( a retort offered without any intention of making it sound — wrong. it’s merely a thought expressed aloud, and nothing but the truth. for he can’t know for sure, of course. he can never tell whether people will simply stab him in the back when he’s not looking, just because he tends to trust every living human being —unless he gets a really bad vibe from them—, or not. he can’t tell if she’s good or bad. he can’t bring himself to comprehend whether it’s a good idea or not to be following her to her place, just because there promise of alcohol sounds good, now.
———- but, honestly?
he can’t bring himself to care, either.
( sebastian has been through worse, after all )
so he follows, in silent fashion, rushing his walk just a bit so he can join the still-a-bit-of-a-stranger at her right side. hands stuffed inside pockets, gaze more in the sky than in the ground —— gosh, isn’t it beautiful? feeling free, for at least a few minutes, for at least one day? )
❝ You are not some sort of intelligent psychopath, with murderous tendencies, right? ❞ — really, was there any other way to ask such a thing?
spoiler alert: bastian doesn’t think so.
[ She does envy him, in her quiet, unassuming way; envies him the ease and comfort with which he seems to move through life. On the other hand, though, it's difficult to truly covet something that you've never known; what he's feeling is wholly foreign to her save for within the realm of completely vicarious experience. That sense of freedom, of relaxation, may never be something she truly knows for herself and herself alone. Perhaps that's sad. Perhaps it's simply life; it's not as though she has much of a choice in the matter, irrespective. Her condition is what it is, and any and all treatments have proved next to ineffectual. Perhaps the kindest thing she can do for herself--and, by consequence, others--is simply accept it, and try to learn to live with it day in and day out.
She's still surviving, isn't she? Still breathing, still rawly aware of the weight of her steps meeting the concrete beneath her; of the way each movement causes fabric to brush too vividly against her skin.
For a split second or two, in that awareness, she's abruptly too warm, something internal clawing at her skin and wanting to get out, until she realizes that she's already outside in the open air and there's nowhere left to go.
Her own arms are slightly stiff, tense, at her sides, but she hopes...she hopes it isn't too obvious, her discomfort with...everything. Some small part of her still holds out the foolish hope that she could maybe, in a tiny way, pass for normal.
Intelligent, yes. Psychopath, no. Murder is--messy, anyway, and I've passed the age of being able to get away with a juvenile sentence.
[ It's a joke, at least mostly, and she hopes the half-smile tugging at one side of her mouth successfully suggests as much. ]
