[ The worst thing? Was he trying to set the stage? Was he gauging to see if he could handle the punchline of the story? Yusuke isn't given time to answer, and nothing springs to mind immediately regardless—worst is so very subjective, after all.
For example... was anything they've experienced worse than finding a baby brother's torso sans an arm and however many pints of blood it takes to kill someone so small? Yusuke doesn't flinch, reaction almost invisible in the low light of their still-quiet apartment: just a beat of surprise before his eyes dip away sharply. The first of a series. One of many. (Isn't it just. Isn't it always?) ]
That's true.
[ He picks himself up slowly, walking himself over to the kitchen and reaching for their kettle. There's a measured calm in him and the way he nudges past Richie to the sink, still thinking as he lets the tap run. It'd be easy to read as awkwardness, or even melancholy. It is a heavy story, and he hadn't braced for its weight—the emotional whiplash alone could floor anybody. What a way to end the day, thanks, Uncle Richie.
But the usual, almost dreamy quality of his voice goes flat, and his next question does nothing to lighten the mood. ]
And? [ He shuts the water off and flicks away a few errant drops with a little more force than necessary. ] If you never found peace, and they failed to find corpses—what of the culprit?
no subject
For example... was anything they've experienced worse than finding a baby brother's torso sans an arm and however many pints of blood it takes to kill someone so small? Yusuke doesn't flinch, reaction almost invisible in the low light of their still-quiet apartment: just a beat of surprise before his eyes dip away sharply. The first of a series. One of many. (Isn't it just. Isn't it always?) ]
That's true.
[ He picks himself up slowly, walking himself over to the kitchen and reaching for their kettle. There's a measured calm in him and the way he nudges past Richie to the sink, still thinking as he lets the tap run. It'd be easy to read as awkwardness, or even melancholy. It is a heavy story, and he hadn't braced for its weight—the emotional whiplash alone could floor anybody. What a way to end the day, thanks, Uncle Richie.
But the usual, almost dreamy quality of his voice goes flat, and his next question does nothing to lighten the mood. ]
And? [ He shuts the water off and flicks away a few errant drops with a little more force than necessary. ] If you never found peace, and they failed to find corpses—what of the culprit?
[ Did they find justice, at least? ]