[Midousuji reals curiously; he doesn't drink a lot of herbal tea... not often. but he finds both jasmine and chammomile so subtle, the idea of drinking it cold is legitimately baffling. a lot of that is, of course, cultural—but he doesn't think that far, or that deep.
rather, Midousuji watches the rolling shudder in the wake of her little cough pass through her body, and something in him twists inside that's new, small and strange—something perhaps like pity, or concern, but he can't know how to diagnose it, so unused to feeling other people. as it stands, as uncalibrated as he is, Midousuji just considers it as another uncomfortable feeling to put him on edge and cast his glance away. so that's exactly what happens.]
Dream... My last dream?
[his gaze unfocused, Midousuji's jaw drops just a little, and his mind is immediately thrown into a static, nothing buzz. he doesn't tend to remember his dreams—it's very rare that he does. from his perspective, he doesn't dream much at all. but when he does (as in, when he remembers—as no one simply "doesn't dream"), they're usually chaotic, silly, and complex—not ways he ever bothers to analyze, or pick apart, and absurd enough he doesn't give them any credence.
but Midousuji does quite vividly remember his last dream. his mother's face, blurry like a hazy, distant memory, though in actuality, it's one of the things he remembers with the most clarity. distance. hazy, and awful. it was Mother's day, recently, and Midousuji didn't even have a proper shrine to mourn her, as he usually would.
but that dream wasn't just the manifestation of despair from being apart from his preferred ways of coping... or only known ways, perhaps more fair to say. a lot of this dream was memory, too.
as he comes to remember this dream, Midousuji finds it harder to quantify, despite the developing quality of the reoccurence.]
...Smothered...
[Midousuji's eyes dip, and he rolls the bare little clementine with his fingertip. he wishes he hadn't already peeled it.]
...by the unbearable... humid heat of Summer... like a blanket. In the evening. Then...blue lights... all empty and blinding. [the harrowing, overlapping sounds of too many EKGs, so unlike the true memory. deafening. Midousuji doesn't share that, and instead, he swallows.]
The smell of anti-septic... Bright, clean walls... A floaty, warm feeling, in that same humid Summer heat... Close to...
[close to happiness. it's a memory he carries and remembers over and over again, but it's continually distorted, without an experience since to compare it to.]
...something uplifting... Light. A feeling of purpose... The stinging burn of flesh scraped by the bite of the road... The way your bones feel shocked, from falling hard. But it doesn't matter, because of the light feeling... I didn't feel the pain.
The feeling of searching...
[Midousuji isn't just looking away with his eyes, by this point; his head and his shoulders are turned away from Aerith, unaware of his withdrawn demeanor. he tilts his head, thinking. at some point, though he was a child through much of the dream, he was searching for the Hisaya family grave pillar.
he didn't find it. again, Midousuji doesn't disclose that part...]
Soft, gentle hands... All blurry. Like old memories, old feelings.
[Midousuji didn't think he could miss his mom more, honestly—and he doesn't let himself miss her, typically. not proper. but in a world where he can't visit her grave, or pay respects to her portrait—it's indeed true, disturbingly, he can feel more empty than before.
still partially turned away, Midousuji extends his arm to take the bottle, and he drags it into his lap, between his thighs. he doesn't drink, yet. it's unclear if he intends to.]
Happiness. What it means to you.
Define that.
[again, intended as a question, but, er. presented poorly.]
no subject
[Midousuji reals curiously; he doesn't drink a lot of herbal tea... not often. but he finds both jasmine and chammomile so subtle, the idea of drinking it cold is legitimately baffling. a lot of that is, of course, cultural—but he doesn't think that far, or that deep.
rather, Midousuji watches the rolling shudder in the wake of her little cough pass through her body, and something in him twists inside that's new, small and strange—something perhaps like pity, or concern, but he can't know how to diagnose it, so unused to feeling other people. as it stands, as uncalibrated as he is, Midousuji just considers it as another uncomfortable feeling to put him on edge and cast his glance away. so that's exactly what happens.]
Dream... My last dream?
[his gaze unfocused, Midousuji's jaw drops just a little, and his mind is immediately thrown into a static, nothing buzz. he doesn't tend to remember his dreams—it's very rare that he does. from his perspective, he doesn't dream much at all. but when he does (as in, when he remembers—as no one simply "doesn't dream"), they're usually chaotic, silly, and complex—not ways he ever bothers to analyze, or pick apart, and absurd enough he doesn't give them any credence.
but Midousuji does quite vividly remember his last dream. his mother's face, blurry like a hazy, distant memory, though in actuality, it's one of the things he remembers with the most clarity. distance. hazy, and awful. it was Mother's day, recently, and Midousuji didn't even have a proper shrine to mourn her, as he usually would.
but that dream wasn't just the manifestation of despair from being apart from his preferred ways of coping... or only known ways, perhaps more fair to say. a lot of this dream was memory, too.
as he comes to remember this dream, Midousuji finds it harder to quantify, despite the developing quality of the reoccurence.]
...Smothered...
[Midousuji's eyes dip, and he rolls the bare little clementine with his fingertip. he wishes he hadn't already peeled it.]
...by the unbearable... humid heat of Summer... like a blanket. In the evening. Then...blue lights... all empty and blinding. [the harrowing, overlapping sounds of too many EKGs, so unlike the true memory. deafening. Midousuji doesn't share that, and instead, he swallows.]
The smell of anti-septic... Bright, clean walls... A floaty, warm feeling, in that same humid Summer heat... Close to...
[close to happiness. it's a memory he carries and remembers over and over again, but it's continually distorted, without an experience since to compare it to.]
...something uplifting... Light. A feeling of purpose... The stinging burn of flesh scraped by the bite of the road... The way your bones feel shocked, from falling hard. But it doesn't matter, because of the light feeling... I didn't feel the pain.
The feeling of searching...
[Midousuji isn't just looking away with his eyes, by this point; his head and his shoulders are turned away from Aerith, unaware of his withdrawn demeanor. he tilts his head, thinking. at some point, though he was a child through much of the dream, he was searching for the Hisaya family grave pillar.
he didn't find it. again, Midousuji doesn't disclose that part...]
Soft, gentle hands... All blurry. Like old memories, old feelings.
[Midousuji didn't think he could miss his mom more, honestly—and he doesn't let himself miss her, typically. not proper. but in a world where he can't visit her grave, or pay respects to her portrait—it's indeed true, disturbingly, he can feel more empty than before.
still partially turned away, Midousuji extends his arm to take the bottle, and he drags it into his lap, between his thighs. he doesn't drink, yet. it's unclear if he intends to.]
Happiness. What it means to you.
Define that.
[again, intended as a question, but, er. presented poorly.]