[He'd caught himself thinking that others tried to minimize this sort of behavior because they couldn't stand it as weakness. Keisuke had tried—he'd tried a lot—to fight against his natural disposition and become someone who would fit in better with their world. When everything had broken apart at the seams, falling down around the fault-line of the war, strength had become a status symbol. Those who could prove physical superiority became a new class, given wealth and celebrity. Keisuke had seen it happen to Akira, a Bl@ster champion, even though he knew better than anyone else that Akira didn't care about any of that.
The weak, however, were unnecessary. Perhaps it was a war-time mentality that had carried over even after the fighting had ceased. The weak, the poor, the addicted—the government would prefer they all be swept away. It was a pervasive mentality that seeped into their culture, all the way down to how Keisuke saw and valued himself.
Selfish. He reacts sharply, as if he'd been stung, almost anticipating the numb before sharp pain. Close enough. She can't see his face right now, but it's twisted into a mask of pain and frustration.
In a nicer world, Dal Dal's words should have helped. They did, in a way. People like Rin and Dal Dal, who had gone out of their way to help him, they could be applied to this. That they wanted to help—it was all they could do, so they might as well. He didn't understand why, but that wasn't his place...
The problem was, he faced a similar situation to Dal Dal, simply reversed. Where she might be frustrated with someone that she might've been trying to keep safe, he was thinking about what Akira had said, about how the way he'd always followed him, tripping and getting into trouble and always needing to be cared after, had pissed him off. (That's not exactly what Akira had said, but anxiety had warped his words so bad in Keisuke's mind, he might as well have.) It had been an obligation born out of a time-worn precedent—and one he'd grown sick of—nothing more. He hadn't, had never, wanted to.
For everyone else, it might help him. Just not for the one he wanted. Sound familiar?
Keisuke's silent for a long moment, grit like sand stuck in his throat. Then, finally:] Okay. [Paper-thin, almost as if it might blow away.]
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The weak, however, were unnecessary. Perhaps it was a war-time mentality that had carried over even after the fighting had ceased. The weak, the poor, the addicted—the government would prefer they all be swept away. It was a pervasive mentality that seeped into their culture, all the way down to how Keisuke saw and valued himself.
Selfish. He reacts sharply, as if he'd been stung, almost anticipating the numb before sharp pain. Close enough. She can't see his face right now, but it's twisted into a mask of pain and frustration.
In a nicer world, Dal Dal's words should have helped. They did, in a way. People like Rin and Dal Dal, who had gone out of their way to help him, they could be applied to this. That they wanted to help—it was all they could do, so they might as well. He didn't understand why, but that wasn't his place...
The problem was, he faced a similar situation to Dal Dal, simply reversed. Where she might be frustrated with someone that she might've been trying to keep safe, he was thinking about what Akira had said, about how the way he'd always followed him, tripping and getting into trouble and always needing to be cared after, had pissed him off. (That's not exactly what Akira had said, but anxiety had warped his words so bad in Keisuke's mind, he might as well have.) It had been an obligation born out of a time-worn precedent—and one he'd grown sick of—nothing more. He hadn't, had never, wanted to.
For everyone else, it might help him. Just not for the one he wanted. Sound familiar?
Keisuke's silent for a long moment, grit like sand stuck in his throat. Then, finally:] Okay. [Paper-thin, almost as if it might blow away.]