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He thinks of the eyes looking back at him, big and round, long lashes fluttering gently behind clear lenses. The pink pout on his perfect lips. His hair wavy and chestnut brown, fanned so sweetly over his forehead.
All of Chris was so soft looking versus his own jagged edges, a dandelion sprouting next to a thorn bush. Kenta can even draw the blood to prove it, has his own thorns to do so.
It must be what Pete likes, though.
It was silly of him to ever think they could be anything. A man like Pete, with good looks and charm and money, and himself—a mutt kneeling at his feet, begging with everything he has for a pat on the head. Who could ever love that?
No, Kenta was made to be used. He was a tool in Tony’s belt, beaten until he shattered and then discarded. But Pete could have used him too. Was he not even good enough for that?
“Hey.” Kim waves a hand in front of his face, trying to get his glazed eyes to focus. “Hey, I asked what you want for dinner.”
He smiles and it’s nice, warm and real, but Kenta’s mind is still stuck. What is he supposed to do now? Without Tony, without Pete, tossed into a group who absolutely did not trust him. He’d never made any plans for his life. Tony made the plans. Kenta obeyed.
“Earth to Kenta. Do you want pasta?”
“What?” Suddenly everything is in focus, bright lights and clear vision and a ringing sound in his ears. Kim is there with him. He’s smiling, laughing a little with exasperation, and Kenta absolutely does not understand him.
“Pasta. Would you like some? If I made it, I mean.” Words seem so easy for Kim. They flow out of him naturally, like water from a spring, or maybe like blood from a wound.
“Oh. Um—yes.” Because now that he thinks about it, he is hungry. When had he last eaten? He supposes a chicken breast several hours ago, removed from the fridge and eaten cold in the shadows of early morning. Kenta’s body is an optimized machine fueled by protein and complex carbohydrates. Food is a basic necessity and so he consumes it, makes sure that he's getting the required amount of calories and nutrients each day. Kim doesn’t seem to share those ideals. He’s stocked the pantry with snacks and seems to take delight in indulging. Kenta notes the roundness of his face, the give of his abdomen. It’s—it’s not bad. It suits him.
And maybe he’s a little like Pete in this. Maybe he likes softness, too.