colors
He's just lying there in front of you, legs slung across your lap, head canted slightly backwards. For once, you're fully aware of what you're doing, the fact that you're staring.
He's...lithe. Some of that is due to the weight that was lost and never quite came back, but you think that that figure was always there, a little bit. The bulky gakuran didn't do it any favors, you know that much, so without it...
It's kind of weird that that's the first observation you make. To be honest, you don't even remember what you thought of him the first time, a year (and an eternity) ago, but whatever it was, it was nothing like this.
He's paler than you realized, too. It makes sense - again, long sleeves, not much of an opportunity to tan - but it's weird seeing so much of that skin laid out before you.
...And the scar. There's more than one, actually - several tiny circles across his shoulders, the obvious ones on his face, dozens of small scrapes and cuts from God-knows-how-many different injuries over the course of the trip - but none of those are The Scar, the one that grabs attention most readily, the mishmash of both injury and surgical aftermath.
You're greeted with a sudden mental image of that same body, all of its dips and curves and marks, stretched out across a table, draped in turquoise, insides on display like the blooming of some macabre flower. Shockingly, horrifically red.
...Red. Thick waves across the futon, the thin trail bright and apparent against his stomach's milk-white skin. You still see red. You see a lot of colors.
You see more color than usual.