[ It's just one simple truth among many that Bakugo's laid out: Choso cannot stop Yuji in any shape or form as they are now; he had already folded to the young man's will before it began. Was letting the boy spend himself like this any way to help him? Was this supposed to support him? Choso had been remiss in his duty; look now, where they lay in their respective beds.
The least Choso could do now was make it easier for he and Bakugo both, so he stops trying to help; he just outright stops. Prioritize. Breathe. Try again. He hooks his arms over the tub rim for stability, grips the edge tight when he leans over to spit the last of the bloody water at the drain. From there, he leans back enough to allow Bakugo the room to manoeuvre with while Choso braces his knees against the tub walls. Stop. Breathe. Look at Bakugo. Don't get lost. Don't get lost. Don't get lost.
He's so busy trying to be good, he forgets to pay attention to himself outside of the ungainly limbs. Choso, he cries like he doesn't realize he's doing it, cries with fat tears rolling out to join the rivulets of water running down his face to track through the slow-seeping blood of his mark. He cries with his brows pinched up high, chin all tensed, open and ugly as a child's unabashed weeping, but he does not look away because Bakugo is asking, because Bakugo is redirecting and Choso is too fucking grateful to not follow where the hero is pointing him. ]
Noranso, Sho-oso, Tanso, Sanso, Kotsuso, and Shoso. [ It's almost a mantra, these eerie names. He says them like they're the first words his human mouth ever made (and maybe they were). ] Eso, second eldest, and khuhh-Kechizu, second youngest. Eso's technique was beautiful, elegant. Kechizu, fearless and free.
[ With all this to juggle, he barely seems to mind Bakugo's hand all over his chest. (he will remember this later, surely, and agonize) ]
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Date: 5/2/24 03:30 (UTC)The least Choso could do now was make it easier for he and Bakugo both, so he stops trying to help; he just outright stops. Prioritize. Breathe. Try again. He hooks his arms over the tub rim for stability, grips the edge tight when he leans over to spit the last of the bloody water at the drain. From there, he leans back enough to allow Bakugo the room to manoeuvre with while Choso braces his knees against the tub walls. Stop. Breathe. Look at Bakugo. Don't get lost. Don't get lost. Don't get lost.
He's so busy trying to be good, he forgets to pay attention to himself outside of the ungainly limbs. Choso, he cries like he doesn't realize he's doing it, cries with fat tears rolling out to join the rivulets of water running down his face to track through the slow-seeping blood of his mark. He cries with his brows pinched up high, chin all tensed, open and ugly as a child's unabashed weeping, but he does not look away because Bakugo is asking, because Bakugo is redirecting and Choso is too fucking grateful to not follow where the hero is pointing him. ]
Noranso, Sho-oso, Tanso, Sanso, Kotsuso, and Shoso. [ It's almost a mantra, these eerie names. He says them like they're the first words his human mouth ever made (and maybe they were). ] Eso, second eldest, and khuhh-Kechizu, second youngest. Eso's technique was beautiful, elegant. Kechizu, fearless and free.
[ With all this to juggle, he barely seems to mind Bakugo's hand all over his chest. (he will remember this later, surely, and agonize) ]