(When he speaks, Tsurumaru's eyes look up. Even if it's small, he watches the way Aki moves, leaning in to get close, careful but deliberate, comforting but steady, and he keeps his eyes on his face even as he lets him bring his hand up to his lips.
He's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, he says and Tsurumaru can't help but stare in quiet wonder. What he thinks right now isn't anything new. He's known for months. He's known it for almost a year: Aki is one of the most wonderful humans he's ever met.
Nearby, a digital chart, linked to Tsurumaru's vitals begins to beep quickly but steadily. With their rings, Aki will be able to further tell that it's not because something is wrong. Nothing is wrong when a warm waves washes over him, making his chest feel full, his heart beat faster, and it just feels so nice right now.
He isn't good with words. He's confusingly careful, frustratingly vague, and it's only recently that he's begun to speak more openly and directly. He's tried to get better, whispering in the safety of their privacy, trying to express little things. Sometimes he needs guidance, sometimes he needs a cue, sometimes he needs to hear from Aki first so he can reply in turn. And little by little, he gets better, he becomes more comfortable, until he can eventually (even if quietly) say without prompting,)
...I love you.
(Just as a robot assistant rolls in, interrupting them, asking to check his condition. Its AI voice asks for help turning him over onto his back again so it can check for physical signs. He's fine. Both he and Aki will know there's no reason to worry but that doesn't stop his heart.
As the assistantbot checks him, Tsurumaru keeps his hand held out for Aki, eyes still on him as the robot explains each step on its programmed checklist. He only barely registers what it is saying. His attention is clearly elsewhere. )
no subject
He's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, he says and Tsurumaru can't help but stare in quiet wonder. What he thinks right now isn't anything new. He's known for months. He's known it for almost a year: Aki is one of the most wonderful humans he's ever met.
Nearby, a digital chart, linked to Tsurumaru's vitals begins to beep quickly but steadily. With their rings, Aki will be able to further tell that it's not because something is wrong. Nothing is wrong when a warm waves washes over him, making his chest feel full, his heart beat faster, and it just feels so nice right now.
He isn't good with words. He's confusingly careful, frustratingly vague, and it's only recently that he's begun to speak more openly and directly. He's tried to get better, whispering in the safety of their privacy, trying to express little things. Sometimes he needs guidance, sometimes he needs a cue, sometimes he needs to hear from Aki first so he can reply in turn. And little by little, he gets better, he becomes more comfortable, until he can eventually (even if quietly) say without prompting,)
...I love you.
(Just as a robot assistant rolls in, interrupting them, asking to check his condition. Its AI voice asks for help turning him over onto his back again so it can check for physical signs. He's fine. Both he and Aki will know there's no reason to worry but that doesn't stop his heart.
As the assistantbot checks him, Tsurumaru keeps his hand held out for Aki, eyes still on him as the robot explains each step on its programmed checklist. He only barely registers what it is saying. His attention is clearly elsewhere. )