for all the years that he’s lived, it shocks him that he can be as surprised, as bitten as he is then by the other’s tone. and all those years of immunity, all those years of procuring immunity seemed ineffective; the ancient relic stands still, and completely so, in the split seconds that alfred decides to spew out venom. it comes out as though without warning, and his words fall on kyle (ON PRIDEFUL YANG GUOZHONG) like acid, corroding skin, corroding kind intentions.
the startled expression on his face melts away, turning ugly, simmering underneath the caustic, burning voice. the look on his face twists into a scowl, into gritted teeth, into the face of suffering; plenty, to answer the abrasive youth. he’s watched his own friends die. he’s watched his enemies die, too. the suffering contorts upon suddenly weary features; the passionate hatred withers away, like the DYING BREED. he cannot fuel himself with anger, no. and so, he takes it.
he takes it with a smile, too; genuine. he means well, he truly does; and he cares --- for once, not only for the sake of his own glory, but for the younger’s health, for his wellbeing. (HE SHOULD’VE LEARNED, HE SHOULD’VE KNOWN BETTER ----- he should’ve known to never help a younger one, with what happened with Japan, thank the gods this wasn’t a repetition).
still, the acid of the other’s words remain upon him, seeping into skin, into flesh, into blood: it remains within kyle, like an erosive parasite (in the back of his mind, it nags at him: YOU’RE PRACTICALLY A DYING BREED! -- how many regimes have you seen fall?). inwardly, he trembles; outwardly, his head lifts -- canting upwards, and does a caustic smile spread? the ends of his lips curl, like the composition of someone too PRIDEFUL to admit to INSULT. mouth unpeels to whitened teeth; a shallow chuckle, perhaps nervous, breathes through parted lips.
a hollow inhale. sharp, tense, exhausted. he turns away, mutters: “ if you wish. ”
