"Tell me what hurts."
❛ What hurts ... ? ... Nothing-- ❜
Sure, muscles ache and skin may tingle, but generally an epidermis remained unaffected even in the immediate wake of bellicose firefight.
Gratitude, subconscious and unspoken, had already been immolated to an ability: a tiger.
On foreign soil, the pair (along with a small force of backup and a slightly more expansive network of informants, although both of the aforementioned groups lacked much personal meaning) find themselves in a hotel. It’s not one that’s excessive in the realm of grandiose (it’s debatable whether one could even use that adjective to begin with); nor is it big (though Atsushi finds that the single bed more than suffices). But a large window on the far wall floods the room with the ambers of the setting sun, offering the room warmth where there might not have been.
Jolted to awareness, the youth came to realize that in the hush, his hand (fingernails bared) had found its way beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, where they—fingers—had found occupation and track raking against the pale skin there.
Less warring now, it’s only the pads that traverse: it’s only a matter of time before it brushes above a branding.
Upon realization, he slips the hand out, replacing it laxly to his side, allowing the compromised shirt to fall loosely over the boundary defined by his belt.
❛ ... Should it ? ❜
It’s an honest question, albeit unheeding. It’s pointed more to Dazai’s reflection in the window than to his being, and the youth hadn’t appeared to expect an answer. // @ncropolis.
