#millionsmaywrite

Kisuke wasn't sure when trying on clothes had become so intimate. It was stupid.

No, no- his edges softened as he glanced at Shinji- not quite. It was… entertaining. To watch him grimace and grin and giggle as he held up shirts and pants to Kisuke's wary, aging form. Even though he felt what might be the beginning of joint pain nagging at his fingers, he still carefully reached out his hands to try and grip at a price tag- to glance at it. But Shinji playfully batted him away, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth as he hid away the signs of any expense. I'm the captain, ‘scuse you! He'd insist, even without saying much at all. I'll pay. Outta pocket! Ya better thank me for this...

Even then, Shinji declared that it wasn't the money that counted. It was actually sizing, comparing, finding what matched his other clothes.. Seeing what made Kisuke's eyes light up as if he were recognized by an old friend. Because, really, what business did Shinji have remembering his favorite singer from back in the day? What right did he hold that allowed him to say Ain't this yer favorite shade of green? Because yes, it was. He'd missed this, even though it had never really happened before now, but maybe he missed having someone look at him as if he were simply worth their time. Shinji could be training recruits, racking up vacation days for something- someone- better. Someone younger and spunkier and less dazed by the horrors of war and the reality of what their hands had done. The same hands that were settled on Shinji's shoulders. Because he had stumbled. And Shinji smiled. Kisuke teared up. God, his smile. They had lived through all of this and they were still alive.

and while you're here , here's a few poems ^-^

Of course, the first thing House would try to do with his arch nemesis of the day would be to piss him off as much as humanly possible. Usually, though, House transcended the realm of human comprehension, as speaking to him was more like entering a lovely little man-made hell. How charming.

“...’Scuse me?” Soul yelled back, eyebrow somehow raised to his hairline.

At the sound of his voice, the first thing House observed was the fact that he, too, was quite Australian. He didn't sound quite as robotic as Mind did, but there was still a vague, inhuman quality to his voice. He hypothesized that Heart sounded the most human of the three and that Soul sounded the way he did because he was a ‘mix’ of the two. Or perhaps mix wasn't the right word. They could just have substantial influence over him or be strongly associated with him. The first was interesting to him, though. Could a non-spiritual sense of soul be the common ground found in the war zone between emotion and logic?

While House's inner monologue ran on, Wilson made no attempt to stop the bitchy man from staying completely silent. Soul's eyes carefully swerved between the two of them, probably coming to the conclusion that they were both some very codependent homosexual lovers. Could his day get any worse?

(He immediately purged that thought from his head. Alas, let him be struck by a flying ice cream truck… and live.)

Well, everything was bad for everyone right now, since Soul was upended out of his human body, House had his most internalized philosophy of being alone in this world completely shattered, and Wilson was nothing short of confused. These things just seemed to keep happening to him; House is always the one who causes such atrocities to happen. Well, maybe not this time, but his tendencies to anger God and defy fate probably were a contributing factor in whatever warranted this divine punishment.

Soul continued to stare as House obnoxiously chewed on a fatty hunk of steak. He briefly halted this just to antagonize the cherry. “What? Gonna make the guy with the bum leg walk over there?” Full mouth of food. Wilson felt a small spray of saliva hit him in the face, and he swiped a hand over his jaw with a grimace.

Now, all eyes were on Soul, relentlessly judging. The man awkwardly got to his feet and approached their booth, charms jingling on his leather belt. He settled in the seat next to Wilson, anticipating that most of his turmoil would be coming from House. What fool forgets to face his problems head-on? (well ackshually . snort .)

“Well-”

“Too Australian. You will speak only when spoken to, young man!” House mocked in a really awful British accent, taking another huge bite of his steak.

“That… That was a British accent. I'm-”

“Tuh-may-toe, tuh-mah-toe. Same difference. The Australian prison camps were just glorified British getaways. Trust me, I'd know.” Wilson didn't even want to know what that meant.

“Are you going to let me finish a single sentence?” Soul snarled, getting a bit closer. Wilson briefly cast his gaze in House's direction. Hook, line, and sinker, he caught a fish that seemed to take the form of I'm nicknaming this one Kangaroo for how everytime I open my mouth, it's like he wants to decapitate me with his bare fists. He was always more of a catch and release guy, anyway.

“Not preferable. You'd probably start talking to me about how your prime minister can beat our president in a one on one.”

“My dad can beat up your dad, actually. Make one more awful joke about how Australian I am, and I'll shove that vicodin bottle down your throat.”

“Kangaroo's mad.”

“I'll fucking kill you, mate.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“Well, Mr. Soul, ” Wilson finally interrupted, “I'm afraid he's always like this. I'm very-”

“Are you guys out of the closet yet? Just wondering.” Kangaroo boy immediately interrupted. Well, what's the point of complaining about House interrupting you if you're gonna do the same thing to other people? Wilson turned his head a few degrees and could see the gears turning in House's head, and he briefly smacked the other man's thigh in hopes of communicating that the indifference on Soul's face seemed impenetrable; it wouldn't even be worth it to try.

“We're… Not gay,” Wilson sputtered, “why do people keep thinking that?”