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Mifune had, often, probed his parents regarding their choice of craft, their decision to serve as clergymen, spinning sermon and taking in prayer. Father had said something Godly and, fittingly enough, Vaguely so. Mother, on the other hand had espoused, with some vigor, the illuminating benefits she had derived from taking on the stories of the church’s attendees and of, indeed, people-watching. Unfurling the tapestry of souls through the careful siphoning of idiosyncrasies, and thusly arriving at some measures of empathy, of perspective, of knowing one’s own place in the world and society, and an almost spiritual solace in existing as part of the kaleidoscopic whole.

Bullshit bullshit bullshit, Mifune called. 

Already he could detect ‘suspicious elements’ of his year that precipitated, well, precipitation from his pores. Some guy with the watery remnants of a crying spell lining his eyes; what was he crying about? Was he crying because he was about to do something life-changingly awful? Possibly, which meant probably, which meant definitely. Some purple-eyed guy that was both too polite and self-assured by far, which meant that he was either 1) a sociopath, 2) actually genuinely far better of a person than Mifune was, or 3) both, which was a terrifying prospect. 

A bevy of students who, mercifully, past muster caught Mifune’s gaze as well. The mercy was, granted, short-lived, as Mifune was well aware that darkness could lay beneath the surface (which meant that he was afraid of both the surface and the beneath, which meant… everything). Mifune’s lip quivered as he realized the devastation the wider, heavy-set girl could bring about with a full-pace tackle towards an unsuspectin- [i]why the hell was crying-boy beaming?[/i] Suspect. 

By the time cries of “I hail from Tokyo too!” had rung out, the perfectly perfunctory dialogue of two seemingly upper-class folk had entered into a brisk swing, and a girl even taller than he was had came in glowering, Mifune had decided he should all but drown it out, and forego any attempt at joining the mingling. Still, he gave himself a bit of credit - at least he hadn’t thought anything too uncharitable of the foreign students. Not that he didn’t, just, not disproportionately so. He thought, anyways. Good, good. Good. 

Great.  

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On second thought, not great. Hideaki’s gaze was a thousand-yard spear, or a thousand-page treatise and dissertation on emasculation and deep-seated (or surface-lingering) thoughts of inadequacy. Mifune could have walked out, right then and there, if day-0 failure and laughing-stock status wasn’t an infinitely more soul-crushing prospect. He’d just have to make it to at least… day 100. And then he could go a hundred more. And another hundred, and another hundred.

He procured his pamphlet. [i]Room 14, Chiheisen[/i]. 

Mifune allowed himself a deep-sigh, and began to trudge along to his new home, steps so stilted one wouldn’t be remiss to think he had perhaps soiled himself. 

And, damn, boy was [i]still sweatin’[/i].