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Small Talk
/ˈsmôl ˌtôk/
( noun )
- polite conversation about unimportant or uncontroversial matters, especially as engaged in on social occasions.
Surprisingly, it’s hard for both Baku and Hal to indulge in small talk.
At a casual glance It may seem that Baku does it quite often, making conversation with various people despite the topic, looking relatively negligent —— often with a Mona Lisa - esque smile on his face.
However for each conversation, each phrasing, even down to each single syllable is planned. The masterful sculptor, in his grasp cold and calculated tools of manipulation, articulately made to push and shove, chisel and sculpt anyone into whatever piece he wants them to play.
You just don’t know it, for most of the time.
Unless you’re a man called Kiruma Souichi. Or as Baku calls him :
" Hal. "
A single syllable. Spoken so softly it seemed to have been posed as a question, not a calling.
The machine - like clicking stops, adept digits pausing midway —— rotating a section of his beloved rubik's cube ; Souichi notes that he is half completing a full row of blues. Although the man doesn't look up, Baku knows that this is the closest he'll get to his full attention.
And yet still he plays along, gently coaxing him to make a move. He knows that Hal would take any given chance to shut up, and he doesn't intend for him to. Warm eyes, a shade between the borders of the gentlest blue and soothing lavender —— traces Hal's figure sitting on the chair, his broad back turned towards him.
A light, airy chuckle.
It is filled with love, so much love for the other. And Baku is no poet, though no earthly words can describe the emotion he feels for the other ; With bloody, desperate digits, he could pry himself open and present lovingly a beating, bruised heart on a spread of bony wings, the feeble sporadic pulse source of this man's flowing vigor, his soul itself —— and it wouldn't be nearly enough.
He is suddenly aware of how long the silence has been, of the time he’s spent adoring him. Slightly embarrassed, but not quite. Mentally shaking his head to rid it of aforementioned thoughts, he proceeds to carry out his role of filling in the silence between them.
" Would it hurt for you to answer me verbally ? " Baku asks, coy.
There is an equally long pause, before Souichi sets the cube onto his lap, answering with a slight feline tilt of his head.
" . . . Yes, Baku - san. "
The laughter increases, delightfully amused ! It is childish, and it resembles the same bright guffaw you hear when kids win prizes at state fairs.
" Hal, which question was that even supposed to answer ? "
He asks, though he himself knows the answer. And he knows that the boy —— the man in front of him knows, that they both know Souichi will never clarify, and that they both know that Baku will always ask questions anyways.
Souichi laughs.
It is nothing like Baku’s loud boisteriousness, more of an exhale than an actual laugh. Baku appreciates the response all the same. He drinks in the sound, drunk, and it leaves him hungering for more —— like the sweet ambrosia of the gods. his infamous appetite insatiable.
Unspoken words, rest lightly on his tongue.
Ah . . . fuck his leader duties.
“ . . . I would rather be playing pooyan, Hal. “ ( Let’s get out of here, Hal. )
As Souichi turns to face the man —— just about to respond, the moment is interrupted by the piercing creak of the door. Midara walks into the room with a bundle of neatly filed documents in one hand.
Analytical blue eyes glide to glance at the referee walking towards his back, and yet Midara shows no sign of acknowledging him. The feline tilt of Souichi’s head angles downwards as he calculatingly observes the quiver in each step, though it seems that Baku doesn’t care to notice the same. It seems as if Baku isn’t even acknowledging the man. It’s like the referee isn’t even there.
“ The archives you requested, leader. “
Midara whispers, slowly. His face pale, even more than his usual alabaster complexion with an emotion closest described to as fear.
Gracefully, he sets the weekly reports onto the table, and slides it towards Usogui —— pallid hands passing straight through Souichi’s torso.
All Baku can do is stare. Souichi’s gaze drops, and he cooly raises an eyebrow.
ah.
ah, so that's how it is.
The rubix cube sits on the chair, unfinished. A fine layer of dust sits atop a nearly completed row of blues.
There is indescribable emotion stirring, swirling deep within the black abyss of Baku's hollow chamber of ribcage. Baku, succumbing to the fragility of the mind, the very sharply honed weapon that is all he knows, The death god, victim to the very fragility he is known to manipulate. The lie eater, caught up in his own blissful lie. Broken boy, now shattered once again. No one is here to pick up the pieces.
Midara withdraws his hand, and the action causes the image of Souichi to ripple gently in the air, and the sadness in his eyes flickers too along with it. The shattered pieces are grounded into dust, and scatter like ashes in the wind.
Midara soundlessly leaves the room —— the sound of a singular voice fresh within his head. The voice of a madman mumbling, followed by high - pitched laughter. Shrill, and delirious insanity.
He had only heard one voice.
Had only seen one man.
The prince bee was never there.