[He's just playing with the idea of lifelong regrets—Aragaki can't be much older than he is—when his dreadful fishwork is clumsily complimented. It's nothing, for fuck's sake; he knows what to do, it ought to be automatic—more than automatic, it ought to be him: laugh, and smile, and thank the guy. Unfortunately, one of those lifelong regrets—pitying eyes watching him through coloured masks—grabs him, and gives him a little shake.
He reaches out and snatches up another fish from the heap; a jolt shoots through his hip, and he grits his teeth, swallowing a hiss of pain.] ... yeah? The next one is going to be better.
[He slaps it down on the board, starting to work. And he does, indeed, begin to do far better, taking on what he's seen and been taught. That feeling of being watched by nobodies, dissected by idiots, like this fucking fish; Aragaki brings it right back, with the whole I'm saying nothing but I'm watching you air.
He takes off all the fins, even the weird one that looks more like a whisker. What sort of lifelong regrets would someone like this know how to have?]
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He reaches out and snatches up another fish from the heap; a jolt shoots through his hip, and he grits his teeth, swallowing a hiss of pain.] ... yeah? The next one is going to be better.
[He slaps it down on the board, starting to work. And he does, indeed, begin to do far better, taking on what he's seen and been taught. That feeling of being watched by nobodies, dissected by idiots, like this fucking fish; Aragaki brings it right back, with the whole I'm saying nothing but I'm watching you air.
He takes off all the fins, even the weird one that looks more like a whisker. What sort of lifelong regrets would someone like this know how to have?]