[Junpei waits for a beat, and... okay, he's not going to ask anything, alright. He scoffs and shakes his head, amused despite himself at just how dedicated Charles seems to be to this... delicate, mannerly treatment? There's no tact when you're locked in a bunker and told you're going to die; what a change.
Having tact is fine, normal even! Who'd have thought! And yet Junpei almost wishes he wouldn't bother for, say, ten minutes—long enough to ask all the weird questions he's sure are there, because he recognizes what a bizarre picture of his own experiences he's already painted. And it would give him an excuse to vomit out all the things stuck in his throat if he had to, because Charles asked, it would turn the chasm of how to approach any of it into an obligation and that would be easier...
Well, it's not Charles' job to manage his bullshit. It's not a fair wish or even an earnest one; he can deal with his own crap like a grownup. He still shifts to nudge Charles with his elbow, like, oh? Nothing? And if he leaves his arm pressed against Charles' at this impractical angle, then so be it.]
I wouldn't worry about the people-person thing, [he says, not because his gaggle of maniacs is personable actually, as a group, but,] My friends tend to ignore that anyway.
[Some of them are real shitheels about it actually, but that's not the point. He should just start talking, he thinks, throw Charles a bone for those myriad questions, and then he thinks he should just start talking without all of the excuses. So, considering what he's learned about Edwin, the funniest option would be:]
Like, one of them—Carlos. Bet you could put Carlos and Edwin in a room together and take bets on who loses it first. You could be waiting in line to get eaten by sharks— not a real thing that happened— [jUST IN CASE,] and Carlos would still start asking about what your favorite hobbies are.
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Having tact is fine, normal even! Who'd have thought! And yet Junpei almost wishes he wouldn't bother for, say, ten minutes—long enough to ask all the weird questions he's sure are there, because he recognizes what a bizarre picture of his own experiences he's already painted. And it would give him an excuse to vomit out all the things stuck in his throat if he had to, because Charles asked, it would turn the chasm of how to approach any of it into an obligation and that would be easier...
Well, it's not Charles' job to manage his bullshit. It's not a fair wish or even an earnest one; he can deal with his own crap like a grownup. He still shifts to nudge Charles with his elbow, like, oh? Nothing? And if he leaves his arm pressed against Charles' at this impractical angle, then so be it.]
I wouldn't worry about the people-person thing, [he says, not because his gaggle of maniacs is personable actually, as a group, but,] My friends tend to ignore that anyway.
[Some of them are real shitheels about it actually, but that's not the point. He should just start talking, he thinks, throw Charles a bone for those myriad questions, and then he thinks he should just start talking without all of the excuses. So, considering what he's learned about Edwin, the funniest option would be:]
Like, one of them—Carlos. Bet you could put Carlos and Edwin in a room together and take bets on who loses it first. You could be waiting in line to get eaten by sharks— not a real thing that happened— [jUST IN CASE,] and Carlos would still start asking about what your favorite hobbies are.