@parcaes said: it's their first meeting, really --- she knows close to /nothing/ about him. to her, he's nothing but a few words exchanged with his mother ; vague notes on a paper file. but when their eyes meet... oh, she knows. she knows the ugly, painful truth. "Can you feel anything right now?" is it a question or is it a statement ? it doesn't matter ; she doesn't give him her name, she doesn't ask for his either --- they're beyond formalities at this point. she stares at him with both severity and care ; she tries to decipher the mystery of his soul. he might not open up to her but his eyes, oh his eyes, she hopes they don't lie.
he’s watching her as she walks in / watches how she watches in / watches the pacing / how many steps she takes to reach him — doesn’t count. it doesn’t matter. still, bored, blue eyes stare, boring into her as she crosses the room and they remain the same when she gets as close as she deems comfortable. no names are exchanged, which he thinks is fair, but also not. who is she? why is it her / why not someone else? he doesn’t know her — maybe that’s the point.
can you feel anything right now? goes the question. it’s something he’s never heard before. usually it’s how do you feel? or what do you feel? never can you? — it throws him, it does, but he still shows nothing but the same disinterest he had when she walked in, when she got close. he shows nothing, just like he always does.
can you feel anything? that’s the question. can he? should he? was it necessary that he did? menma only did what was needed from him, something that he had established long ago. there’s rarely a time in his life when someone asks if he can — can as in ability to, never meaning will he — and that’s something he’s never thought about. he kept everything — most things — to himself, feelings weighed the most when it came to things he internalized.
why?
he blinks at her, slowly, looking at red hair as quickly turning cogs begin turning faster. nothing flashes across his face, only remaining as stoic as he was known for even before he caused this entire disaster. kurama tells him to answer the question / he listens. it’s something to do.
“ i’m hungry. ” that’s an answer. he feels hungry. it’s a feeling; it’s not what she wants and he knows it, too. he doesn’t give people what they want, not anymore, not here. not when people so constantly try digging into a mind that’s not theirs. his mind is for him / for kurama / for no one else, but they try and try and try. whoever this person is, he’ll give her the same as he’s given the others.
who is she? the question comes back and he thinks of his mother. thinks of her hair / thinks of how red hair is apparently a prominent trait about people of the uzumaki bloodline ( not him, though ) and he briefly wonders where she even came from to start with. menma knows the faces of the villagers — knows more faces than he doesn’t and this one in particular doesn’t match up with any face he knows or remembers. she’s not from here, then. is she uzumaki? uzumaki aren’t konoha; they come from the sea, they live elsewhere, only shipped into the village when something is needed from them. how many of them are left, anyway? he’d talked about it with his mother before but he can’t recall any story on how they are now / if there’s any left / if there’s anything to talk about.
“ you’re not ino. ” then again, it so rarely is ino. he prefers ino.
