There's a seasickness to it, this overwhelming and guilty understanding of just how deep he's gotten himself. But he wanted there. He asked for it. He did this to himself but he left the pieces for Morning Isana to deal with. He doesn't want to deal with it, he doesn't have to. He'll leave it be, surely he can do that. He can eat and dress and leav-
But hands wander onto him, the weedy, bruised-lipped ghost of a man is all upon him once more and Isana's brain just stops. His hands wander and his traitor synapses have him pushing back, just a little, they told him there was something warm and welcoming in those searching hands. Wasn't there last night? From fisting around his necktie to a dangerous brush against the hem where bandage turned to skin, Isana bowed beneath the weight of it for just a moment, just a pathetic moment. His eyes were partway to shutting before he came to, I think I see it.
The kiss rattles him the most. It's blurry, something you try to see through a condensation-heavy window. An exhale against the sheets, a simple, gentle touch that his warped brain doesn't know how to process. Frustrating, that he still can't place it. In short order, the menu is in his hands and he makes to busy himself, pretending he has enough space to read. The characters blur together, it's hopeless. What has he done to himself>? Under almost any other circumstance, he would be furious with everyone but him. It would be Daiji's fault that he can't think, that his legs hurt, that he's a breath from shuddering under a single, stray kiss! His fingers clench, clicking as they do.
"Shower, then." He murmurs, keeping his gaze far from the quilt of a man. Somethng nags that he's being impolite-it's just common courtesy to be affectionate the morning after, so long as that's the mood. And it is the mood! Clatter, clatter his rings are as dropped coins. Is he shaking?
He doesn't have time for this. He drops the menu and turns, robe already lopsided and half-open. He appraises Daiji, appraises himself. He's never said no to an excuse to get wet before, right? No perverse pun intended. So Isana carves a path around the bed, towards the attached washroom. It's a hotel that sees a lot of western visitors, by the look of it. The shower is large at first glance, an uneccesary luxury. He liked those.
Isana touches over the tape, trying to measure its resistance to a showerhead. It should be enough, the ashesive is waterproof-it has to be with him. But there's a tension in his nerves, not unlike the recklessness he remembered feeling last night, when he decided the wanted something then, too. He opens the large, glass door to the actual shower and fiddles with the knob, uncaring as to how cold the first brush of water on his back is. The robe's wet, now, which is a small tragedy, but he's elsewhere in that moment.
He's gripping a tattered collar, he's trying to make up for what his mouth can not yet do with his hands alone. Grabbing and pulling and catching his nails near the staples tauntingly. He's melting under the kiss that Daiji gives anyway, a simple thing on his cheek, above his helm's edge. This is ridiulous..
"Come on," He hears himself call, shucking the robe all over again, "I wasn't asking."
