[ it feels unordinary, closing his palms over kisumi's hands in the form of a contrived entreaty, like makoto was the one who asked. dissent is the farthest thing from his mind. and that's to be expected, given his less than coherent state of mind, but —
the day is already winding down to an elongating night and makoto doesn't lack inhibitions as he forgoes the common propriety to refuse favors phrased as offers, suggestion thick on the tongue and purged of recompense. come to think of it, he doesn't have any qualms about dancing with a childhood friend, either. if anything, he's brazen, ignoring any nascent traces of high-brow sophistication on principle to plant his feet down mid-spin so they're hung like distended silhouettes at the northeastern corner of the lacquered dance floor, their hands snared in the air, the cast net of their fingers only coincidentally wound up in knots.
the lights ebb somewhere above them, mellowing down to liquid, snaring brightness. there's nothing refined about makoto at all, warring with conflicts of interest hands hot and knit just high enough to keep his companion from stumbling back. under the haze, kisumi's strangely rendered in fixed sharpness, like a switchblade made of slivered points, trading out his usual self-assurance for sheer, undisclosed insinuation.
in return, makoto hovers, releasing a clean rinse of a whistle, compulsion evident in his arching eyebrows. ]
You clean up good. I didn't really notice before? Guess it makes me kind of inadequate in comparison, ehehe.
[ the clarity of makoto's voice is promptly traded out for blotchy omissions: sort of homesick and sort of penitent even when he smiles back at him, punchy and sweet.
makoto releases kisumi only to loose draping around the set of the boy's shoulders, a kind of grounding even as his gaze skates along his partner's lanky frame to the ground, like his body has half a mind to go slantslide with enough insobriety. ]
Well, we've got all the time in the world now. Can you teach me?
hope you don't mind convoluted and horribly overdue, ghjsjhh
the day is already winding down to an elongating night and makoto doesn't lack inhibitions as he forgoes the common propriety to refuse favors phrased as offers, suggestion thick on the tongue and purged of recompense. come to think of it, he doesn't have any qualms about dancing with a childhood friend, either. if anything, he's brazen, ignoring any nascent traces of high-brow sophistication on principle to plant his feet down mid-spin so they're hung like distended silhouettes at the northeastern corner of the lacquered dance floor, their hands snared in the air, the cast net of their fingers only coincidentally wound up in knots.
the lights ebb somewhere above them, mellowing down to liquid, snaring brightness. there's nothing refined about makoto at all, warring with conflicts of interest hands hot and knit just high enough to keep his companion from stumbling back. under the haze, kisumi's strangely rendered in fixed sharpness, like a switchblade made of slivered points, trading out his usual self-assurance for sheer, undisclosed insinuation.
in return, makoto hovers, releasing a clean rinse of a whistle, compulsion evident in his arching eyebrows. ]
You clean up good. I didn't really notice before? Guess it makes me kind of inadequate in comparison, ehehe.
[ the clarity of makoto's voice is promptly traded out for blotchy omissions: sort of homesick and sort of penitent even when he smiles back at him, punchy and sweet.
makoto releases kisumi only to loose draping around the set of the boy's shoulders, a kind of grounding even as his gaze skates along his partner's lanky frame to the ground, like his body has half a mind to go slantslide with enough insobriety. ]
Well, we've got all the time in the world now. Can you teach me?