[The fireflies resting in Mitsuhide's hair are distracting: gleaming stars in an inky black sky. It tempts Motochika to abandon his playing. While he resists the urge to reach out, for now, his gaze lingers there. He strums out long, lone notes, his shamisen singing a soft and stirring song.]
I know that look. [He says, contentment in his warm drawl.] Recite for me, Mitsuhide!
[He could use his phone to see what Mitsuhide has written, or even lean in to look at Mitsuhide's screen, but Motochika wants to hear it spoken aloud in his friend's serene voice. Atmosphere is important.]
action;
I know that look. [He says, contentment in his warm drawl.] Recite for me, Mitsuhide!
[He could use his phone to see what Mitsuhide has written, or even lean in to look at Mitsuhide's screen, but Motochika wants to hear it spoken aloud in his friend's serene voice. Atmosphere is important.]