#v. 01.

his surprise morphs into a pause, and for a moment, stills his tongue. it lasts, however, a mere handful of heartbeats. the answer is obvious, and not once subject to debate. it's yes; it is always 'yes', now isn't it...? ( is it, though. )

          “ . . . huh? yeah, Q, of course. whatever you need. ” need, not want —— a sharp-edged precision in that one choice of words. an important distinction. ( it's instinct, rather than a conscious decision; yet Hidan's instincts rarely lead him astray in all the ways that matter. )  

            he  stands  at  the  top  of  the  escalator,  arms  crossed,  teeth  gnawing  on  his  bottom  lip  .        “  why  is  everyone  in  such  a  rush  ?  what’s  —  it’s  bloody  STAIRS  .  who  can’t  just  walk  up  stairs  ?  ”        no,  he’s  not  scared  of  escalators  .  take  what  he’s  saying  at  face  value  .  don’t  look  into  it  .

            fresh,  hot  chocolate  sloshes  in  cup  as  he  just  about  turns  into  someone  .  mind  races  for  what  he  wants  to  say  &  instead  betrays  him  with  :        “  here,  this  is  for  you  .  ”        no,  it’s  not,    but  he’s  jutting  his  arm  out  anyway,  offering  the  beverage,  smile  painful  on  his  face  .    just  take  it  .  end  my  misery  .

the gravitas of the words slides along his spine in the worst of ways. ( like being thrown, suddenly and all at once, into ice-cold water. )

              “ . . . ”

for a split-second,  he wonders what Abaddon expects him to say in reply. or if he expects him to say anything whatsoever, let alone anything that he wants to hear ( is there even such a thing? ). wonders how much he knows him, or how much he thinks he does. he doubts that reality and wishful thinking can ever intersect there. on either side. but lingering on that inconsequential thought is unnecessary  —useless, really— and so he casts it aside in favour of the immediate.

eyelashes flutter, and he doesn’t allow himself to be pulled too deeply into the flow of things. resists long enough to brush his mouth against those lips, chasing away ( or is it after? ) those words, and pulls back. ( at the back of his mind, he is hyperaware of just how stiff every muscle in his body has become, and wonders, once again, if he is drawing any sort of (sick) pleasure from that realization ; if he even notices. the thought makes his mind reel, mental fingers darting out blindly for a thread of sanity to grasp onto before he sinks too deeply into the storm of this. there are many things that Hidan is willfully ignorant of, blind to. he is especially oblivious of anything that traverses too close to his heart. otherwise, his world would crumble and burn like a house of cards. )

              “ . . . ”

lips part even as his hands still from their lazy caress across that cheekbone, and for a moment, he looks on the verge of saying something. ( he’s always liked the word retaliation because it meant it was simply returning a favor. . .. no matter how brutally he is inclined to do it. keeping the scales balanced, so to say. )  but then the moment flees, races past, and his mouth morphs in nothing but a thin, tightly-pressed line.

                ( say, if you could erase me from your mind, would you? – oh god. yes. of course it’s only ever yes. to me, you’re dangerously close to becoming a catastrophe. )  something ugly rears its head into his thoughts, and suddenly he wants to laugh and throw it back in his face—— throw his ring back, too, in ( mimicry ) mockery of what Abaddon had once. . .  ( he’ll never forgive him for that. no, not ever. Hidan forgives as easily as he forgets, and he has a very, very good memory. he’s never forgotten a wrong done him, and he’s never once forgotten a face. a dangerous combination.)

              “ . . . ”

instead, he lets his forehead fall, resting against that shoulder, and heaves a sigh. he doesn’t ask for it, but expects to be held anyway. until he builds himself back up, enough to pull back, tilt his head to the side with an amused little expression, the budding traces of a smirk lingering in his voice, and say:

and so he chuckles, hand twisting in her grasp, fingers finding her cheek. his touch goes pat pat pat, as one would pet a favourite dog ( but a dog all the same ). his own bruised flesh ( the hairline fractures etched in his bone ) sings in agony at every movement. it only makes him press in further, chasing the burn of agony and imparting it upon another. ( are they not, after all, friends? friends always stab you in the front, which is to say, openly. )

" there, there. aren't you getting too attached? guess I should say I'm flattered. "