[Josuke listens. Had he the attentive puppy ears still, they would be twitching with concentration but the determined look in his eyes has much the same effect. He takes in every word slowly and carefully, fighting every urge to respond until the naga has finished speaking- and, by then, he's long since lost any need to argue.
Is it worth it? Isn't that selfish? The questions that he wants to ask suddenly don't feel so important. The man standing in front of him looks hurt and tired and, most uncharacteristically of all, shaken; it's such a strange thing to see someone who, until this moment, appeared to float on a wave of self-importance, look so insecure. In the end, it's empathy and an ache in his chest that wins out and, after a few moments, he shakes his head.]
... you're not a psychopath. You're Rohan Kishibe and you're a mangaka. My old man owns most of your work. You're rude and you could turn holding grudges into an Olympic sport. You can make acid spit look artistic. You have a house full of Pretty Woman furniture no one but you uses. [He swallows hard.] You're in love with my nephew and it's gross. You can hold Shizuka without making her cry.
[As he speaks, he unties the ribbon, winding it around his finger and gently setting the roll on the bedside table. And then, with a wobbly smile, he leans forward and puts his arms around Rohan's shoulders, hugging him tightly to stop him from immediately squirming away.]
You couldn't be a nobody if you tried, Rohan Kishibe.
[He sounds a little muffled now but he's glad for it; he might have successfully hidden the hot prickle of tears in his eyes but he wouldn't have been able to do the same for the catch in his voice.]
no subject
Is it worth it? Isn't that selfish? The questions that he wants to ask suddenly don't feel so important. The man standing in front of him looks hurt and tired and, most uncharacteristically of all, shaken; it's such a strange thing to see someone who, until this moment, appeared to float on a wave of self-importance, look so insecure. In the end, it's empathy and an ache in his chest that wins out and, after a few moments, he shakes his head.]
... you're not a psychopath. You're Rohan Kishibe and you're a mangaka. My old man owns most of your work. You're rude and you could turn holding grudges into an Olympic sport. You can make acid spit look artistic. You have a house full of Pretty Woman furniture no one but you uses. [He swallows hard.] You're in love with my nephew and it's gross. You can hold Shizuka without making her cry.
[As he speaks, he unties the ribbon, winding it around his finger and gently setting the roll on the bedside table. And then, with a wobbly smile, he leans forward and puts his arms around Rohan's shoulders, hugging him tightly to stop him from immediately squirming away.]
You couldn't be a nobody if you tried, Rohan Kishibe.
[He sounds a little muffled now but he's glad for it; he might have successfully hidden the hot prickle of tears in his eyes but he wouldn't have been able to do the same for the catch in his voice.]