[ Flippant or not, it's a good question. Gen frowns as he absently rolls the bottle over in his hand, watching the last few drops slide against the inside of the glass. 'I had to,' he vaguely remembers telling Eustace back in Venera. But in reality -- ]
... both.
[ Gen still sounds out of it, his words low and directed into the middle distance. ]
I think it was both. [ But not 'both' in the way Misa might have expected. Gen's frown deepens as he continues quietly. ] He said some things I can't forgive. I couldn't just let it slide. And back in Venera, he ... saw some things he shouldn't have. Stuff no one was supposed to know. ... I can't forgive that. And I can't forgive what he said then, either.
[ Misa must be familiar with the faint emotion that creeps into her perception, a needling sensation that starts deep in the chest and seeps into the back of the throat, hot and persistent. The same heartache that he'd practically assaulted her with during their own confrontation in Venera. The intensity of what Gen's harboring now must be terribly obvious, given the clarity with which it reaches her even with their shards in place and without the Innocence's effects; even with those limiters in place, it must still be an unpleasant tightness around the lungs.
(It must be telling, too, that Gen had been furious with her in Venera, but even then, hadn't attempted to actually hurt her. Dokja saw him at an even more vulnerable moment. And what he'd said in response was worse. Far worse.)
That unpleasant sensation foisted upon her lingers for a moment, only subsiding bit by bit when Gen gives a hoarse exhale. There's the rustle of fabric as he sits back heavily on the bench and slouches down with atrocious posture. His hair's getting into his eyes, and there's a brief shift as he reflexively tries to brush it out of the way with his left hand -- only to remember he can't, and stifle a grunt as he settles for trying to scuff it out of the way with the back of his wrist. ]
... he's a piece of shit. He needed to die.
[ 'So I did it,' goes unsaid. Like that resolves the matter. It just comes out sounding far more tired than he'd intended. ]
no subject
... both.
[ Gen still sounds out of it, his words low and directed into the middle distance. ]
I think it was both. [ But not 'both' in the way Misa might have expected. Gen's frown deepens as he continues quietly. ] He said some things I can't forgive. I couldn't just let it slide. And back in Venera, he ... saw some things he shouldn't have. Stuff no one was supposed to know. ... I can't forgive that. And I can't forgive what he said then, either.
[ Misa must be familiar with the faint emotion that creeps into her perception, a needling sensation that starts deep in the chest and seeps into the back of the throat, hot and persistent. The same heartache that he'd practically assaulted her with during their own confrontation in Venera. The intensity of what Gen's harboring now must be terribly obvious, given the clarity with which it reaches her even with their shards in place and without the Innocence's effects; even with those limiters in place, it must still be an unpleasant tightness around the lungs.
(It must be telling, too, that Gen had been furious with her in Venera, but even then, hadn't attempted to actually hurt her. Dokja saw him at an even more vulnerable moment. And what he'd said in response was worse. Far worse.)
That unpleasant sensation foisted upon her lingers for a moment, only subsiding bit by bit when Gen gives a hoarse exhale. There's the rustle of fabric as he sits back heavily on the bench and slouches down with atrocious posture. His hair's getting into his eyes, and there's a brief shift as he reflexively tries to brush it out of the way with his left hand -- only to remember he can't, and stifle a grunt as he settles for trying to scuff it out of the way with the back of his wrist. ]
... he's a piece of shit. He needed to die.
[ 'So I did it,' goes unsaid. Like that resolves the matter. It just comes out sounding far more tired than he'd intended. ]