Running With My Roots Pulled Up [L Lawliet, OTA]

[hearthebell]

Who: Lazarus Sauveterre (L Lawliet) and open to old and new CR alike
What: Catchall for January! Come see the worst Night Walker in Trench before he gets fired. Watch him publicly shed into a version of himself so hot he could only exist in fan art. Dream with the newly articulated Adonis at the bloodstone in Cassandra, huddle with the handsome hunk at the Snake Den, and aid the temporarily chiseled Chad in fending off Unsnakely. Wildcard option available for those who received all of this, yet still somehow desire more!
When: Flexibly throughout January. Prompt A occurs prior to his shedding, everything else occurs following it (wildcard may occur whenever.)
Where: Respectively, in order of prompts: Cellar Door, Lumenwood, Cassandra, the Snake Den, the Canals in the Willful Machine.

Content Warnings: Most of these are in PROMPT B, aka the Shedding prompt. Skin peeling off, a seizure, blood, bones breaking, vomiting. For PROMPT D at the Snake Den, be aware of some alcohol use and slight intoxication. If anything comes up in tags later I will update these warnings!




A. Working Fingers to the Bone [Cellar Door]

[There was a sort of gentle simplicity in knowing what one would be doing for his entire life from the age of five. It wasn't predetermined, perhaps, but it was preset. A bargain and a promise that he would be protected, and never bored, and therefore that he wouldn't ever want for anything.

He eventually became bored. Chasing it meant he was no longer protected, and at twenty-five years old, that life was no longer his. His new one begs for a source of dopamine that collecting shiny rocks and trading them cannot provide, a lever he can press for the reward of stimulation and a sense of success. The only problem is that none of the primary jobs available to Sleepers are anything he's remotely experienced in. None of them translate to his absolutely unique resume. There was nothing for it but to pick a direction and forge ahead. He was a Paleblood, good at reading people, interested in what they reveal about themselves, a highly intelligent puzzle and problem-solver. Knowing in his heart that he would never truly be anything but a detective, he opted for the title that promised, at least, a never-ending source of intel from the citizens of Trench and other Sleepers, alike. A jackpot, to a man who tended to think about how his service could benefit his whims and appetites, foremost.

You may be at this establishment in Cellar Door to drop off a delivery, or fix something, or to see a Night Walker yourself. Maybe you work here already, or you're job hunting; maybe it's something else entirely. Behind one of the closed doors down the hallway extending from a gently-lit lobby, the atmosphere of tranquil, edifying peace and healing is disrupted by a raised voice, shouting indistinct but very colorful insults. Something smashes and breaks and the door is flung open by a furious middle-aged Trenchie woman. She storms past you on stout legs.

"Never coming back here," she spits at the glum and drooping receptionist on the way out. "I came to see a Night Walker, not a beast!" Trembling, she sniffles, stridently wipes her damp and angry eyes with the sleeve of her dress, and slams the door on her way out.

"Not to worry," the young man behind the receptionist's desk sighs, addressing you. "This is normal. Now. Uh, how can I help you?"]

B. Somebody That Reminded Them of Me [Lumenwood] [CW: Skin peeling off, seizure, bones breaking, vomiting, blood]

[Given his general apathy towards taking care of himself, L seldom comes to Lumenwood, though it would probably benefit him to at least inquire about a vitamin poultice or a sleeping draught. Anyone seeing him today probably understands at a glance why he's finally shown his face in this district; his dry, flaky, peeling face that he has practically scratched raw. Hollow-eyed and haggard, he's at an apothecary shop, scratching at the back of a similarly alarming hand with his uneven, chewed-down nails, speaking in a hurried mumble about how he has incense to trade, he just needs something to keep his skin from drying out further. His omen, an orca whale shrunken to the size of a golden retriever, seems equally agitated, wriggling back and forth beside him before zipping around the room as though trying to shake off parasites making her itch. The suggestion of lotion gets a chuff of frustrated disbelief from her Sleeper, so miserable he hardly believes that it was a serious offer instead of something stronger, medicated or magical. He's halfway through trying to speak a little louder while staying calm, slow and tempered, to ask if anything else at all can be done for his condition, when right in front of you, his back breaks.

His spine is noticeably curved when he stands, taking inches off his height and bending his posture forward. Now, the vertebrae are in pieces under his skin and clothes, and with nothing to support his spinal cord, he's on the ground in seconds, collapsed and seizing. The apothecary shrieks and unties her apron, hurrying out from behind the counter to stuff the corner in his mouth, but the jerking limbs and sickening crunch of bones cracking and sliding around audibly has her clapping a hand to her mouth and sprinting to the shop's washroom past his flailing and thrashing omen to vomit.

The transformation is violent enough that L's shed husk comes away in crepey pieces, trapped under his clothes along with no small amount of sweat and blood. His unconsciousness is a mercy for him, but probably not for you; his torso twists with such force that his shirt tears along the seam in back, and it's possible to see that the bones are aligning and piecing back together, fusing straight and strong. The shirt doesn't actually fit him anymore, too small to button around a toned and well-muscled upper body.; it hangs in tatters, along with pants that are somewhat less useless, now that they actually fit instead of hanging precariously low on his hips. When all those bones were popping and sliding, it happened in his face, too; his jaw is strong and chiseled where it was delicate and childish before, his nose is stately and straight, his undereyes no longer carry the bags of thousands of sleepless nights. When he finally comes to rest in the sticky, stringy mess made by his shedding, panting in torn and bloody garments and spent from the transformation, he is still recognizable as the man who came into this shop... just as if he had won the genetic lottery, instead of lost it.

He wakes blearily and sits, the movement seeming graceful and aristocratic in spite of what just happened while he was unconscious and the discomfort of the bits of husk and grime clinging to his beautiful bone structure and smooth, porcelain skin. "You won't be needing that lotion now, love," the apothecary says, hoarse from her stomach's unheaval but gentle as she unhooks a mop and bucket.

When L speaks, he sounds stunned as the orca omen drifts over, settles her overtaxed head into his lap.]

I don't need anything... nothing hurts.

[He's overcome, drawing his arms closer towards a solid and unfamiliar chest. He doesn't remember the last time that was true.

He startles when he sees you.]

How long have you been here? What happened?

C. Building Castles Out of Snow [Cassandra]

[After he'd gotten cleaned up and acquired some fresh garments that fit his new body well, L had spent hours relearning it, staring at it in the mirror, trying to make it feel as though it wasn't a stranger. He'd gotten his fill, but ultimately failed; it still feels like a stranger, and now, he actually avoids mirrors, looking instead at the sleek and powerful orca omen at his side that has not changed. It stands to reason, therefore, that he hasn't, either, in any real way.

His grooming has not improved, but the habits that pared him to bone, dulled his skin and bent his back take some time to do that level of damage. They're effectively starting over on something strong and healthy; even his fingernails, he'd noticed, were resilient and smooth for possibly the first time ever, and he fumbles as he handles things, at first, as a result. But the most astonishing and drastic change is, no contest, the way he's regarded by women and men alike. He's used to slipping by as a presence that people would rather not engage with, because he is an uncomfortable presence, a cause for pity or distrust or concern. If he's poor, he might want money. If he's crazy, he might try to hurt me. If he's sick, I might catch it. Now he's approached, offered samples from market carts, and smiled at by children who are not immediately yanked away by their mothers.

This, he realizes, must be what it's like for Light Yagami to live his life, every day. Maybe that's the real reason he has been avoiding mirrors.

He's in Cassandra today looking for something real, and true, deeper than the flesh that has turned him into a stranger to himself. He descends the stairs below the Pale Sanctuary, shaggy head bent to hide his features and avoid more attention, his orca omen shrunken to the size of a bracelet so she can swim tiny, tight circles around his wrist. A strong sleeping draught is in his backpack, because he struggles to sleep on demand, but he's here to do just that.

He notices you. Maybe you're acquainted; it'll be easier if you are. If you're not, he relies on the halo effect of his much prettier face, thinking of it as a mask.]

I'm here to dream. Do you know... will a sleeping potion spoil or taint the results?

D. Lowercase Society [Snake Den] [CW: Alcohol use]

[Many factors have contributed to L's appearance at the Snake Den tonight. He'd touched the poster; he has a suit to wear that is somehow as plain and as comfortable as he likes his clothes while still being avant-garde stylish. For the first time in his life he is handsome, and he'd surprised himself by actually wanting to come.

As he's started to get used to his new physique, he's grown to accept it by treating it like a costume. He was born unattractive, and always known and resigned himself to it. He'd heard "ugly" as a child enough times. He hadn't pursued men or women romantically because it would be selfish and irresponsible... but also, maybe just a bit, because a part of him knew he'd be called gross and creepy. He hadn't brushed his hair, or eaten healthily, or slept when he should have, because no one saw him; no one spoke to him in person or called him anything, except for an old man who was already as impressed as he needed to be. What would the point have been?

The tables are crowded. He sits across from you at one of them, drinking something that looks like it's more chocolate than booze. Assuredly, it contains both, because there's an overbright chemical cheer to the way he addresses you.]

Hi!

[Very overbright and chemical. Not a habitual drinker, L is still something of a lightweight even after gaining thirty or so healthy pounds. His omen, a female orca whale, floats beside his chair, turning upside down with a sort of playful laziness.]

Are you enjoying the show? I thought about competing... but no one wants to see someone tie a knot in a cherry stem onstage with their tongue.

[A pause.]

Do you? Want to see it, I mean. You're close enough to see.

[He plucks a pair of maraschino cherries, attached at the stems, out of his drink. He's serious.]

E. Dragging My Roots Through the Snow [Canals, The Willful Machine]

[It's getting exhausting, but handsome as he is now and not as immediately recognizable as himself, L persists in continuing his staggered pattern of moving house every few days to a pre-scouted location. Usually it's an abandoned house or apartment; sometimes, on nights he wants a warm meal and a hot bath prepared by someone else, a hotel. In an attempt to gain at least a tourist's familiarity with all of the districts, he's rotating them right along with his residences, and with his meager belongings in his lap and his orca omen swimming behind him at her full size, he's shivering in the back of a boat that is ferrying him along a canal to his new, and very temporary, accommodations in The Willful Machine.

"Mean ice chunks we get this time of year," comments the boatman, as one of the floats bumps against the small craft's hull.]

Oh...

[L nods, awkward, the small talk coming unnaturally to him.]

Is it ever dangerous?

["The incense helps ward beasties," the boatman says, gnawing the end of his cigar. "Otherwise the current breaks the ice floats up well enough, only thing dangerous is the bloody water if you fill your cup up and drink." He looks over his shoulder to offer L a tobacco-stained grin, but his face quickly drains from rosy to blanched white.

L turns, beginning to stand instinctively when he sees what's spooked the boatman so. He sits again, quickly, when the balance shifts and the boat rocks wildly and his omen breaches and keens a warning. The boatman has leapt out of the craft, desperately swimming through the filthy water in an attempt to escape.

It's clear, at least, why this part of the canal system is not frozen when some of the water splashes overboard. It's actually warm, an effect of the waves of heat rolling off the large Unsnakely leering from the ledge above the boat.]

F. I'm Rootless (WILDCARD)

[I worked so hard on these prompts! My poor tippy-tapping typing fingers...! But your happiness matters more. Throw me a prompt of your own!]

Comments

[hearthebell]

[He laughs softly, shaking his head.]

I appreciate it. Really, I do, but aren't you spread thin already? If a good candidate falls into your lap, it's one thing, but for now, I'll tell you what to do: let me worry about my career's future.

[He stacks up the pieces of vase.]

It's not looking bright here.

[asas]

[ shōyō is nodding, but doesn’t seem to be agreeing in that he’s got a full schedule— volleyball in the morning (which was possibly only one sided volleyball; he was still in the process of getting regulars, so mostly it was exercising and working out to keep his form), and nightwalking in the afternoon to have something to contribute.

he opens his mouth, and closes it again, keeping his lips tight. ]

I can make time for anything, you know. [ is all he’ll say to that, to be made aware of, but . . . lazarus and his dimming situation now was, hm. what he said. now that the story has been explained and told, shōyō begins to pick up the vase’s broken remains, starting with the larger pieces. ] —Let’s have a lunch break. What do you think?

[ and talk this out in a room or a place that’s better to hash that out. plus, shōyō’s gears are working; he has an idea. not one that would resolve something now, but something to divert. ]

[hearthebell]

Lunch?

[No one wants to eat lunch with L. He's so sure of it, he usually doesn't even bother with it alone or socially, powering through with coffee and just staying in his office like a spider in its little cave.]

I... guess that would probably be OK...

[He's still trying to process that it seems to be an earnest request, but Shōyō’s never given him a reason to doubt that look or tone. They're just so consistent.]

You're sure?

[Shōyō had said they were friends, but the place L lives, the place he's been arrested and pacing since he died, has a hard time believing that anyone means that.]

[asas]

Uh-huh, [ back to the receptionist desk shōyō hops to grab two paper bags lodged in one bigger one. it smells baked and feels warm to the gentle touch. ] I’m hungry and you’re probably hungry. And I think your head deserves some fresh air after all of, [ gesture, ] that.

[ then they could talk about whatever it was that could clear a path for lazarus. shōyō, thinks. ]

I dunno what you like for lunch, so I got chicken with rice and . . . Some kinda bean sauce, these nuts and a salad.

[ gasp— a balanced meal! ]

[hearthebell]

[L picks himself up, brushing off his loose corduroy trousers and grabbing his grey wool coat on the way out of his office. He closes the door behind him as Shōyō grabs the bags and pointedly avoids the eyes of the manager, who is motioning solemnly that they need to have a talk.

He focuses, instead, on Shōyō. Now that he's standing and moving around, he's shockingly aware of how hungry he actually is, and...

A pale smile is pasted on his features. Chicken with rice and bean sauce with nuts and salad sounds awful, truly disgusting, but maybe he can pick at the nuts and rice, push the rest of it around a little in its wrappings, find some donuts later.]

It's thoughtful... thank you.

[He sticks with what he can honestly report, and that's so much easier to say than some iteration of "I am crippled by my picky eating to the point of malnourishment."]

As an athlete, most of what you eat is like this, I'm sure?

[It sounds like some lean and muscle-building food. He hopes that, maybe, the nuts are candied on the outside.]

[asas]

Yeah! I haven’t found any whey, so I gotta make do with the foods!

[ holding one of the bags up as they walked for a place to sit (shōyō doesn’t look for anything too fancy), he points to the package’s contents as if he could see where everything was. ]

We got our lean proteins, carbs— lots of carbs, the nutrient rich ones— and healthy fats! [ the nuts are honey glazed, if that’s any help to l’s strict tastes! ] What foods do you like best?

[hearthebell]

You haven't found any way...?

[He frowns, trying to parse what his companion could mean by that, then his eyes widen in comprehension.]

...whey. I see.

[He's never in his life even considered that an ingredient by itself, except when it's incidentally in milk, which is incidentally in cake or cream.

He peers over into the bag as they walk and scout sitting locations, probably encroaching a little on Shōyō's personal space and seeming oblivious to it, as he does. He thinks the nuts have a sticky sheen and his mood is instantly and authentically improved even as Shōyō cheerfully explains how very healthy this thoughtful meal is.]

No wonder you put on muscle the way you do. I... like coffee, and tea. Fruit... anything with sugar...

[He trails off. It would actually take far longer to list what he doesn't eat. Meat, vegetables, most grains. It also probably goes a long way towards explaining why he looks the way he does, because these are not his favorite foods; they're pretty much his only foods.]

[asas]

[ luckily for l, shōyō is all about lack of personal space if it’s around someone he’s comfortable with. in fact! the transition from japanese culture to brazilian culture was fast, even if it seemed so slow the first time he went and was met with culture shock. he fits well into the warmth those people offer, and so he does just that: opens the bag some for l to take a peek, looking inside while he’s at it and easily knocking heads if they’re too close. ]

My favorite is egg on rice! [ since they’re sharing favorites! he spots a bench by the edge of a store with neon signs and kicking legs that just happens to be left by two young women in colorful furs. if they’re giggling and whispering about something or other, shōyō doesn’t notice, pulling out the little paper pocket of nuts, belonging to l. for you, friend. ] You ever tried breaded banana? Or honey glazed pork?

[hearthebell]

[Shōyō's ease and comfort with his highly physical nature is at direct and clashing odds with L's tentative ducking dodges and light-fingered grasps. The result is absolutely out-of-synch enough to result in clonking heads. Fortunately, it's not violent or painful; just a little startling, and for a second L is occupied wholly with regaining the previous distance, plus a little extra for safe measure.

Reliably, though, Shōyō is nice. Shōyō doesn't make a big deal about this kind of thing, and Shōyō is highly likely to laugh it off. It permits L the space and grace to relax a bit, himself.

He glances at the sign, and his eyes trail after the women. They're outside of a brothel, most likely, or so he'd guess; L's never actually been inside of one, and is here to partake in a different kind of nut, anyway. He accepts the packet, peering inside, popping one in his mouth and immediately beginning to suck the candy coating off.

Rude to spit it out, probably, he thinks, as he makes sure to commit Shōyō's self-proclaimed favorite to memory. Acts of service are easy for him, combining two things he's always been good at: retaining information, and applying it at an opportune time.]

I've made it a point to try sweets in just about every country on Earth. I had breaded bananas in...

[He thinks, squinting at something in the middle distance.]

Rio de Janeiro, 1994. And again in Surabaya, 2001. It's called gorengan in Indonesia.

[asas]

[ the probability of shōyō laughing it off . . . high. it’s what he does, pitching in a whoops and rubbing the clonked side of his temple with a little rub and smack with his fingertips. totally, absolutely fine!

i’m laughing at these nuts— and for the record, shōyō gives the pair little to no attention to begin with. he’s too engrossed in two major priorities in life, in which open flirting or staring had never shared: food, and sharing a conversation with a friend. the only thing that takes the cake from either was, yes, the one and only: volleyball.

setting the boxed foods in his lap and gingerly offering lazarus his own bag, shōyō gives thanks under seconds before he digs a spoon into the chicken. soft, soft chicken that seems to be splitting its fibers a little too easily to be chicken, but shōyō has yet to look down. his attention is up and wide eyed at the revelation. ]

You’ve been to Rio?! Lazaro! You never told me! [ he seems a lot more excited about the information than actually being miffed about it. he only doesn’t raise his hands because he’s still clumsily trying to cut meat with a spoon. ] We could’ve been in the same spot years apart! And that’s before I was born!

[hearthebell]

I'm only a year older than you, but... people come from all different times, here. I was born in 1979, and I d-- came here, in 2005.

[Was it a nice save or a near miss? he relies on Shōyō's cheeriness, hopes that the meals and the Rio revelation are distraction enough. He probably tackles his own bag with a little too much gusto as a result, and it's not what he goes in for, and that shredding fibers of the meat are grotesque; his stomach turns and his smile is overbright; better to focus elsewhere, like on the topic of conversation that has nothing to do with getting fired later and nothing to do with dead animals.]

I've been a lot of places, but... honestly, I hardly left the hotel. I stayed at the Copacabana Palace. My handler brought food back to the suite for me; that's usually how it went when we traveled.

[He prods his own chicken with his fork, pushing it around a little before taking another one of the candied nuts into his mouth and sucking on it.]

You'd have spent time at the Olympic Village, I'm sure. Wherever it was built for those games.

[Years, naturally, after his death.]

[asas]

[ if shōyō notices something, it’s that too bright smile l is holding that reminds him of someone. he’s still attentively listening like lazarus is the only one to exist then and there, finding all that knowledge and oh, nice he’s been to the rich part of rio— so luckily and at least for now, the save was a save with no suspicions attached. well, save for the attempt on poor l’s grin.

shōyō continues, for consistency’s sake for as long as he could. ]

That’s the Ilha Pura Complex. I didn’t go to Rio 2016, though. [ there is just a hint of a frown there before shōyō remembers he’s an adult and shouldn’t be so prissy about something that happened years ago. he deserves a spoonful of rice and “chicken” instead. ] But I was in Rio by then. Flamengo!

[ or at least near that southern part. rio olympics were all the way in maracanazão.

—okay, he can’t hold it in anymore. ]

Was that a smile?

[hearthebell]

Yes!

[L is glad to hear it, even if it's something highly technical outside of his strictest training. His smile remains stiff, professional, careful so long as no one questions it.]

Flemengo?

[He tries, he really does. Before he can understand whatever Shōyō would be communicating, he plasters that desperate sort of plea across his face. He's smiling; he's happy!]

Of course it is!

[asas]

[ hmmm . . . okay. this means he needs to intervene. shōyō blinks, puts his food down beside him and cleans his fingers off with a napkin (even though his hasn’t actually touched any food with it), and quaintly thinks as he finishes up a good chew: the chicken tastes kinda like dirt.

that’s because the chicken is actually fish, but he’s a little busy. turning his torso to fully face his friend, shōyō waves his fingers in a preparing little manner, as if he was about to grab for something and just strategizing where. ]

‘scuse me, [ he warns as two of his fingers, the index ones, prod out to each corner of lazarus’ mouth. he’s going to fix this. starting with a small circular motion to relieve the tension, then carefully stretching all his fingers out, palms open, so that his fingertips are lightly tapping the other’s cheeks. ] Less eee . . .

[ shōyō demonstrates, ]

Like this.

[hearthebell]

[L stiffens, startled, eyes darting uncertainly as Shōyō reaches for his face. Much like smiling, his body has forgotten how to be touched gently by another person.

Even if Shōyō is pulling his features into some sort of odd approximation of a good smile, a real smile, there's a bone deep tremor running through him, frozen, dim fear in his anxious eyes.

When was the last time someone really looked at his face? He has an ugly face; knowing this, he's mastered the art of obscuring it with the fall of his hair and the movement of his hunched body. Neither are possible when Shōyō is... what? Swallowing his disgust and enduring this? The color rises in L's cheeks and his eyes dart downwards, looking away, body tense and bracing against the contact that he's too distracted to really notice for what it is: pleasant and playful.]

[asas]

[ eh, shōyō murmurs this as a question as poor lazarus retreats into himself, not entirely understanding what he’s doing— which causes cupping from both sides now rather than tapping. all shōyō sees is a face that’s been hidden for too long, sullen eyes, paleness or even how thin the contour of his jaw is, he’d never say it was ugly. just not used so often. ugly doesn’t exist unless you’re a jackass.

there’s some color and heat to them now, which feels just right in his palms. satisfied and feeling a warm bubbly rise in his chest too, shōyō ends up grinning a little wider, enough that his eyes become thin little slits. ]

I won’t look if you’re nervous.

[ he retreats his hands after another lighter pat, and does what he’s promised. he’s not looking, at least not while he’s reflecting the sun, but he’s still facing him. shōyō is a very physical young man, indeed; hugging, prodding, smacking, grabbing and patting, they were all part of his daily routine shared among his peers.

he’d admit to himself, though: he liked that. more than he should, but it’s be difficult for him to immediately distinguish. ]

[hearthebell]

[L doesn't blush often, primarily because he seldom has reason to blush. People just don't hold him gently or look at him like someone they enjoy seeing, so now that someone is, that enormous and powerful brain is scrambling for a foothold, some plan for how to deal with it.

Every potential course of action comes with risks and potential losses; while he considers them, he remains frozen, until Shōyō offers him a good-natured out.

Should he take it?]

"Nervous" isn't the right word. I guess you're just like this... it caught me off guard at first, but I understand.

[It's a precedent he sets probingly. He isn't sure if it makes it easier to think that he's not special in the least, just one of many that Shōyō is blithely affectionate with.]

[asas]

[ "i guess you're just like this" brings forth a question mark in shoyo's head, just a small one— but it's not enough to ask. yeah, he was totally like this! touchy-feely-jumpy-grabby, it usually was part of an outlet for celebration. what was he celebrating here? friendship? would he want to do something, repeatedly, to celebrate friendship?

it's never happened before, and now shoyo's the one silently off guard because he actually has to ponder it, a doofy smile in place regardless. one that may feel a touch frozen. one question falling into another into another into another— lazarus had some more color to him too, huh—
]

Understandddd. . . [ he's trying to guess, and carves a spoonful of food from his package, guided back to his lap: ] You've got a nice smile with the right direction?

[ shoyo promptly stuffs his mouth with the spoonful and gives a thumbs up! in hopes of not saying anything else without thought and making things awkward! he's got to figure this out, first. ]

[hearthebell]

[It's enough for L to gamely accept as something different from how he is, just a personality quirk, nothing to worry about, not indicative of anything else. Even better if Shoyo just moves on and stops looking at his horrible, ugly face.]

...what?

[A hand goes to the back of his head, tugging at the hairs at the nape of his neck.]

You don't have to say that. I'm smart, like you've said? You can just stick with that.

[Just don't lie to me, he doesn't say. Your honesty is what I like so much about you. Lying is like putting a boot on my neck, like that, when you mean it to be kind.]

[asas]

—Have to?

[ he says, through the ends of a chew that he waits to swallow to continue. have to would mean— he feels the need to say it, out of obligation. ]

I don’t say something I don’t mean.

[ that’d be a low blow to anyone. he’s always been that, honest— and he wouldn’t suddenly stop. it’s something shōyō simply sees, beyond what most, many, may truly think to be ugly and odd. he liked it, liked how endearing he was and liked how his cheeks relaxed and warmed and— yeah.

now shōyō’s the one putting a hand to the back of his head for some kind of support, offering a smile but quickly diverting back to his food. he should eat. being hungry makes him feel strange. ]

[hearthebell]

[Shōyō doesn't lie, he begins to realize. It's a complication that some allow into their lives, for all sorts of reasons, but... well, flies don't build spider webs, do they?]

Right. Sorry... I believe you.

[His eyes dart to his own food. Fish, he thinks, based on the smell and texture, and he pushes at it with his utensils, shredding it as though looking for the right amount for a bite that he will delay as long as possible.]

Sometimes, it's difficult to separate objectivity and relativity. Things that are always true or false, or could be true and false simultaneously depending on the perspective. I... think it's like that.

[asas]

[ those words are getting a little complicated! they’re words, but shōyō doesn’t quite catch the meaning of them used all together. it’s “true”, “false”, and “perspective” that guides him along as he wolfs down his own food. once his nerves have died down too, wherever they came from, he feels like he could speak, his eyes up to follow lazarus sideways. ]

Like . . . What’s a fact or an opinion?

[hearthebell]

Yes, that's exactly it.

[He's glad he explained a little further than he might have, ordinarily.]

Just because your opinion isn't common doesn't mean I should treat it like it's false. I apologize for doing so.

[asas]

Oh, [ said quietly, and surprisingly with his head down (a bit of an acknowledging bow), eyes up, enough to make it sound soft in contrast to shōyō’s constant volume, ] s’okay.

[ fiddling around with the remaining scatted food in his bowl-box-thing, shōyō manages to add one more thing, as a friend should: ]

The only true thing about us is what we make of it, right?

[ the rest, what other people did, say, or follow— most of it didn’t really matter. at the end of the day, they’d still do their thing. ]

[hearthebell]

I'm finding that there are a lot of grey areas in Trench. More than there were back home.

[A pause. He wants to delay eating more, as he's exhausted the sweetest things in his bowl.]

Can I look at your face? A good look, I mean. I try not to stare too long at anyone because it's rude, but... I'd like to memorize it.