[Closed] Monster, how should I feel?
Characters: Yamamoto Takeshi, Superbi Squalo
Location: Yamamoto's Apartment
Rating: PG-13-ish? Depends on Squalo's mouth
Time: August 23rd, early morning-ish.
Description: Post mission. It's now officially awkward talk and partner bonding time.
[Eventually, Squalo got tired of staring at the ceiling. He wasn't gonna get any sleep here, and it wasn't just because of the couch. It wasn't even the sound of Yamamoto sleeping in the bed a few feet away. It was all that damnable quiet inside his head. He didn't want to think about what had happened near the end of the mission. He didn't want to think about any of the things he'd saw or felt or wanted when the madness got a hold of him. It was stupid. It was irrational.
It was what was keeping him awake.
Quietly, with the stealth characteristic of an assassin, Squalo got up and reached for his jacket and the precious nicotine there. He padded on barefoot to the balcony, sparing one look at the bed and its occupant, before he slid outside and closed the glassdoor behind him. Then he perched on the rail, shirtless and uncaring of the breeze still carrying that disgusting frog smell, and began to methodically smoke the entire pack away. In the distance, that macabre-looking moon slowly sank into the horizon, as the night neared it's end.]
...this is fucking bullshit.
Location: Yamamoto's Apartment
Rating: PG-13-ish? Depends on Squalo's mouth
Time: August 23rd, early morning-ish.
Description: Post mission. It's now officially awkward talk and partner bonding time.
[Eventually, Squalo got tired of staring at the ceiling. He wasn't gonna get any sleep here, and it wasn't just because of the couch. It wasn't even the sound of Yamamoto sleeping in the bed a few feet away. It was all that damnable quiet inside his head. He didn't want to think about what had happened near the end of the mission. He didn't want to think about any of the things he'd saw or felt or wanted when the madness got a hold of him. It was stupid. It was irrational.
It was what was keeping him awake.
Quietly, with the stealth characteristic of an assassin, Squalo got up and reached for his jacket and the precious nicotine there. He padded on barefoot to the balcony, sparing one look at the bed and its occupant, before he slid outside and closed the glassdoor behind him. Then he perched on the rail, shirtless and uncaring of the breeze still carrying that disgusting frog smell, and began to methodically smoke the entire pack away. In the distance, that macabre-looking moon slowly sank into the horizon, as the night neared it's end.]
...this is fucking bullshit.