Why don't you practice what you preach? I told you to back the hell off me once already!
[Ryuji is up and out of his seat in a flash the moment the other moves to grab him, roughly swatting reaching arms aside and reclaiming personal space with a short, hard shove of his own. Like two deer clashing antlers over territorial lines, it's a warning. Get back in your place before I put you on your ass.]
So back the hell off.
[For fuck's sake, this guy doesn't make it easy, does he? The similarities to his father are bitter ones--all Mondo would need to complete the look is a can of beer in his free hand a slur to his words to go with the clenched fist and he'd be perfectly imitating one of Sakamoto Sr.'s drunken outbursts.
It puts Ryuji at fierce odds with himself. On the one hand, it'd serve this fuckface right if he loosed the hottest edge of his feelings and burned niceties and restraint to the ground. On the other, he's aware there's enough truth in what Mondo's reluctantly divulging that it's worth holding himself back, even if he seems the only one willing or able.
He doesn't yell, or walk out. He doesn't bite back. He is, however, in an increasingly foul mood for listening to a meandering story, standing stiffly in case things should take another physical turn, his uninviting stare simmering with a banked anger.
But he tries, by god. No one can accuse him of not trying.
For his part, he's impatient to hear more. The wall of words and details and reasons and word vomit on how Billy killed Suzy in the parlor with the candlestick is illuminating--especially the robot bear bomb (the fuck?) and surgically precise threats--but it's not entirely the pea under the princess' mattress he's after. Get to the point, he narrowly avoids snapping, unsettled on top of being ticked off that Mondo should expect an attentive, well-behaved audience when he, himself, has been nothing if not difficult.
Recognizing what this is, that Mondo's under the event's sway, that he's building up to the whole picture piece by piece, he holds his traitorous tongue. Pissing on the carpet he's laying out at Ryuji's request would no doubt get him to clam up.
(And he finds he doesn't want to ask who the "chick gone bad" is, suspecting he might already know and not wanting to get into that thread of conversation, not here, not now.)
Instead he does what he's told--he listens. And for a second or two after the fact, waiting the pause out in expectant silence like a statue that's frozen in place that way. Okay. And? Mondo had wanted the peanut gallery to hold its comments until the end, hadn't he?
After a few beats pass, he relaxes his jaw and opens his mouth, if only to show he's taking in what's being said.]
They threatened you with videos of someone or something important to you so you'd "play"? So what was yours?
[He hadn't been planning on asking that level of personal question, but he's pissed off.]
no subject
Why don't you practice what you preach? I told you to back the hell off me once already!
[Ryuji is up and out of his seat in a flash the moment the other moves to grab him, roughly swatting reaching arms aside and reclaiming personal space with a short, hard shove of his own. Like two deer clashing antlers over territorial lines, it's a warning. Get back in your place before I put you on your ass.]
So back the hell off.
[For fuck's sake, this guy doesn't make it easy, does he? The similarities to his father are bitter ones--all Mondo would need to complete the look is a can of beer in his free hand a slur to his words to go with the clenched fist and he'd be perfectly imitating one of Sakamoto Sr.'s drunken outbursts.
It puts Ryuji at fierce odds with himself. On the one hand, it'd serve this fuckface right if he loosed the hottest edge of his feelings and burned niceties and restraint to the ground. On the other, he's aware there's enough truth in what Mondo's reluctantly divulging that it's worth holding himself back, even if he seems the only one willing or able.
He doesn't yell, or walk out. He doesn't bite back. He is, however, in an increasingly foul mood for listening to a meandering story, standing stiffly in case things should take another physical turn, his uninviting stare simmering with a banked anger.
But he tries, by god. No one can accuse him of not trying.
For his part, he's impatient to hear more. The wall of words and details and reasons and word vomit on how Billy killed Suzy in the parlor with the candlestick is illuminating--especially the robot bear bomb (the fuck?) and surgically precise threats--but it's not entirely the pea under the princess' mattress he's after. Get to the point, he narrowly avoids snapping, unsettled on top of being ticked off that Mondo should expect an attentive, well-behaved audience when he, himself, has been nothing if not difficult.
Recognizing what this is, that Mondo's under the event's sway, that he's building up to the whole picture piece by piece, he holds his traitorous tongue. Pissing on the carpet he's laying out at Ryuji's request would no doubt get him to clam up.
(And he finds he doesn't want to ask who the "chick gone bad" is, suspecting he might already know and not wanting to get into that thread of conversation, not here, not now.)
Instead he does what he's told--he listens. And for a second or two after the fact, waiting the pause out in expectant silence like a statue that's frozen in place that way. Okay. And? Mondo had wanted the peanut gallery to hold its comments until the end, hadn't he?
After a few beats pass, he relaxes his jaw and opens his mouth, if only to show he's taking in what's being said.]
They threatened you with videos of someone or something important to you so you'd "play"? So what was yours?
[He hadn't been planning on asking that level of personal question, but he's pissed off.]