Touya never understand your infectious love for painting—yet as infections do, he soon found himself tolerating (read, loving) the canvases that scattered the shoddy old room they claimed at the rundown bar. The mattress was lumpy, the paint on the walls were peeling, that damn window never fully closed, yet your paintings layered the walls, there for him to marvel and remind him of you during missions and absences. The abstract ones never seemed to click in his mind, yet he’d still listen to you ramble on about them. It was cute in a way he didn’t want to admit tugged at his heartstrings and made him fall further into the sickening void of love and emotions and feelings.

A rare day so gracefully blessed the two of you—one with no missions, no hero attacks, no meetings, no nothing. It was incredible. While Touya certainly had plans to keep you bedridden all day, you didn’t exactly agree.

Touya found himself sat on your shared lumpy bed, shirtless and on display for you. His tall frame hunkered over himself, something he had been told to correct his entire life—yet you just let him be comfortable. The gnarled skin of his scars hang loose from his malnourished frame, staples straining and edges burnt, flecks of dried blood creating a scratchy sensation he was accustomed to. His pasty skin was a harsh contract to the deep charred skin of his scars—scars that should’ve been an eyesore, yet you looked at them and stared with adoration, not judgement.

“You really are ‘painting me like one of your French girls’ huh?..” Touyas words came out with a rasp of a chuckle, needing something to break the intimate tension in the room.