( Would he? This porcelain doll of a man, carved back down to the quiet shapes of a boy spindly and known. His eyes were wide and wet and sorrowful, even when he smiled, like a toy crafted from the earth of graves. Like waters that have claimed a life. )

We really shouldn't be smoking in a hospital. ( He keeps at it, anyway. Waits, until smoke has swallowed him and the vapours have wet his lungs, lubrifying. ) Truthfully, I don't know.

( It costs him, the admission. And rich men never yearn to part with their money. )

In theory, you should be taking up the mantle. That implies a certain degree of... ( The wave of his hand, his cigarette a tacit extension of fingers red and long. ) Flexibility.

( But is he so preoccupied with tradition? Certainly, there is the strategic convenience of legacy contorted into Sumeragi Subaru's shortcut to survival. A small, petty guarantee. But beyond that? )

I don't know if it suits you. ( The tectonic dislodging of the weight of the world in a half-languid shrug. ) I don't know if what I think matters.