That little 'hm' cuts through him like a big axe, and he squints critically at Itachi before he can even stop himself... because no amount of gentle teasing won't go unaddressed by Newton.]
You little shithead.
[There's no malice or outrage to it.
If anything, it almost sounds relieved. Like it's done just as much for him as any number of bold speeches about his lack of culpability or inherent goodness or any of the other things that he doesn't quite accept yet.
The hand on his shoulder doesn't go unnoticed, either, nor does the man's clear attempt to bridge something; he's a rough guy, his edges are all kinds of jagged, and he sucks at talking to people in any genuine normal capacity. Newt knows those people intimately. Worked elbow-deep in kaiju guts with one. So he can see a haphazard attempt for what it is.
And this time, what Itachi says sticks a little. He swallows, glancing around the kitchen. It's an open, lit space, one not burdened by stacked plastic cups and angrily destroyed pages that had been left scattered around an overfilled wastebasket. It's not a lonely little space where one person lives at a time, hiding behind some earphones.
It isn't actually easier to be alone, really. It's just a different breed of difficult that he pretends would be easier.
So, hesitantly, he sits back down. Nothing suddenly stops him from doing this, so maybe it's not a contested thing, to relent to the concept of being out in the open for all to see.]
I guess it'd be good. To, uh. Eat closer to the sink. Right? [His stomach's sour, but he picks up the little cup of miso. Sips a very un-American amount from the edge before glancing at Itachi.] ... If I added any extra dishes to the tower in my room, it'll definitely fall over.
[The Newtonian theory of gravity is well and alive on my desk.]
no subject
That little 'hm' cuts through him like a big axe, and he squints critically at Itachi before he can even stop himself... because no amount of gentle teasing won't go unaddressed by Newton.]
You little shithead.
[There's no malice or outrage to it.
If anything, it almost sounds relieved. Like it's done just as much for him as any number of bold speeches about his lack of culpability or inherent goodness or any of the other things that he doesn't quite accept yet.
The hand on his shoulder doesn't go unnoticed, either, nor does the man's clear attempt to bridge something; he's a rough guy, his edges are all kinds of jagged, and he sucks at talking to people in any genuine normal capacity. Newt knows those people intimately. Worked elbow-deep in kaiju guts with one. So he can see a haphazard attempt for what it is.
And this time, what Itachi says sticks a little. He swallows, glancing around the kitchen. It's an open, lit space, one not burdened by stacked plastic cups and angrily destroyed pages that had been left scattered around an overfilled wastebasket. It's not a lonely little space where one person lives at a time, hiding behind some earphones.
It isn't actually easier to be alone, really. It's just a different breed of difficult that he pretends would be easier.
So, hesitantly, he sits back down. Nothing suddenly stops him from doing this, so maybe it's not a contested thing, to relent to the concept of being out in the open for all to see.]
I guess it'd be good. To, uh. Eat closer to the sink. Right? [His stomach's sour, but he picks up the little cup of miso. Sips a very un-American amount from the edge before glancing at Itachi.] ... If I added any extra dishes to the tower in my room, it'll definitely fall over.
[The Newtonian theory of gravity is well and alive on my desk.]