[And that touch lingers, still so terribly gentle, careful not to press his fingers hard into anything that looks like it had been too deep, once. He knows how those kinds of scars can hurt after they heal, nerve deep aching that makes you want to claw your skin open. And while neither of them were shy about inflicting pain on each other, this wasn't the moment for it.
He lets Dazai rest his head for a moment, lets him rest as he examines the slope of his shoulders, the bits of skin and scar tissue he can see, fingers stroking the back of his neck. He can't see anything that stands out suspiciously, littered among all the scars so far, which is a good thing.]
So far, so good.
[It could be referring to his skin being clear of strange marks so far. You're doing great is hidden in those words, carefully concealed to be tolerated or ignored.]
(he can't look at it, it won't happen, so his trying to breathe, breathing getting stuck in his throat, and the touch is both reassuring as it is disgusting. it's a dilemma, isn't it? once his arms are free, it's time for his chest and torso - gun wounds, exit, entering, and all in between. one of them is pronounced, thanks to fyodor, but other than that, nothing more than what could be expected.
his upper-body is finished, and it paints a picture worse than he would allow chuuya to imagine.)
[Chuuya allows Dazai to work at his own speed, touch steady and hopefully soothing all the while. He recognizes some of these scars-- he'd been there for a fair few of them. Dazai was always getting shot or stabbed, regardless of how many bullets Chuuya made sure to block. And there are some he knows Dazai must have obtained in the past four years as well, just by the color and freshness of the scarring.
The whole picture is a tableau of violence, of indifference to his own personal safety. And yet Chuuya still touches him with gentleness, impulsively pressing a kiss to the center of Dazai's chest after a brief moment of quiet.]
(this most likely hurts more than any of these wounds ever did. the touch is too warm, too nice, chuuya's precious hands, so important to his own vision of his humanity touching something so inhuman as his own skin. he's never felt a kiss where his bandages hide, so he freezes a little for a second.
his arms hesitate, as if he shouldn't, he couldn't, wrap them around chuuya. they hover, the eternal fight between his own wishes and his own cowardice, before they loosely do embrace the other's waist, hiding his face on the top of the other's head.
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He lets Dazai rest his head for a moment, lets him rest as he examines the slope of his shoulders, the bits of skin and scar tissue he can see, fingers stroking the back of his neck. He can't see anything that stands out suspiciously, littered among all the scars so far, which is a good thing.]
So far, so good.
[It could be referring to his skin being clear of strange marks so far. You're doing great is hidden in those words, carefully concealed to be tolerated or ignored.]
no subject
his upper-body is finished, and it paints a picture worse than he would allow chuuya to imagine.)
no subject
The whole picture is a tableau of violence, of indifference to his own personal safety. And yet Chuuya still touches him with gentleness, impulsively pressing a kiss to the center of Dazai's chest after a brief moment of quiet.]
no subject
his arms hesitate, as if he shouldn't, he couldn't, wrap them around chuuya. they hover, the eternal fight between his own wishes and his own cowardice, before they loosely do embrace the other's waist, hiding his face on the top of the other's head.
he needs a breather.)