Pondering the idea of Suit Saeran being severely touchstarved. I know we all love to explore that particular aspect in Ray specifically, but... I can't help but think about Suit in this as well. He's so very averse to physical contact. All he ever gets is probably just a quick pat on the head or a brief squeeze of his shoulder from Rika. A tiny bit of praise she feeds him to nurture his ever growing bitterness with the world that ultimately helps her achieve her goals. He doesn't know the feeling of a genuinely loving and tender touch on his skin, and a part of me thinks that he can't even imagine it.
Not until you come into the picture.
Furthermore, he is probably directly instructed not to seek out physical affection from others. Or any sort of love, for that matter. It's weak. It's a sign of his dependence. A display of imperfection that cannot be tolerated. After all, he is the ultimate tool. His Savior's sword and shield. In a way, he doesn't even see himself as a human at all. Despite his adamant commitment to being the 'real' Saeran. Deep inside, he can only see himself as a weapon. And, in a way, it's comforting. Because it gives him the confidence to feel strong and imposing.
But, in the end, he remains a human being. The feeling of warmth and belonging that all humans need is something he longs for. Even if those feelings are buried under a mountain of denial and anger. Like a constant taunt of his weaknesses he wishes so desperately to destroy. He tends to write them off onto Ray. Even when those are his feelings and emotions, he is so terrified of admitting his own humanity, that he writes it all off onto Ray.
And, in an ironic way, it only makes him feel even worse. Because he tricks himself into believing that he is incapable of being emotional or caring. When that is not the case. But he's so sure of these feelings not being his, that he can't see any other explanation.
You are constantly being touched by him. In some form or another. Grabbing at your arm to pull you up. Not letting go, even though you are now where he wants you to be, and there is no logical need for him to keep his hand around your wrist or bicep. Brushing his hand over your neck and shoulder as he taunts you. Not even doing anything with it, just... touching you. Playing with your hair while cold and cruel words tumble from his lips. It always seems like he's just about to grab at your hair and pull in a way that would cause you pain, but... he doesn't. Always standing close enough where you'd feel the warmth radiating from his body. While he admits to seemingly being grossed out by being near you, he still makes the conscious choice to press up against you. And if you make a comment about it, he will only double down on it.
To put it simply, it leaves you feeling confused. You're unaware that he's 10 times as confused and frustrated as you are.
He is so incredibly irritated by it. It drives him nuts.
Especially as he sits in his cold Intelligence Room, his mind starting to wander instead of focusing on work. Unwanted thoughts of how it would feel for you to be the one to initiate contact with him. How would your hands feel around his own? Are they warm? Cold? Soft? Or is it possible that they're rough, like his are? How would he describe how your fingers fit around his his own? Ray's hands were always covered by those gross gloves of his... So, that would be something you do with him only, not Ray.
He only snaps out of it when he notices his hands clasping together instead of continuing to drum away at his keyboard. Almost like he's trying to imitate what his mind had painted for him. Imagining that it's your hand that is resting in his own, your thumb swiping over the cold skin of his wrist. He shivers. But not from the cold.
And the way his heart thunders in his chest when he thinks of it makes him sick.
His thoughts become worse as he lies on the cold tiled floor, exhausted and weak from hours of expelling the elixir that was left in his system, his body rejecting the acidic substance violently. He's too drained to fight off those thoughts now. Too crumpled to do anything now.
So, he indulges in them, closing his eyes and letting out a long, raspy breath into the deafening silence. Not like anything matters to him anymore. He has no dignity to lose.
At least that's what he thinks.
He thinks of you cradling his head onto your lap, your voice being distant and muffled, but filled with that worried babbling that was so bothersome to him. He imagines the warmth of your soft thighs beneath his cheek, which is a great contrast to the cold and hard floor he was sprawled out on. He thinks of your scent surrounding him and chasing away that cursed acidic stench that still made his stomach twist and turn, despite it being totally empty by this point. He thinks of your fingers brushing through his sweaty and dry hair, in a way that only Ray was privy to. He no longer felt angered by the thought. It only made the ache in his chest increase. Not from the physical pain, but an emotional one. Like loose strings weaving around his heart and squeezing it tighter and tighter.
He fails to notice the silent tears coursing down his cheeks until he hears his phone ringing, which prompts him to run his hand over his face and try to put himself back together from the shattered pieces you left behind.
He is aware that it is you.
Probably worrying about him.
God knows why.
He contemplates declining, but the selfish yearning to hear your voice is more intense.
You shatter everything he thought he knew about this world, plunging his pure existence into sheer chaos, yet... Maybe, you can put him back together again. Or, in other words, aid him in rexognizing these ugly broken pieces as something else. Something worth attemting to put back together. In order for him to finally recognize the reflection he sees looking back at him when he looks in the mirror.
