[That regret is valid - Takasugi notices her eyes dip. He can feel his yukata against peeling paint, dry and beginning to flake off as it brushes cloth. There's not much left to the imagination, but there's also hardly any skin to be seen, scars obscured and filled in by splashes of red and gold.
He leans forward, letting the garment hang from his shoulders rather than drape across his chest.]
Would I? [With her step and his bend, Takasugi is close enough to smell the bite of liquor on her breath.] You'll have to tell me a story sometime.
[Now is as good of a moment as ever, but he doesn't press the issue - he doesn't care enough to.]
no subject
He leans forward, letting the garment hang from his shoulders rather than drape across his chest.]
Would I? [With her step and his bend, Takasugi is close enough to smell the bite of liquor on her breath.] You'll have to tell me a story sometime.
[Now is as good of a moment as ever, but he doesn't press the issue - he doesn't care enough to.]