>>5880933>>5880967>>5881092>>5881219>>5881236>>5881261>>5881275>>5881309>>5881908>>5882621>>5882651>>5882675>>5882677>>5883139>>5884225It’s kind of hard not to obsess over Masami and what her deal is these days. Her whims and wills are simultaneously extremely emotive and utterly impenetrable. It was hard to tell why she got mad, sad, or happy, but extremely easy to tell that she was experiencing those emotions. It was something you very much so wanted to get to the bottom of. The only nagging thought you have in your mind is when was the right time and place. Right now? Or later when the atmosphere settles into something more personable?
You march purposefully past everyone in your path while making unceasing eye contact with Masami as you close in, half-hazardly shoving some meatbread to Shizuka to ward her off. You then sigh, realizing that you’re being rude. Turning to Shizuka you state “This is called meatbread. It’s bread with meat inside it, kind of like a steamed pork bun but different.”
“Mehfbrehd!” She confirms, mouth already stuffed.
“It is.”
“Is there enough mehfrbehd to go around?” Asks Daigo, watching his teammate chowing down on of your three colossal mehfbrehd loafs.
“Not at this rate.”
“We’ll future-proof this by portioning out the remainder.” Naoki says, standing up. He grabs a heavy-as-fuck looking boulder from near the tree line and drags it over to where you are, near enough to the bonfire to get some warmth but not so close it will deal heat damage to the meatbread or its container, which you set down on the boulder. The two of you set to slicing the meatbread evenly so that everyone minus Shizuka can get an even serving when they’re ready for it. You’re not exactly armed for this party, but luckily Naoki was always armed with his prosthetic. In more ways than one.
He was dressed way out of character: Jeans and a T-shirt. Nothing else. It made his prosthetic look like a bizarre anachronism, an unnatural mechanism that didn’t belong on the body of this teenaged boy. Since he’s not wearing a mask, you can see more of his expressions, expressions he was poor at hiding. Licking his lips in concentration as he lines up one of his arm’s claws, a feral looking snarl when he slashes into the meatbread to cut it, a cheesy looking grin when he sizes up the slices and judges them to be of symmetric cut and portion size.
The two of you step back while the ants swarm the food. Katsuro has his eyes closed as he plays the shamisen as jauntily as that instrument is capable of, saying “I need to be fed. The music: She is my mistress and she demands the skillful attention of my firm but gentle touch.”
“I’ll feed you.” You respond.
“No.”
“Why?” You ask, confused.
“I… Need… Shizuka.”
“Nerf”
“Yes.”
“Nohg.”
“Okay.” He acquiesces, brow furrowing into a faint look of irritation. “I’m a little disturbed that nobody is taking me seriously even though I’m being really sexy and badass playing this music right now.”
