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Mangy has always loved to hear others talk. He wasn't a fan of screaming or arguing, but hearing someone talk about something they were passionate about, hearing them recount stories, or just making small talk, he loved to listen.
He wasn't too big on talking to others. He didn't start many conversations, worried about bothering someone and thinking people didn't want to talk unless they speak first. He didn't feel he was interesting enough to talk about, and when he did, he was worried about wording it poorly, or just not being worth talking to.
Mangy loved to listen. But not a lot of people talked to him. He tried to keep the conversation interesting for both people. But his parents got irritated listening to him speak, his voice scared and shaky. No one cared for a small malino in an alley. The store owners were too busy most of the time, but sometimes, they'd go outside, and ask him how he was. They were an older couple, a dog malino and a cat malino. They'd come by and talk sometimes, but they couldn't be invested in his life when it was the same thing, day in and day out. Life on his mattress never changed.
Mangy tried to listen when his parents talked. But he never heard kind things. Just about how he was a bother, a nuisance. It hurt, but he never showed it. Neutral face, good posture. Just pretend the hurt isn't there.
The storeowners never said anything unkind about him. They tried their best for him. Even until the day they disappeared, they were nice to him.
He wasn't as kind to himself. He failed so many times, it was hard to see how he was any good. His parents, strangers, they didn't like him. Why should he like himself?
He never understood why the storeowners were nice to him. But he loved it, anyways. He never found out why they were gone so suddenly. He thought they got tired of him, of how irritating showing kindness to him was. They never got upset with him, but his mom pretended to care about him. Maybe they were the same.
He never got to hear the news, to read their obituaries. Even back then, sadists were still around, with or without humans and Pretty Blood.
In spite of what he heard, he still loved to listen.
Whenever he heard his wife speak, no matter what it was about, he loved to hear her voice. When she told him kind, love filled things, mundane things like shopping, or simple questions, she always made him feel brighter.
Whenever his daughter said anything, he felt a bit happier inside. He loved to hear her speak, whenever she told him about her day at school or what she drew. Stumbling over her sentences, she was always excited to tell her father what she was thinking.
The day Rinny killed him, he stopped wanting to listen.
Every word of kindness he remembered, he felt himself deny it. Every cruel thing - street trash, stain on society - he kept remembering. He just wanted to be alone, not to have any conversations.
Eventually, he hit his worst. Someone else refused to let him wallow in his own hatred, even when he hated them.
He started listening again, out of habit. The words felt less painful to hear. It was confusing, upsetting at first, annoying to go through. But his new enemy became someone he cared about, in spite of his attempts not to.
He started to talk a bit more.
Eventually, his hatred started fell away. It never left him, but it became quieter.
He felt his old self returning.
In spite of it all, he loved to listen again.
One day, his friend asked a question.
"Why do you always listen to me?" Kokichi asked, staring at him curiously. Mangy used to hate that stare, being treated as just something used to offset his boredom. Now, he thought it was nice, that they could still talk after all this time without either of them losing interest.
Mangy couldn't smile, but he gave him the closest thing he had.
"If someone wants to talk, why shouldn't they be heard?"
In spite of everything, he would always listen.