Work Text:
Judai's knuckles are no longer smooth. They're cracked, calloused, rough. Years ago they would feel tender between Manjoume's lips, but now they're exactly as they appear: textured, healed over, totally dry.
Manjoume examines Judai's hand closer, humming judgmentally as he travels from knuckles to nails.
"You need a manicure, dumbass," he gripes, pushing at cuticles, grimacing at jagged, gnawed down nail tips, "how did it even get this bad?"
Judai laughs, embarrassed--or at least that's the tone he puts on--and shrugs. "I don't know, just never thought about it."
Manjoume rolls his eyes. "Take care of yourself better."