[ Red stains the white of his boots, impervious to fire and ice, let alone the snow melt. Shouto stands so very still amid the blood, ignoring the red that cascades down his shoulder and slides down the back of his hero outfit made of the strongest fibers. The urge to burn it off rises within him, yet he stays his instincts aware of Allen beside him. He's had a year and a half to grow used to the blood that permeated the air in some parts of Trench. It's why he so thoroughly washed himself every night. It wasn't the sweat he tried to remove but the stench of blood on his skin he never grew used to. Why he loved to bury his nose in Allen's skin, mostly his neck, after a bath when he smelled of lavender and other oils he sometimes applied before bed.
He gravitates to him now, his familiar scent overpowering the scent of blood in the air. This close, he can see the silent debate in his eyes before he comes to a decision and squeezes his hand. Shouto squeezes back, not pressing for an answer, but waiting for what he has to say. When it comes, it's not what he expected, a sentiment that's clear in the way his fingers tighten on his and the furrow in his brows. ]
no subject
He gravitates to him now, his familiar scent overpowering the scent of blood in the air. This close, he can see the silent debate in his eyes before he comes to a decision and squeezes his hand. Shouto squeezes back, not pressing for an answer, but waiting for what he has to say. When it comes, it's not what he expected, a sentiment that's clear in the way his fingers tighten on his and the furrow in his brows. ]
... What is this place?