The instinct to still and listen at a doorway at an unexpected voice was trained into Paul at an early age. The decision to stay and keep listening, two steaming cups of black coffee in hand, is a practice taught not long after. He tells himself that it’s to look out for his sensei, like he always tries to, ready to step in and intervene if misspoken words ever go too far.
But they don’t. It goes - as well as Paul thinks it could have gone, based on knowledge he now has cause to understand as woefully incomplete, but it isn’t like anything happening in the training room is unfamiliar to him, in the broader strokes.
(Brood parasite, says a voice-not-a-voice. Sharkskin fingers on his face. His hands are slick and hot.)
The funny thing, in a sea of funny things, is that he’s proud of Johnny, in a half-sick, paper-mouthed way. Between the soft grit of his head in the morning after and the plummeting cold in the pit of his stomach there’s enough space for that. This is the part of Johnny that Paul believes in, the part that wants to do better, even when he falls short time after time.
Then it’s done, or nearly done, and he could walk away, vanish back into the dojo or out the side door. He could pretend he never heard any of this, put on an expression of genuine surprise when he ‘finds out’, go through the performance of bewilderment and acceptance. He would do it well.
When Paul steps into the doorway, he’s calm and poised, the ceramic coffee cups he holds as hot as they were when he poured them. He looks between the two of them with mild curious interest, seeking out the similarities of features he’d overlooked the first time.
“Good morning, Sensei Lawrence,” he says, softly, walking towards him to offer one mug of coffee, and his eyes flick sideways to Robby before they drop to the other mug, and Paul extends it to him, too, “Good morning, Robby. Do you drink coffee?”
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But they don’t. It goes - as well as Paul thinks it could have gone, based on knowledge he now has cause to understand as woefully incomplete, but it isn’t like anything happening in the training room is unfamiliar to him, in the broader strokes.
(Brood parasite, says a voice-not-a-voice. Sharkskin fingers on his face. His hands are slick and hot.)
The funny thing, in a sea of funny things, is that he’s proud of Johnny, in a half-sick, paper-mouthed way. Between the soft grit of his head in the morning after and the plummeting cold in the pit of his stomach there’s enough space for that. This is the part of Johnny that Paul believes in, the part that wants to do better, even when he falls short time after time.
Then it’s done, or nearly done, and he could walk away, vanish back into the dojo or out the side door. He could pretend he never heard any of this, put on an expression of genuine surprise when he ‘finds out’, go through the performance of bewilderment and acceptance. He would do it well.
When Paul steps into the doorway, he’s calm and poised, the ceramic coffee cups he holds as hot as they were when he poured them. He looks between the two of them with mild curious interest, seeking out the similarities of features he’d overlooked the first time.
“Good morning, Sensei Lawrence,” he says, softly, walking towards him to offer one mug of coffee, and his eyes flick sideways to Robby before they drop to the other mug, and Paul extends it to him, too, “Good morning, Robby. Do you drink coffee?”