15

                                    

                                          


KOREKIYO'S POV
                          
"I'm sorry," I murmured between breaths, mumbling the words against his mouth. "I'm sorry."
                          
It was not often that I'd needed to break for air - whenever I did, however, an apology never failed to escape my lips, his reaction to which coming as a puzzled, quizzical furrow of the eyebrows - he'd always begin to say something, about to tell me, most likely, about how he didn't need an apology, about how it wasn't necessary - I knew, I knew.
                          
I'd always stopped him before he could start, silencing him with the desperate collide of my mouth with his, the frenzied, wild way that my fingers twisted into his hair, kissing him until my lips'd grown numb because I had missed him, I'd craved his presence, coveting that sweet, sweet smile, that soft, soft skin, ached to hear that oh so attractive laugh, kissing him because I wasn't quite sure if this was truly happening, whether or not my cruel, cruel mind had been playing tricks on me, kissing him because I was afraid, afraid that it'd be my last.
                          
I hoped, prayed, even, that it was not.
                          
With reluctance, I broke my lips from his, at a loss for both air and words, chuckling quietly as his expression thawed into a grin.
                          
There was a pause.
                          
"Hey," he managed a slightly hazy smile, rubbing affectionate circles into my cheek with silken fingers, wonderfully sage-green eyes fixated carefully on mine. Faint streaks of red stained the region in which his mouth resided, incautious, impetuous smears decorating blissed-out lips.   "You're beautiful, you know?"
                          
-"Beautiful" was not a word I'd use to describe myself, and neither did anyone else, for that matter: Unnerving, strange, off-putting - phrases such as these three were more commonly used when a conversation had steered its way over to the subject of my appearance. I'd almost always, when making the mask and bandages particularly obvious, been asked if my attire was some form of weird costume, to which I would - every time - respond with a blunt "No," and the exchange was to be left in the dust.
                          
"Thank you, my dear," I mused, surveying the lipstick stains that'd been strewn carelessly across his face. He looked up at me, quizzical.
                          
"What're you looking at?"
                          
I chuckled, averting my gaze from his, instead turning my eyes to the book that still lay, sprawled messily open on the desk. "Nothing."
                          
He touched his chin, confused. A rosy mark took residence on his finger, and he laughed upon noticing - "I have lipstick all over my face, don't I?"
                          
"You do," I smiled, swiping my thumb over his lips, a streak of crimson unfailing to appear. "It'd be a wise move to get up and wash your face."
                          
"You can just tell me to wipe it off, y'know, Kiyo." He grinned, rocking himself upwards from my lap, dusting off his jeans and proceeding to almost skip (he looked rather idiotic) towards the en-suite bathroom to the right of the bed.
                          
The quiet gurgle of water draining through the sink could be heard, as well as the laugh that bubbled from my throat - the noise surprised me, it was not often that I'd made such a strange, yet joyous sound, let alone in such a genuine manner. Without a second thought, I brushed off the occurrence, moving myself to the desk, carefully picking my way across the room with lithe legs. I slid into the chair, allowing myself to relax slightly, releasing a breath I had been oblivious to holding in - he wasn't angry. He didn't seem bothered.
                          
"I'm sorry." I called, gaze anchored to the two empty pages in front of me, hoping he'd hear me over the hiss of the tap. 
                          
"Don't be!"