[Mitarai is just sitting there against that willow tree. He'd discarded the apron a while ago but still wears short sleeves and shorts, not usual for him at all, and... this is more than he's felt the breeze against his skin in so many years. There's a sketchpad in his lap and a pencil in his hand. And all around him, people; trustworthy comrades. Maybe this is more precisely how it was supposed to be that day.
The people who saw him draw - Osomatsu, Terra, Poe, Amami - are by coincidence all still alive, with one exception that was just a test. When Mitarai has a purpose in mind and is pushing his pencil towards it, the layers of anxiety gradually slough away from his face.
no subject
The people who saw him draw - Osomatsu, Terra, Poe, Amami - are by coincidence all still alive, with one exception that was just a test. When Mitarai has a purpose in mind and is pushing his pencil towards it, the layers of anxiety gradually slough away from his face.
It's the recent explosion, as he promised Gogol.]