His guilty smile widens. When the kid starts sounding like a hippy, he really laughs. Could have done without the ‘man’ at the end, but the message got across. It’s all Mitch knew his entire life. Through hell fire and pain that life threw at him, he always had a pencil, and he always had paper. At one point, he’d had to use napkins from issued dinners the D.U.P. gave him for meals. During the experiments. He’d draw, and draw, and draw. It was the only thing keeping him human. preserving who he really was, not what they wanted him to be. But he didn’t like to think about that. A bigger smile, similar to the one before, but more genuine. “I did. It’s easy for me to get inspired, I guess. I draw quickly. From memory.” Mitch nods, rolling his eyes with a smile. He brings the pizza in, handing it to Zi before taking a seat himself. He got one bite into his slice before his words hit him. He places it down, shaking head his and grinning. He wipes his hands neatly, cleaning them of whatever grease (and ridding of it onto his pants) before taking Zi’s wrist. His eyes stay down on his hand while pressing his thumbs into the skin, massaging, coursing his touch over the tense muscle. His appendages work deeper into Zi’s hold, almost forcing his hand to relax all while being gentle, something someone might not imagine from the fingers of a hand that have pulled a trigger and killed someone before. He spends the time looking over Zi’s fingers, lengthy and thin, watching them unbend slowly from the muscles relaxing. Well, it’s working. He moves from his wrist to his palms, pushing against the bone to move each joint. His eyes stay down, but he smiles, his voice quiet. ”You get sore out there. When no one’s gonna give you a massage, you teach yourself.”
zi smirks back at him, shaking his head. he rolls his eyes at the laugh, knowing he sounded ridiculous. whatever, man. he couldn't lie about what he thought was the truth. he hadn't bothered mitch too much about what the DUP had put him through, but from hearing about the others he knew it had to be terrible. he couldn't even imagine making it through that and coming out sane, but mitch was one of the genuinely kindest and gentlest people he knew out of uniform. retaining himself after going through all that was his real superpower. when he himself was on the streets, a pen and paper was all he had. he understood where mitch found therapy in drawing, because art was all he had for a very long time. "That's talent, okay?I'm telling you. Drawing from memory isn't the easiest thing in the world. You're really good." mitch always had a way of talking down his own achievements - not in a self-deprecating way, but in a humble way. getting him to admit that there was something special about him was a little like pulling teeth but zi was always determined to get him to. zi gives in, sighing and offering his hands to mitch. his own thin, faintly tanned fingers in contrast to mitch's large, masculine ones are a sight to see. his own wrists are adorned with the few bracelets he usually wears, his rings on his fingers. his hands were what one would expect an artist's hands to look like - long, graceful, ink-stained. mitch's were a source of endless interest for zi, with everything they could do, and he watched them as he sunk further into the couch with relaxation at the massage. "Is there anything you can't do?" he sighs, content, letting himself melt into the couch. he swings his legs up into mitch's lap - he won't mind - and rolls his wrist a few times, fingers going limp in his grip. "I should be paying you for this."
