( Ginger's fortunate that Mika's drug of choice is Yuu— dumb as a rock and stupid emotional. He's probably the only other person who'd cry over him, too; Mika wouldn't have expected to find a second person who would.
He misses Yuu. He misses Yuu a lot. And his chest seizes when he thinks about how he's not going to see him again. But he's... here right now. Figuring out what sort of feelings he has to offer in the here and now, scraping beneath the layers of his calcified heart. )
I'm not worth crying over. Come on. ( His smile is a little less wry this time. ) If you feel that bad for me, don't kick yourself out before I say anything. I'm so antisocial I won't speak a word to anyone if I don't have to.
( He doesn't mean to say this to obligate Ginger to stick around him, or anything. He's fine if Ginger leaves and lets Mika stay a loner. He just means to say he... is what he is. Saying what he thinks, without much disguised. Not speaking, not acting out of obligation, not— really, existing as part of this world, because his time has been long since up. And he's fine with that. (Is he?) )
Here. Couch's free.
( With a tug, he'll let them into his room; it's. dark. Muttering his spell—donec moraire—the candles and fireplace crackle to life and provide some dim lighting. The couch he's referring to seems to be this thing (since he doesn't really use it as a bed...). )
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He misses Yuu. He misses Yuu a lot. And his chest seizes when he thinks about how he's not going to see him again. But he's... here right now. Figuring out what sort of feelings he has to offer in the here and now, scraping beneath the layers of his calcified heart. )
I'm not worth crying over. Come on. ( His smile is a little less wry this time. ) If you feel that bad for me, don't kick yourself out before I say anything. I'm so antisocial I won't speak a word to anyone if I don't have to.
( He doesn't mean to say this to obligate Ginger to stick around him, or anything. He's fine if Ginger leaves and lets Mika stay a loner. He just means to say he... is what he is. Saying what he thinks, without much disguised. Not speaking, not acting out of obligation, not— really, existing as part of this world, because his time has been long since up. And he's fine with that. (Is he?) )
Here. Couch's free.
( With a tug, he'll let them into his room; it's. dark. Muttering his spell—donec moraire—the candles and fireplace crackle to life and provide some dim lighting. The couch he's referring to seems to be this thing (since he doesn't really use it as a bed...). )