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Entry tags:

metal gear: kazuhira miller

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Who:

Thread 1: Harry Hart | Kazuhira Miller | Big Boss (Later)

Thread 2: Deacon

When:

Thread 1: Ambiguous

Thread 2: After their decontamination.

Where:

Thread 1: On the ship in the training simulation room

Thread 2: Bar

What:

Thread 1: Kaz decides that he wants to practice to get better with his new limbs and makes a very dumb mistake and lets out a secret

Thread 2: Drinking

Warnings:

Thread 1: Woops

Thread starters in entry. Monthly catch all.

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Yeah, I miss it.

Don't have it in me anymore, but I miss it. I am... a terrible singer. I'm awful. But I didn't care then.

I would happily sing at the top of my voice. But now... I don't know. Not really shame. Just don't have it in me to sing anymore. [Because that sort of singing, singing for the joy of it, takes a lot of effort.]

Maybe it'll come back someday. Like, sure it'll never be total rainbows and sunshine and glitter again, 'cause you can't ever totally go back, but maybe you'll get to reclaim at least some of it. Because it's not fucking fair if they took away forever not just your home, your comrades, your friends but your...you as well.

Or you can do like me and just fake it so hard that you fool everyone, including yourself, into thinking that you aren't fucked up.

[Maybe he needs another drink after all.]

I faked enough in my life. Might as well be honest about being a terrible person.

[He says it like he believes it, but he's accepted it and knows that he is. He sacrificed all of his idealism for revenge.]

But if you're faking it at least still be on my side.

[He's drunk enough that he won't clearly resemble saying this later.]

See, you're not a terrible person. You're just a guy who did stuff, tried to do the right thing, and sometimes made mistakes. That's not terrible, that's just, like, human. You're a human person.

But I am on your side. Even faking shit, I'm still totally on your side...or side, front, back, anywhere you want me.

[Once the words fall out of his mouth they do not sound like what he meant to convey. The first two times that happened it was semi-controlled: let the brain-to-mouth filter open up and spill out something outrageous to lighten the mood. He may not have known what he was going to say until he heard the words, but he knew he was letting it happen. But this time, that really did just fall out with a thud, like opening an overfilled cabinet. He must be more drunk than he realizes.]

Uh, that last part? Unicorn box.

[Miller turns on his stool, leans on the bar, and gives Deacon the smarmiest look that he can dredge up from the pits of his youth.] With all the things you're putting in the unicorn box you're making it sound like I would have a pretty good time going home with you.

[He mostly wants to see how Deacon will react to that, more than anything.]

[The fresh drink he'd ordered came and he's holding it and thank God he wasn't drinking from it yet because he sputters a surprised laugh.]

Twenty...ish years ago we could have had an awesome time. Not to blow my own...whatever...but I was good.

These days, though, seriously out of practice. I'm sure it's just like riding a bike. Don't do it for a long time and when you try to pick it up again you're fucking terrible and after you're done all your muscles hurt in peculiar places.

[He thumps Deacon's shoulder clumsily.] Don't worry. Even if you could get on the bike I think we are getting to the point we couldn't ride it at all. We'd get pulled over.

[He rocks loosely from the friendly push to his shoulder]

Yeah, right now I don't think I'd be up for riding anything tonight, even if I could anymore. I'd probably fall off or something.

I'm gonna take you up on that couch offer, though, if your roommates don't mind.

I'm sure. Yeah.

And hell. I trust you in my bed if worse comes to worse. Figure you're not the frisky type.

[And there's a special ways that drunk guys can fall asleep in uncomfortable positions and not even be aware of each other.]

If it comes to that, just don't drool on my shirt. It's totally vintage. [aka "two hundred year old, threadbare trash"]

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