@tenkoseiensei : ' who's that ? ' hands behind his back he peers over the shoulder , a pair of floating eyes and a nosy nose taking in the sight of a photograph or two . ' new scouts ? ' or maybe , just maybe ... a legitimate artifact of sentimentality ? yan qing could hardly imagine it --- but then again , he could . with nothing but his catlike obstinacy and unabashed curiosity both , he hovers as he waits to hear the other's explanation or excuse . ' whoever they are , they don't look too bad , na . '
HE HAD FORGOTTEN, for a moment, that company was something Yan Qing offered. Presence is in-dismissible, of course, but there lies in the slight of his chamber the preconception that should he do anything ever at all, presence crowding it or not, it will register to the common mind as unremarkable.
Perhaps that is why Yan Qing strives to ascribe remarkability to it. Leave a textbook to a child and they shall, in time, make something of its contents -- if even by way of drawing over them to occupy their time.
At Yan Qing's behest, the pen clicks to scribble along the empty edges a sort of indiscernible footnote. Haru's eyes, though they work in their classic swallowing, do not only reflect the other in their swirl. A touch of something. An opinion. A thought dragging itself and clawing his lids to slight, not unlike a man in a well with a white-fingered clasp against its bricks : vulnerable, yet contentious.
"... He looks good." Haru says – No, Haru stresses. "My ... mm … hm." In all of his efficiency there is no particular shorthand with which he might describe the man. Raven-haired crackfire idiot with a heart that clings so desperately to itself that it hurts. Him and others. Everybody. Haru, in some roundabout, self-inflicted way.
He places the frame back in its drawer, though his touch lingers over the handle. Eyes that often strive to search for life elsewhere choose to keep their shadows cast upon the image of a time where he had been willingly embraced. One might note that he looks exactly the same. His features have not shifted since, nay a mark of his mistress upon them. His cheeks are disfigured by the electric guitar, and an eye closes by them to mark its place. But the position of outward forces aside, the image may as well have been a mirror, with delusion painting the rest of its space.
" ... Morine Ryunosuke. We were together." He closes the drawer, pausing to regard Yan Qing. "I loved him and I killed him." I had to, but I did not have to. I shouldn't have and yet I did because I should and so, so, hey, so, listen, really, me, you, anybody, so : what does it say that beyond complexities of it all, I could ? I was able to. Why? Mistress Time and Mother Migraine wonder who HARU is to ask himself a thing. They smile at him in their knowing. What right does he have to contemplate his past? None. Selfishly, like the thing that denies him his want to let rivers run down his eyes. Selfishly, like the sting of a dampness that buries itself against his say and leaves him pound against the enclosure that is himself. Selfishly, none. He tells Yan Qing the truth and sours the lilt of the music enveloping them and that is that.
