[ Yusuke is no expert in the written word as he is with art, but sometimes Richie is just a stream of consciousness paragraph come to life: literary and arresting, if with many more curse words peppered through it all compared to classic Japanese text. He talks like he's still working out this situation, sounding it aloud. But while he's as colorful as ever, there's something very different to this story. What he'd heard at the gala had the same names, the same sad sort of energy swimming underneath, but this was... dangerous. He'd peeled back a layer to something very eerie. Yusuke stays silent, eyes fixed on the little dash of milky scar tissue until it disappears back under his hair. It's hard to spot, and he wonders how close he's come to never hearing this story at all.
But he can be a patient listener, and he lets him spin out all the details: someone was killing children. Leaving their pieces to be found—or not. A culprit rots. The crimes march on until they don't. They win a victory that Richie can't seem to remember against a foe he's never really seen. (There is a calling card, and he hates it in this context, finds the whole thing an insult.) Some decades later, Richie is no longer eleven and 'pretty fucking stupid,' and now he is here, talking to him in a kitchen about another chapter that'd been closed as abruptly as it'd been opened, no closure to be found.
...It's good that he explained in so many words. Any fewer, and he wouldn't understand a whit of it. Yusuke's eyes dip to the ground; at this hour, it'd almost seem sleepy, but there's a faint wrinkle in his expression, the delicate skin between his brows starting to bunch.
But he's been silent long enough. After a moment, he turns and tips the hot water into the mugs, not quite boiling, gentle enough so as not to burn any of the leaves. However perturbed he is, he stabilizes himself on the little things. Being precise where it doesn't matter, taking in the hot, fragrant fog of tea... It helps keep his head clear, gnawing at all this information and looking for the right, pertinent question to push it.
no subject
But he can be a patient listener, and he lets him spin out all the details: someone was killing children. Leaving their pieces to be found—or not. A culprit rots. The crimes march on until they don't. They win a victory that Richie can't seem to remember against a foe he's never really seen. (There is a calling card, and he hates it in this context, finds the whole thing an insult.) Some decades later, Richie is no longer eleven and 'pretty fucking stupid,' and now he is here, talking to him in a kitchen about another chapter that'd been closed as abruptly as it'd been opened, no closure to be found.
...It's good that he explained in so many words. Any fewer, and he wouldn't understand a whit of it. Yusuke's eyes dip to the ground; at this hour, it'd almost seem sleepy, but there's a faint wrinkle in his expression, the delicate skin between his brows starting to bunch.
But he's been silent long enough. After a moment, he turns and tips the hot water into the mugs, not quite boiling, gentle enough so as not to burn any of the leaves. However perturbed he is, he stabilizes himself on the little things. Being precise where it doesn't matter, taking in the hot, fragrant fog of tea... It helps keep his head clear, gnawing at all this information and looking for the right, pertinent question to push it.
Finally, he sets the kettle down and asks, ]
Do you think he's here?
[ In the pods, on the ground. Somewhere. ]