[straight lines, direct paths, bulldozed or otherwise: how Hinata's thoughts had always operated. now - a jumble, the jump from grief to hope and back too quick, an overwhelming shuffle that left him where he was: no straight paths, nothing direct or comprehensible. the official mission yielded no deserving corpses. likewise for the aftermath within the crew. the transfers were set at random - recruitment, the same. there was nothing to be done for it.]
[accepting that went against Hinata's very nature. and so - after raving, crying -- too much crying, newly embarrassing in the lack of humiliation he mustered over it - hearing his own simple, rehashed ideas that went nowhere again and again, told to concentrate on survival and a nebulous future--- he was sick of it.]
[did the people he knew have any ideas? did they hold back because they thought he couldn't take it?]
[he was sick of wondering those ugly, isolating thoughts, too. it came as a relief to look outward, even if those people hurt just as much as he.]
[momentary confusion (of course-- hell if he wasn't sick of that, too), a pinch between the eyebrows - there were burials this time - but then it clicks. the transfers.]
Have you ever sent a letter? [pointed questioning didn't come naturally to him: instead, it's quiet, a tip in the direction of understanding. can't relax, can't smooth the tension from his shoulders, can't do anything directly but can and does finally step forward toward the stoop, perching on its edge as if ready to bolt back up at any time.]
[-- even after he asked that question, the second he sat down,]
It's not the same.
[couldn't even know if the message reached them. and no words replaced physical action.]
no subject
[accepting that went against Hinata's very nature. and so - after raving, crying -- too much crying, newly embarrassing in the lack of humiliation he mustered over it - hearing his own simple, rehashed ideas that went nowhere again and again, told to concentrate on survival and a nebulous future--- he was sick of it.]
[did the people he knew have any ideas? did they hold back because they thought he couldn't take it?]
[he was sick of wondering those ugly, isolating thoughts, too. it came as a relief to look outward, even if those people hurt just as much as he.]
[momentary confusion (of course-- hell if he wasn't sick of that, too), a pinch between the eyebrows - there were burials this time - but then it clicks. the transfers.]
Have you ever sent a letter? [pointed questioning didn't come naturally to him: instead, it's quiet, a tip in the direction of understanding. can't relax, can't smooth the tension from his shoulders, can't do anything directly but can and does finally step forward toward the stoop, perching on its edge as if ready to bolt back up at any time.]
[-- even after he asked that question, the second he sat down,]
It's not the same.
[couldn't even know if the message reached them. and no words replaced physical action.]