The entire way, his rational-sided mind is trying to convince him to turn around, screaming at him about how this is a terrible idea! and you don't really want that, right? but Sizhui continues onward, drawn in by the fascination that Itto hasn't attempted ripping him limb-from-limb. Examining the rest of the home while he's going helps too; the house is neatly kept and beautifully decorated, far more luxurious than Sizhui's experienced, even to Jin's standards. Residing in such a nice, lavish place would be different for some time, though he thinks he could possibly get used to it. (However, he's also quite sure he can convince Itto to let him leave every now and then, taking into account there will always be things they need outside.)
He slows his pace a bit as he nears the door, heartbeat going a million miles a minute, it's almost maddening how loudly it pulsates in his ears. Both his hands raise, cup over them and gently press, like pressure elsewhere will alleviate the current problem (and it does by adding another sensation to concentrate on, but well). The left hand drops back against his side, his right fingertips lingering near that ever-present white ribbon, stroking it idly. Who will know? Nobody has to know, as long as you don't say anything. He huffs a sigh, straightens and moves around the doorframe, immediately greeted by the sight of Itto lounging in his bed.
Which is a rather pleasant sight, Sizhui must admit. His throat audibly clicks with the effort it takes to swallow, he moves further into the room then finally lowers his other hand, reaching into the opposite sleeve and removing the bag that resides there. It gets dropped onto the floor, the best sign of good faith he can offer because, “That pouch holds all my other weapons,” and it's clear his sword was abandoned somewhere in the room they'd been in before. “If it makes my choice any plainer.” And if not, the way his hands move toward his midsection and begin undoing the belt holding most of his robes together should speak volumes.
no subject
He slows his pace a bit as he nears the door, heartbeat going a million miles a minute, it's almost maddening how loudly it pulsates in his ears. Both his hands raise, cup over them and gently press, like pressure elsewhere will alleviate the current problem (and it does by adding another sensation to concentrate on, but well). The left hand drops back against his side, his right fingertips lingering near that ever-present white ribbon, stroking it idly. Who will know? Nobody has to know, as long as you don't say anything. He huffs a sigh, straightens and moves around the doorframe, immediately greeted by the sight of Itto lounging in his bed.
Which is a rather pleasant sight, Sizhui must admit. His throat audibly clicks with the effort it takes to swallow, he moves further into the room then finally lowers his other hand, reaching into the opposite sleeve and removing the bag that resides there. It gets dropped onto the floor, the best sign of good faith he can offer because, “That pouch holds all my other weapons,” and it's clear his sword was abandoned somewhere in the room they'd been in before. “If it makes my choice any plainer.” And if not, the way his hands move toward his midsection and begin undoing the belt holding most of his robes together should speak volumes.