[ Mine, with the shirt not far from his face, can sense disapproval from behind Nishikiyama's sheet mask. He's been caught, he thinks, doing something he can describe and defend to himself but not to Nishikiyama. It's nonsensical, really, that he finds it impossible to explain his want for closeness when his actions and even a few words last night have said as much. The collar of the black shirt hides how his grip crumples the fabric, where it'd sit high between Nishikiyama's shoulder blades. His lashes flutter, blinking, when the convesation readily veers off the dreaded course. Mine claims collectedness and adds whatever Nishikiyama's thinking to his bid for an answer. ]
Are you sure? I can have it cleaned.
[ He could keep itβan idea that'd no longer make sense after Mine has the shirt washed and steamed, though. He drops his hand down with it but doesn't lose it. Nishikiyama in view, Mine's brow creases. Nishikiyama wedges himself into his bubble; he tries to slim himself rather than step back. Mine's chest lifts with the breath he'd been holding in Nishikiyama's shirt. ]
No. I use this at night, usually.
[ Why, he doesn't say, but now shares about the routine Nishikiyama has already taken to changing. ]
no subject
Are you sure? I can have it cleaned.
[ He could keep itβan idea that'd no longer make sense after Mine has the shirt washed and steamed, though. He drops his hand down with it but doesn't lose it. Nishikiyama in view, Mine's brow creases. Nishikiyama wedges himself into his bubble; he tries to slim himself rather than step back. Mine's chest lifts with the breath he'd been holding in Nishikiyama's shirt. ]
No. I use this at night, usually.
[ Why, he doesn't say, but now shares about the routine Nishikiyama has already taken to changing. ]