My Mozi
-.-.-
His instinct would give into the urge of nature; he found Hibari Kyouya to be the King of all beasts.
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Kusakabe hadn't known his name, but he knew—knew—a good punching bag when he saw one. The boy was small; his uniform fitted to his body, neat and tidy, every fold and every layer in the right spot. Like his mother had dressed him. He was a Momma's Boy. Scrawny and weak; dependant! A waste of space.
So he sidled over, his strides short—he wasn't over eager, of course not—his steps echoed in the hallway. He was oblivious of the traveling territory, barbed wire fences the boy held.
He remembered the whites of his eyes as they glared and told him with no uncertainty, with the power of absolute sureness, You will not win.
It was two days later when he returned, a few bruises, an aching jaw, a forearm held together by a blue cast, and a waterfall of rumors aimed towards him and especially towards that boy.
He was marked—stained—by defeat.
On the rooftop, a long pale finger ran down the length of his cast, his eyes a warm black; he was admiring his work, an artist's gaze.
Kusakabe could feel his slow-scorching breath, anticipation of what was coming, what was going to happen so soon. His ears drummed to the beat of monotone syllables.
He had stumbled unto his path.
-.-.-.
- I'm studying Ancient Chinese Philosophy and this holds a few of their ideas. (especially the last line.)
- Mozi=Master.