And frankly, the sensation makes his stomach churn a little.
It's nothing overt, not like he's about to feel sick. But Gen's expression does tense with disomfort at the feel of blood seeping from that deep wound, beading around the shape of his finger before starting to run down the contour of his hand, painting lurid lines down that pale throat. And while it's not like he's unfamiliar with the warmth of blood on his hands, this is different from the more familiar feeling of tingling at his knuckles, the almost-pleasant numbness that accompanies punching someone in the face and feeling his own skin tear. This is more -- (The iron stench of blood, clinging nauseatingly to his face. The sensation of too much blood starting to dry sticky against his skin. And the way light slid off those liquid splatters almost prettily, impossible to look away from. It's all a little too familiar.)
He'd been regarding that morbid sight in silence, expression kept impressively cold and flat but the sudden additional pressure of Makoto's hand against his finally earns a proper reaction. Gen tenses, his next breath huffed out hoarse and a little halting, before abruptly yanking his hand back away from the warmth of Makoto's throat. The move's so quick that it might have torn another stitch or two, his fingertip inadvertently hooked against the edges of that injury, but like he cares. It's Makoto's fault for getting him to dig deeper in the first place.
With his hand free he stares sharply at his quarry for a moment before looking down at his soiled hand. Letting out another slow breath before shaking it to flick off the worst of the blood, then pointedly reaching forward to wipe it dry against the front of Makoto's robe. His blood, so it's only fair that his robe be used to clean it up, right. ]
Not into that sort of fantasy shit. And I'm not in the mood to play twenty questions. Spill it, or don't.
[ Delinquents live and die by their ability to maintain control and put up a strong front, so of course Gen does an admirable job feigning calm even as his skin prickles with the lingering warmth of that gruesome wound. But as Gen withdraws his hand from both Makoto's robe-front and the tangle of his hair, maybe Makoto notices the way he avoids meeting his gaze for a moment or two too long, instead looking down at his hand where blood's clinging under the curve of his nail. Contemplating it in sullen silence for a moment before finally directing his glare back up at Makoto. ]
Dunno if you did that yourself, but you sure don't look like you mind. You into that sorta shit? Surprised you're not getting the guards to lend you a hand, if that's the case.
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And frankly, the sensation makes his stomach churn a little.
It's nothing overt, not like he's about to feel sick. But Gen's expression does tense with disomfort at the feel of blood seeping from that deep wound, beading around the shape of his finger before starting to run down the contour of his hand, painting lurid lines down that pale throat. And while it's not like he's unfamiliar with the warmth of blood on his hands, this is different from the more familiar feeling of tingling at his knuckles, the almost-pleasant numbness that accompanies punching someone in the face and feeling his own skin tear. This is more -- (The iron stench of blood, clinging nauseatingly to his face. The sensation of too much blood starting to dry sticky against his skin. And the way light slid off those liquid splatters almost prettily, impossible to look away from. It's all a little too familiar.)
He'd been regarding that morbid sight in silence, expression kept impressively cold and flat but the sudden additional pressure of Makoto's hand against his finally earns a proper reaction. Gen tenses, his next breath huffed out hoarse and a little halting, before abruptly yanking his hand back away from the warmth of Makoto's throat. The move's so quick that it might have torn another stitch or two, his fingertip inadvertently hooked against the edges of that injury, but like he cares. It's Makoto's fault for getting him to dig deeper in the first place.
With his hand free he stares sharply at his quarry for a moment before looking down at his soiled hand. Letting out another slow breath before shaking it to flick off the worst of the blood, then pointedly reaching forward to wipe it dry against the front of Makoto's robe. His blood, so it's only fair that his robe be used to clean it up, right. ]
Not into that sort of fantasy shit. And I'm not in the mood to play twenty questions. Spill it, or don't.
[ Delinquents live and die by their ability to maintain control and put up a strong front, so of course Gen does an admirable job feigning calm even as his skin prickles with the lingering warmth of that gruesome wound. But as Gen withdraws his hand from both Makoto's robe-front and the tangle of his hair, maybe Makoto notices the way he avoids meeting his gaze for a moment or two too long, instead looking down at his hand where blood's clinging under the curve of his nail. Contemplating it in sullen silence for a moment before finally directing his glare back up at Makoto. ]
Dunno if you did that yourself, but you sure don't look like you mind. You into that sorta shit? Surprised you're not getting the guards to lend you a hand, if that's the case.