[Sayori is, quite literally, the cutest girl on earth. He feels thoroughly gutted by this message, even putting the weird horny energy of it aside for a moment. So, after the swell of almost painful affection, he hurries to her.]
[Here's the thing: with how everything's been going, he absolutely doesn't remember that it's his birthday. Hasn't even registered that November has become December, in the same way that the blur of trauma — or its echo — always disorients him. So when the door flies open and Sayori holds out a piece of paper—]
[He's dumbfounded for a second. Takes it in his hand obediently, reads it and then reads it again, more carefully the second time. The pictures are . . . of him, and her, and the Pistols. And she said . . . happy birthday. Didn't she?]
[It's a solid fifteen seconds later that Mista reacts. By starting to sniffle a little. Oops.]
no subject
[Here's the thing: with how everything's been going, he absolutely doesn't remember that it's his birthday. Hasn't even registered that November has become December, in the same way that the blur of trauma — or its echo — always disorients him. So when the door flies open and Sayori holds out a piece of paper—]
[He's dumbfounded for a second. Takes it in his hand obediently, reads it and then reads it again, more carefully the second time. The pictures are . . . of him, and her, and the Pistols. And she said . . . happy birthday. Didn't she?]
[It's a solid fifteen seconds later that Mista reacts. By starting to sniffle a little. Oops.]