[ one can't teach another to survive. not directly, because that very need has to come from that very individual. rin is a lot of things, a collection of contrasts and similarities; a recognizable mindset set against near naive inexperience borne from lack of necessity. the way he listens to heine's words unnerves him a bit, really. the lessons of a disobedient dog with an overactive trigger finger could never be entirely good.
but the youth takes his answers with evident stride and considering the echoes, the implications of how innocent rin's world was compared to this, compared to heine's, it should raise questions of just what has he seen here to make his resolve so steadfast. but heine is simply relieved instead (glad to see little emotion to his systematic lecture (?), because if it came down to it, he would fight a thousand of that woman's attack dogs rather than deal with sentimentality) and he does not ask the question, does not even wonder because the lack of reaction is how this information should be received. it has always been about perspective, and that is what his told him.
they work through more motions, palpable anticipation and adrenaline of angled joints and tense muscles rolling against heine's fluid parries, lithe footwork. when the next request is posed, however, heine smirks, affixes his stance with vertebrae curving forwards in reflexive posture of something ready to strike (a coil, just as he's said).
he reaches to the back of his belt, and fetches out his switchblade. the sharp, flat edge catches the ambient light above them. rin's face, for a brief beat, startles heine; how young it looks. it reminds him too much of that rotten past in the most obscure of ways, but he has been living with one foot dragging behind in those bloodred depths for as long as he remembers so this, too, is shoved deep behind his mind.
the blade is spun on the ends of his fingers in languid comfort, fitting as though an extension of him. compared to the scalpels, this sat warm and steady and compliant. ] When you understand that in a fight, the clean edge of this knife, [ he raises it to his eyelevel, a glint of red eyes and harsh tone. ] - can instead be found in someone's flesh and bone.
[ yet with such words, his actions mark contradiction because he steps forward, and extends the grip to rin. ] - For the record, if you don't loosen your joints when you move, you're just as likely to cut yourself.
[ just saying. ] ... or maybe we should start with a gun? [ he was actually action rin for an opinion help him. guns desensitize, disconnect between trigger and bullet. or so he would assume. he never had a problem with disconnecting. ]
no subject
but the youth takes his answers with evident stride and considering the echoes, the implications of how innocent rin's world was compared to this, compared to heine's, it should raise questions of just what has he seen here to make his resolve so steadfast. but heine is simply relieved instead (glad to see little emotion to his systematic lecture (?), because if it came down to it, he would fight a thousand of that woman's attack dogs rather than deal with sentimentality) and he does not ask the question, does not even wonder because the lack of reaction is how this information should be received. it has always been about perspective, and that is what his told him.
they work through more motions, palpable anticipation and adrenaline of angled joints and tense muscles rolling against heine's fluid parries, lithe footwork. when the next request is posed, however, heine smirks, affixes his stance with vertebrae curving forwards in reflexive posture of something ready to strike (a coil, just as he's said).
he reaches to the back of his belt, and fetches out his switchblade. the sharp, flat edge catches the ambient light above them. rin's face, for a brief beat, startles heine; how young it looks. it reminds him too much of that rotten past in the most obscure of ways, but he has been living with one foot dragging behind in those bloodred depths for as long as he remembers so this, too, is shoved deep behind his mind.
the blade is spun on the ends of his fingers in languid comfort, fitting as though an extension of him. compared to the scalpels, this sat warm and steady and compliant. ] When you understand that in a fight, the clean edge of this knife, [ he raises it to his eyelevel, a glint of red eyes and harsh tone. ] - can instead be found in someone's flesh and bone.
[ yet with such words, his actions mark contradiction because he steps forward, and extends the grip to rin. ] - For the record, if you don't loosen your joints when you move, you're just as likely to cut yourself.
[ just saying. ] ... or maybe we should start with a gun? [ he was actually action rin for an opinion help him. guns desensitize, disconnect between trigger and bullet. or so he would assume. he never had a problem with disconnecting. ]