( Fushiguro Megumi. Agent Choi. Caelus. An ever-growing constellation of haphazard people and meddlesome things. He wonders, hand reaching for a cigarette his mouth no longer carries in phantom yearning, if Subaru volunteers the names of people he privately wants subjected to a paltry degree of petty horrors. That's about the level of the Sakurazukamori's current expertise: a staggering, bleeding, idiocy-suffering purveyor of inconveniences.
But no. Sumeragi Subaru is incapable of more than auctioning the interminable reserves of his patience and civility to the widest smiling bidder. He has never met a desperate cause or tragic child he would turn away. Whatever her sins, whatever her bedside manner, his grandmother well called the sickness of his overly sympathetic heart.
He smokes well, for all of it. This isn't a nostalgic game entertained to embezzle the first and last dregs of Seishirou's absenteeing pity. Subaru-kun holds his cigarette proud, his mouth pursed, his gaze diffused; he inhales without care or consequence. What a fantastically sophisticated pedigree pet.
At leisure, Seishirou introduces the stretch of cotton from his breast pocket, a handkerchief thinned by obsesive buffing, drenched in every colour and texture of ichor. Dread and despair, mounted on Sumeragi Subaru's kitchen table. Standard fare in a long day's work. )
no subject
But no. Sumeragi Subaru is incapable of more than auctioning the interminable reserves of his patience and civility to the widest smiling bidder. He has never met a desperate cause or tragic child he would turn away. Whatever her sins, whatever her bedside manner, his grandmother well called the sickness of his overly sympathetic heart.
He smokes well, for all of it. This isn't a nostalgic game entertained to embezzle the first and last dregs of Seishirou's absenteeing pity. Subaru-kun holds his cigarette proud, his mouth pursed, his gaze diffused; he inhales without care or consequence. What a fantastically sophisticated pedigree pet.
At leisure, Seishirou introduces the stretch of cotton from his breast pocket, a handkerchief thinned by obsesive buffing, drenched in every colour and texture of ichor. Dread and despair, mounted on Sumeragi Subaru's kitchen table. Standard fare in a long day's work. )
You're not the only one keeping busy.