[ his consternation has no lifespan. it's eternal. to be honest, he can't tell the difference between temporary embarrassment and permanent humiliation. he can't even feel his arms at the moment, having mixed the lumpy cake batter into a state of congealing putrefaction for twenty minutes straight. he could apologize for wasting about five pounds worth of cooking supplies in his failed endeavor to create a pastry that wouldn't give people an everlasting hatred of anything peripherally related to chocolate, but that doesn't amend the current hazardous state of her kitchen. makoto half-expects the walls to bleed from the atrocities committed in the room, surprise leeching out of him when the abomination passing for lumpy cake batter doesn't attain sentience and slosh out of the bowl. it wouldn't have superseded his general expectations. ]
On second thought, maybe we shouldn't bake it, Vietnam-san. It doesn't look very —
[ ... appetizing.
but whatever prospective grievances he could've voice die stillborn in his mouth when vietnam does the unthinkable.
... well, shit.
in that instant, time slows down and abruptly ceases to matter. he can only stare ahead into space, distantly horrified, when her lips close down around liquified poison (no use arguing semantics when her death is imminent), an inscrutable blankness to her expression. he's never been so unnerved by something so innocuous, but then he's never unintentionally caused the demise of a good friend before, either. there is no mercy for a cold-blooded killer, no matter their prior intentions. makoto's no exception to the rule.
when she finally retracts her hands, the momentary trance over makoto breaks, signaled by the clatter of the ceramic bowl he drops into the sink, whisk and all, hands prised against both of her wrists like he has any staying power on actions taken to their conclusion. he's not about to perform CPR for a misconstrued slight, although his panic ratchets up the scale, hitting a crescendo when he finally registers the full implications of continuing with a failed endeavor beyond what could be expected out of anyone, much less a woman who's never done him any wrong. ]
I'm sorry! I'm sorry. [ palms skimming up to her shoulders, he presses down, trying to detect if she's on the verge of a fainting spell, working through the motions of a 119 call in his head. the melodrama's liable to send him keeling over, too, but he has to stay strong. if not for himself, then vietnam, who could very well die from sampling the equivalent of venomous toxin. makoto shakes his head, expression faltering into derisive alarm. ]
A-Are you okay?! How do you feel? You need to tell me, Vietnam-san, so I know what to say to the paramedics —
[ there's no way he could be exaggerating this much. ]
no subject
On second thought, maybe we shouldn't bake it, Vietnam-san. It doesn't look very —
[ ... appetizing.
but whatever prospective grievances he could've voice die stillborn in his mouth when vietnam does the unthinkable.
... well, shit.
in that instant, time slows down and abruptly ceases to matter. he can only stare ahead into space, distantly horrified, when her lips close down around liquified poison (no use arguing semantics when her death is imminent), an inscrutable blankness to her expression. he's never been so unnerved by something so innocuous, but then he's never unintentionally caused the demise of a good friend before, either. there is no mercy for a cold-blooded killer, no matter their prior intentions. makoto's no exception to the rule.
when she finally retracts her hands, the momentary trance over makoto breaks, signaled by the clatter of the ceramic bowl he drops into the sink, whisk and all, hands prised against both of her wrists like he has any staying power on actions taken to their conclusion. he's not about to perform CPR for a misconstrued slight, although his panic ratchets up the scale, hitting a crescendo when he finally registers the full implications of continuing with a failed endeavor beyond what could be expected out of anyone, much less a woman who's never done him any wrong. ]
I'm sorry! I'm sorry. [ palms skimming up to her shoulders, he presses down, trying to detect if she's on the verge of a fainting spell, working through the motions of a 119 call in his head. the melodrama's liable to send him keeling over, too, but he has to stay strong. if not for himself, then vietnam, who could very well die from sampling the equivalent of venomous toxin. makoto shakes his head, expression faltering into derisive alarm. ]
A-Are you okay?! How do you feel? You need to tell me, Vietnam-san, so I know what to say to the paramedics —
[ there's no way he could be exaggerating this much. ]