[ miguel's never been good with children or teenagers, not even as a child or teenager, partly due to ego, partly due to disinterest and an inherent awkwardness, but mostly due to a terrible attitude.
whilst some of those traits have lessened and tempered as he's become an adult — through recent necessity more than anything else — it doesn't mean that he's developed a new-found shine for relating to people; it means, too, that he can't quite help the flicker of distaste that crosses his features; doesn't quite get as far as attempting to disguise the eye-roll or the inhale of breath that precludes an irritated sigh that doesn't quite emerge. ]
—Miguel, [ he answers, tersely and pointedly, attention sliding from okuyasu's face to the balled-up fist at his side and back again; a breath of pause and he lifts a hand, in an action that's intended to be a degree of placating, before waving a touch dismissively. ]
Look, [ he half-starts, before abruptly stopping. look what? miguel's not about to entirely dismiss the idea that this is all some kind of dream, but he's also not entirely on-board with the concept of getting punched in his dream. should he just run with the idea of this being his house? the grocery list on the fridge is in his handwriting after all—. ] I didn't—, [ he gestures vaguely and loosely at okuyasu, more than happy for okuyasu to fill in any blanks himself — miguel's a degree of certain that if this isn't a dream, his blanks are going to be quite different to the kids'. ]
This isn't my house. [ is how he opts to inelegantly finish: if it's not an answer okuyasu is prepared to accept, that's fine, he can roll with it, pretend he was joking, something. it wouldn't be the first time. ]
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whilst some of those traits have lessened and tempered as he's become an adult — through recent necessity more than anything else — it doesn't mean that he's developed a new-found shine for relating to people; it means, too, that he can't quite help the flicker of distaste that crosses his features; doesn't quite get as far as attempting to disguise the eye-roll or the inhale of breath that precludes an irritated sigh that doesn't quite emerge. ]
—Miguel, [ he answers, tersely and pointedly, attention sliding from okuyasu's face to the balled-up fist at his side and back again; a breath of pause and he lifts a hand, in an action that's intended to be a degree of placating, before waving a touch dismissively. ]
Look, [ he half-starts, before abruptly stopping. look what? miguel's not about to entirely dismiss the idea that this is all some kind of dream, but he's also not entirely on-board with the concept of getting punched in his dream. should he just run with the idea of this being his house? the grocery list on the fridge is in his handwriting after all—. ] I didn't—, [ he gestures vaguely and loosely at okuyasu, more than happy for okuyasu to fill in any blanks himself — miguel's a degree of certain that if this isn't a dream, his blanks are going to be quite different to the kids'. ]
This isn't my house. [ is how he opts to inelegantly finish: if it's not an answer okuyasu is prepared to accept, that's fine, he can roll with it, pretend he was joking, something. it wouldn't be the first time. ]