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Hakka is all mercurial sunshine and jagged edges. He’s a second year in the piloting course, like him. He prefers the sea to the mountains. Likes guitars but is partial to all sorts of music, got stomach sick when he first tried to run around the entire span of the school in a bet on their first day there, thinks birds are pretty damn cool as fellow flyers, likes gardening in his free time, and has a set of siblings he curses and loves with all of his heart. Each piece of information is a gossamer thread in the carefully woven picture that is Banzoin Hakka. It’s something to hold on to, steadfast, the kind of knowledge that can be forged into deadly weapons.
He offers him a sip from his still-warm drink as they continue to wait in line and it tastes a bit like the herbal growth supplements he used to chase down with stolen pieces of chocolate. He tells Hakka as much and he laughs like he’s delighted, like he doesn’t find Flayon frightening or embarrassing at all regardless of who he may seem to be.
It’s almost enough to make him falter for real this time.
He doesn’t know that his newfound friend is going to make a real ugly corpse some day.
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