[He’s not sure what to say about that. He apologizes all the time, but for each and every time he does feel as though he made some sort of grave misstep. Not that it’s impossible he could do such a thing—he’s kind of clinically obtuse, rarely realizing what after-effects a word or action might create, but—
He’s snapped instantly out of that tangled line of thought as she reaches up, the remarkably gentle and fleeting touch of her hand against his skin, traveling to rest at his cheek send his heart leaping up into his throat, a powerful wave of irrational fear surging over him.
(He’d tried to explain it to her as best he could and she had slapped him, ashamed, forcing him out into the street and never speaking to him again—)
He’s utterly powerless, more than easy enough to guide down enough to where she could, ever so gently, as if it were something precarious, place a kiss on his forehead.
Keisuke has no idea what to do, what to say, but there was something… reassuring in it, something that (despite a nagging feeling of past mistakes and inadequacies) did calm him down ever-so-slightly.
“I’m sorry.” That, too.
He’s silent a moment (smart, as any word he might’ve tried to say right away would’ve been little more than a garbled croak), but then he does manage a very small, quiet,] It’s okay. [Hopefully. For the both of them.
Except. He lifts one hand from his side to very gently take her own, turning it softly so that he could see where the wounds had reopened and allowed blood to seep into the bandages. He’s—more familiar with these types of wounds than he should be. How many times had Akira ended up with the very same, hard-won “rewards” from Bl@ster matches? Of course, that guy had never bothered to actually wrap them properly…
He’s naturally concerned.] …We should re-bandage you, just so - it doesn’t get worse.
HONESTLY HOW DARE YOU
He’s snapped instantly out of that tangled line of thought as she reaches up, the remarkably gentle and fleeting touch of her hand against his skin, traveling to rest at his cheek send his heart leaping up into his throat, a powerful wave of irrational fear surging over him.
(He’d tried to explain it to her as best he could and she had slapped him, ashamed, forcing him out into the street and never speaking to him again—)
He’s utterly powerless, more than easy enough to guide down enough to where she could, ever so gently, as if it were something precarious, place a kiss on his forehead.
Keisuke has no idea what to do, what to say, but there was something… reassuring in it, something that (despite a nagging feeling of past mistakes and inadequacies) did calm him down ever-so-slightly.
“I’m sorry.” That, too.
He’s silent a moment (smart, as any word he might’ve tried to say right away would’ve been little more than a garbled croak), but then he does manage a very small, quiet,] It’s okay. [Hopefully. For the both of them.
Except. He lifts one hand from his side to very gently take her own, turning it softly so that he could see where the wounds had reopened and allowed blood to seep into the bandages. He’s—more familiar with these types of wounds than he should be. How many times had Akira ended up with the very same, hard-won “rewards” from Bl@ster matches? Of course, that guy had never bothered to actually wrap them properly…
He’s naturally concerned.] …We should re-bandage you, just so - it doesn’t get worse.