[Takasugi doesn't doubt that his silent compliance came as a surprise. Not so much as the initial gift; there was no point in lingering to see Solomon's face try to suppress raised eyebrows or a flicker of confusion. The knowledge that he's left the man with a more erratic impression of him is enough.
He counters expectations, rather than demands themselves.
Is that a higher tier of being contrary, or an excuse to cooperate? There's no telling. Yes to both.
Solomon, too, undermines assumptions, though always in the most asinine of ways. For example, just dropping trou right in the middle of the room. Ridiculous, yet even the tritest challenge Solomon levies against his expectations seems to be enough to capture Takasugi's attention.
He refuses to parse why.
His eye searches Solomon as he changes, gliding across pristine, pale skin. He isn't in particularly notable shape, nor does he bear a single scar. His body is as plain as the rest of him - and like the rest of him, Takasugi can't tear away.]
Heh.
[He stares, smile turned derisive. Solomon has taken the position of idiot foreigner and made it his own. Like a tourist who thinks they're blending in, despite high socks and a tucked in Denny's shirt.
The embarrassment doesn't stop here; it gets more intentional.
Takasugi crosses the small space between them, closer and closer until their chests are flush. He reaches into the haori, jerking one side across, and then the other, knuckles grazing skin. From the table he pulls a simple cord. Wraps it and his arms around slender waist, tugging it tight and tying the thing into an ornate knot.]
There.
[He steps back, but not enough. His breath makes strands of blonde hair not clumped with sweat sway.] Is this enough?
no subject
He counters expectations, rather than demands themselves.
Is that a higher tier of being contrary, or an excuse to cooperate? There's no telling.
Yes to both.Solomon, too, undermines assumptions, though always in the most asinine of ways. For example, just dropping trou right in the middle of the room. Ridiculous, yet even the tritest challenge Solomon levies against his expectations seems to be enough to capture Takasugi's attention.
He refuses to parse why.
His eye searches Solomon as he changes, gliding across pristine, pale skin. He isn't in particularly notable shape, nor does he bear a single scar. His body is as plain as the rest of him - and like the rest of him, Takasugi can't tear away.]
Heh.
[He stares, smile turned derisive. Solomon has taken the position of idiot foreigner and made it his own. Like a tourist who thinks they're blending in, despite high socks and a tucked in Denny's shirt.
The embarrassment doesn't stop here; it gets more intentional.
Takasugi crosses the small space between them, closer and closer until their chests are flush. He reaches into the haori, jerking one side across, and then the other, knuckles grazing skin. From the table he pulls a simple cord. Wraps it and his arms around slender waist, tugging it tight and tying the thing into an ornate knot.]
There.
[He steps back, but not enough. His breath makes strands of blonde hair not clumped with sweat sway.] Is this enough?