[Jonathan's own hands are palm-up on the table, well outside Hiyori's; he'd rocked back as though that flick had itself been a punch, and let them fall then. They might as well be flung out to either side and pinned there with rough nails, for all he's able to breathe. It takes a mortifying amount of effort to keep himself breathing steadily, and he can't look Hiyori in the eyes lest the panic return.

"Making it easier" - maybe that's best. Better that he thinks of him as just another stupid Yankee, maybe delusional, maybe even dangerous....]

Don't talk to me about the future, I'm a bit part in somebody else's story. Nobody's going to let me die like my father did, but the real hero's mentor always dies, you ever notice that? Why the hell shouldn't I want to do better than my old man, and be good at seeming normal up until I'm dead?!

[His voice twists, his face twisting into a grimace with it. That's going too far. He can't manage to sound sincere saying a hateful thing like that, it runs against everything he still believes in. He looks up, sorrow plain on his face and something closer to defeat in his eyes.]

Fuck. I'm sorry. That was - I'm not that asshole anymore, the one who'd've meant that. I meant what I wrote.

[He stands, unsteadily enough to knock the chair over, but he doesn't move to right it.]

I meant all of it. You won't have to see me again. I'm sorry.

[And yet, though it might be best to turn and leave, though it'd be easier to forget all of this if he just left to grab a beer with one hand and his wife's ass with the other, though it might be best to run like the coward he is, Jonathan stands there.

It'd be easiest if Hiyori clocked him now. He's more than earned it.]