Mn. I almost forgot, you probably like being cold. Fuckin' weird.
[He's content to stay there, to leave it at that because he always has to have the last word. But then he hears that and he temporarily forgets how to breathe.
...
Holy fucking shit, did he just get the Ice Prince to laugh? It's a soft smile, a secret shaped in the soft curve of his lips that's his to remember now. His head is spinning with pride and confusion and annoyance. He did that. No one else. It doesn't soften the edges of bitterness of the sports festival, but it's such a contrast that he can't help feel some sort of smug satisfaction, a victory that he did this. He didn't even think Shouto was capable of being all affectionate and crap. He's warm and he smells good and his voice is oddly pleasant to listen to and it shouldn't be, but he craves more, burying his face in the dip of Shouto's neck and inhaling. He's more like a moth to a flame than a butterfly, but he nuzzles in, hands rough and clumsy when he moves to take Shouto's hand. It's not the first time they've held hands, but he's more aware than ever of Shouto's palm in his, blunt nails tracing the lines that scar the surface.
But he has a point. Who would believe him? Even he had trouble believing it. Maybe he just hadn't been willing to see this side of Shouto before. Maybe it was easier to keep him two-dimensional. It's not like Icy Hot Bastard probably didn't do the same with him all this time.]
It ain't about belief. I don't give a shit if they believe you or not. I don't want any extras to have their asses in business that isn't theirs. Don't do it.
no subject
[He's content to stay there, to leave it at that because he always has to have the last word. But then he hears that and he temporarily forgets how to breathe.
...
Holy fucking shit, did he just get the Ice Prince to laugh? It's a soft smile, a secret shaped in the soft curve of his lips that's his to remember now. His head is spinning with pride and confusion and annoyance. He did that. No one else. It doesn't soften the edges of bitterness of the sports festival, but it's such a contrast that he can't help feel some sort of smug satisfaction, a victory that he did this. He didn't even think Shouto was capable of being all affectionate and crap. He's warm and he smells good and his voice is oddly pleasant to listen to and it shouldn't be, but he craves more, burying his face in the dip of Shouto's neck and inhaling. He's more like a moth to a flame than a butterfly, but he nuzzles in, hands rough and clumsy when he moves to take Shouto's hand. It's not the first time they've held hands, but he's more aware than ever of Shouto's palm in his, blunt nails tracing the lines that scar the surface.
But he has a point. Who would believe him? Even he had trouble believing it. Maybe he just hadn't been willing to see this side of Shouto before. Maybe it was easier to keep him two-dimensional. It's not like Icy Hot Bastard probably didn't do the same with him all this time.]
It ain't about belief. I don't give a shit if they believe you or not. I don't want any extras to have their asses in business that isn't theirs. Don't do it.
[He's warmer, now. But he doesn't want to move.]