It hasn't been on children for a long time. Not really. Keep them alive, keep them healthy, but love them? Nurture them? Teach them right from wrong? Secondary. Not everyone's like that, and so much has changed since then, but... compared to before, even Robin finds it pitiful. More and more kids are growing up just like him, maybe worse.
"No, it's not." This is said quietly, but with truth behind it. Assuredness. It would be too easy to just blame it on society; it would be lying to place the blame on a society that isn't even his. His promiscuity lies in his poor upbringing, his being betrayed, his age, his condition, and his hideous and cruel wish to be loved despite every reason he shouldn't be.
"I have reasons. A lot of reasons... but they're all twisted together in what seems to be the unreasonable knot of my existence. I can't tell you one thing without having to tell you ten more, and you already know what I think about that." She should know by now, anyway, after the many times he's uttered variations of, 'I don't want to talk about it.' He wraps his fingers around her shoulder; maybe he's a little nervous even talking about it that she's going to get angry and leave (if he didn't care about that, after all, he wouldn't have childishly hidden her things).
"And I know it's not fair to you at all, but if there's even the slightest chance it makes you feel better... I have my reasons. It's not just some shallow desire for thrills or pleasure or any of that." He squeezes her shoulder, just a little. "And you're not just some girl I'm going to forget about eventually. This means a lot to me, even just... sitting here, talking. I mean that."
For better or for worse. Here he goes again, digging his own grave. Even this is too close for comfort, far more attached than he usually lets himself get. He always does this. And he knows it'll eventually end the same, regardless of his desire to stop it.
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"No, it's not." This is said quietly, but with truth behind it. Assuredness. It would be too easy to just blame it on society; it would be lying to place the blame on a society that isn't even his. His promiscuity lies in his poor upbringing, his being betrayed, his age, his condition, and his hideous and cruel wish to be loved despite every reason he shouldn't be.
"I have reasons. A lot of reasons... but they're all twisted together in what seems to be the unreasonable knot of my existence. I can't tell you one thing without having to tell you ten more, and you already know what I think about that." She should know by now, anyway, after the many times he's uttered variations of, 'I don't want to talk about it.' He wraps his fingers around her shoulder; maybe he's a little nervous even talking about it that she's going to get angry and leave (if he didn't care about that, after all, he wouldn't have childishly hidden her things).
"And I know it's not fair to you at all, but if there's even the slightest chance it makes you feel better... I have my reasons. It's not just some shallow desire for thrills or pleasure or any of that." He squeezes her shoulder, just a little. "And you're not just some girl I'm going to forget about eventually. This means a lot to me, even just... sitting here, talking. I mean that."
For better or for worse. Here he goes again, digging his own grave. Even this is too close for comfort, far more attached than he usually lets himself get. He always does this. And he knows it'll eventually end the same, regardless of his desire to stop it.