Easily! I've been doing it since I was like, six? I was a mountain kid!
[ Six? Give or take. Definitely when he was at least ten, running around the hostile mountains and the hostile garbage slums of Grey Terminal being a hostile little brat with teeth and a steel pipe and a whole lot of hate in his heart. He's long, long since mellowed — clearly. To the point where being able to take care of someone, to provide for them and ensure they ate well, slept when they needed to, felt good and/or cute in their body? That had long since become his dream. Not to be the strongest, or the best, or to burn his existence into the hearts of men who hated him — but, to love and be loved.
Konoha's wringing her own fingers, and he hesitates before reaching out to take them into his own. He looks a horror, after all. All black digits and sickly aura, like he's poisoning the atmosphere with the promise of terror and death just by existing. It abates, though. Softly settling into a mote of familiar warmth, like an ember that will ignite a night's campfire, or a firefly winking in the distant darkness. Contact with her helps that, and makes him sheepish and slow and awkward when his smile twists a little. Disappointed? Sad?
Because his answer is not the most illustrative: ] Just "wrong". Like, food that's just gone bad. I can't even swallow it, it just goes to waste. My kid brother's cook would end me for it, too.
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[ Six? Give or take. Definitely when he was at least ten, running around the hostile mountains and the hostile garbage slums of Grey Terminal being a hostile little brat with teeth and a steel pipe and a whole lot of hate in his heart. He's long, long since mellowed — clearly. To the point where being able to take care of someone, to provide for them and ensure they ate well, slept when they needed to, felt good and/or cute in their body? That had long since become his dream. Not to be the strongest, or the best, or to burn his existence into the hearts of men who hated him — but, to love and be loved.
Konoha's wringing her own fingers, and he hesitates before reaching out to take them into his own. He looks a horror, after all. All black digits and sickly aura, like he's poisoning the atmosphere with the promise of terror and death just by existing. It abates, though. Softly settling into a mote of familiar warmth, like an ember that will ignite a night's campfire, or a firefly winking in the distant darkness. Contact with her helps that, and makes him sheepish and slow and awkward when his smile twists a little. Disappointed? Sad?
Because his answer is not the most illustrative: ] Just "wrong". Like, food that's just gone bad. I can't even swallow it, it just goes to waste. My kid brother's cook would end me for it, too.