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"It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood.”
- Edgar Allan Poe
Somewhere, in the depths within his blood, there’s a memory that’s imprinted without a language. There was light, the tight grip of hands with his brothers — and the diminished link from their bond.
Choso’s entire character was built around blood, what ties him to his brothers and his mother. It was his own strength and weakness all the same time.
He’s not one to look sentimental. His stoic, aloof gaze could have said it all, but the emptiness in being separated from the brethren that he had his only connections with; he probably feels lost. Confused. Despaired.
There is a short distance between you and him as he fiddles with his long, clammy digits, patiently waiting for Yuji to wake up from his slumber. His eyebrows were slightly quirked with concern, seemingly worried for the unconscious vessel.
“You okay?” you asked him after a fair time of observing his habits, having explored the expanse of his expression - from the crease beneath his eyes, the plum shade over his lids, the black lining over the bridge of his nose and those slightly-chapped lips.
“Yeah.” His voice is deep, like the currant shade of wine. Freshly ripe, but smooth and rich. His tone was blatant, but it was less stern than it usually was.
“How about you?” Each syllable that spilled from the tip of his tongue was soft, sweeter than the last. His gaze is delicate, like the fluttering touch of a rabbit’s fur. It rung bells by your back, sending gentle shivers throughout your soul.
“I’m okay.” That’s a lie. And he knows that.
But for him, it was a gentle lie. His quiet, knowing eyes see through the mask you’ve wore to conceal your intentions. He was clearly concerned for Itadori and you did not want to trouble him any further.
He has a tight grasp on the rope of your exterior, like a wild predator finally finding a perfect subject to feed on, but he lets it go. “Alright.” The atmosphere was light, and so were your bodies. It felt like you were floating above clouds, but still enchained to a certain radius.
It felt somewhat awkward, but nothing too overwhelming. Not too subtle either, just like the first taste of pink cotton candy that was freshly spun.
It doesn’t take too long for Choso to speak up again. “Hey.” He has a palm held out towards you, leaning halfway, but not completely, just enough for the sleeves of his shirt to bundle up by his elbows, showing the pale complexion beneath the layers of fabric that he veils himself with.
“Your hand,” he simply remarks. This piques your curiosity, so you extend your left palm as well, pressing against his right one. The warmth that emanated from his touch brought comfort and solace. The expanse of his hand was rough, but delicate.
His phalanges were ample, accompanied by fine fingerprints and the mere length of his base was broad, emphasizing the difference from yours.
You admired the significant comparison in sizes, eyes glazing over each and every line that contrasted from yours. His digits gradually intertwine into yours, and you lace them together, making a firm squeeze on his knuckles.
His warmth is palpable, like the hot blood that pumps through his veins, gradually rising the pressure and has your pulse leaping from each thrum to another.
When you glance up to him, his soulless eyes were now filled with a glint of life, seemingly fond of the small bond that you tied on both of you.
He leans forward, resting the crown of his head on the expanse of your shoulder. It was strange, it felt trance-like. His muzzle digs into the shallow dip of your collar, slowly cascading into existence, like blood trickling from a small cut.
A free hand reluctantly clings over his shoulder, dangling by like a rope tied to a hook. But you clutch a fist on his clothes anyway, as though as you were a child holding onto your mother. This position was odd, but the tenderness and heat that yielded from the emulation of an embrace was cozy, like the warm flames of a fireplace.
The spikes of his hair spilled from the loose knot of his ponytails, they overflow to the field of his nape, and he does not pay it mind when you carefully thread your fingers through the messy locks, undoing the knots that have tangled. He actually leans further into your touch, like a pet that dearly missed its owner’s affections.
His scent is faint, and when you catch a whiff of it, you recognized the redolence of rum and the taste of the galaxy. He smelled like tart raspberries, tangy and saccharine. Lush.
You flutter your eyes close, drinking in the scenery as you continue the soothing fiddle that your digits did with the tresses of his currant locks.
He relishes in the attention you drown him in, giving into the comfort that you offer, cherishing each moment that passed by while he burns the feel of your arteries’ rhythmical thrum into the back of his mind, as though he wanted to sync your pulse with his.
As long as he remembers the sound of your existence, you are always with him.