■ contaminated-colors
Pointedly brushing off Mikado’s warning swat, the little co-leader proceeds to idly stroke up and down the taller’s arm; the tips of his fingers tracing curious patterns over faded scars with little to no care for what Mikado might do. Keen ears are quick to pick up the stern tone, however — and that’s enough to bring russet hues to glance up ever so briefly — only to gauge Mikado’s mood.
Annoyed — but not overly so?
Releasing a disappointed puff of air when the elder denies him any further investigation, Aoba cocks his head to the side in visible thought.
"I didn’t think Ryuugamine-senpai was that kind of person," he muses — almost to himself.
Not that there was anything wrong with ‘those’ types of people; Aoba admired them to a certain extent (as much as his distaste for humanity would allow, anyway). And Mikado had certainly earned his approval a long time ago — back in that dingy warehouse they call a hideout. What could past decisions do to change that?
"Tell me why."
Aoba spoke a second afterward — demanding rather than requesting. The mild tenor of his voice loses its playful note as his right hand finds the hem of Mikado’s sleeve again — his fingers daring to slip back under the fabric to challengingly touch what he was directly told not to.
Mikado was wrong. They were battle scars — just of a different kind.
"I’m good at keeping secrets."
