his books, really. greed had never been his pivotal sin, not even as a child ( tiny creatures with half-developed brains, whose understanding of the world revolves solely around their own needs ). but his pockets are quite empty. they often are. ( Hidan flips off his family’s expectations and their money, in equal measure. in that, at least, he’s quite consistent. ) “ you’re knocking at the wrong door. but. . .. good luck with that? ”
( it could have been a socially acceptable means to tell him to fuck off. but it isn’t. his words aren’t dripping with sarcasm. he genuinely means it. it’s fucking miserable weather to wander about in—— only desperate need would drive anyone to set foot into it. )
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