#chara.jason

Still. It’s unreasonably soft, like touching the delicate, feathered underbelly of a bird. It’s unfair how nice it is, like it’s made for you to run your hands through. Or maybe it’s unfair just how much his body fascinates you. There are things it will tell you that he won’t, a wordless way to understand him.

“Are you done fondling my head yet?” Jason asks.

You purse your lips, but it’s not as if Jason can see the action. The only part of him that you can even see is the broad expanse of his back and the downy spiral of hair at the crown of his head. “Not at all. You’re the one who asked me to help you wash your hair, so why are you complaining?”

“You’re being weird.”

If his arm wasn’t broken, Jason most likely would have followed up his remark by turning around and pinching your cheek or tugging on your own hair like some playground bully. If you lean far enough forward and place your chin on his shoulder, you could see the edge of white plaster around his right forearm, the little doodles and the get well message you had scribbled with permanent marker until Jason made you stop. 

There’s not a lot of room to maneuver in his bathroom, so you’re stuck sitting on the closed lid of his toilet, Jason perched on the edge of his bathtub, feet braced against the cool porcelain. The bathroom smells faintly of bleach, a product of Jason’s obsessive cleanliness, and it reminds you of a hospital room: stark and white and pristine, with no sign that a person even lives here.

Maybe Jason doesn’t use this place at all. It’s not a home for him, you think. It’s just a place for him to stop by when he has no choice. The rest of the place is sparse and utilitarian, with the bare minimum furnishings necessary to function. You wouldn’t be surprised if he only ever came here to pass out on his couch, which bears the soft indent from his body, the only sign of his presence. 

But it’s not your job to judge the way he lives. You’re here for a particular purpose. On the counter of the sink, the edge of which presses into your back if you lean far enough, you’ve placed a few towels, shampoo, and plastic water bottles filled with lukewarm tap water.

“I’m assessing my client,” you say. You tap the back of his shoulder. Your knees are pressed against his lower back. There’s not enough room to keep a respectable distance from him.

“You’ve seen my hair before. It’s not like it’s changed since the last time.”

“Yeah, yeah. But it’s so nice. You really don’t use anything? Not even conditioner?”

“Just shampoo and water.”

“People would kill for your hair, Jason,” you say. You grab a towel behind you and drape it around his shoulders. He’s dressed casually, threadbare tanktop and shorts, which reveals the corded muscle of his arms, tan and smooth and flecked with scars you want to mouth and trace with your tongue, one by one. Less out of lust and more out of a perverse fascination with him. Not that you would, of course. Because you’re a well-adjusted, reasonable person.

“Why? You planning on doing that?”

You jump up a little in your seat, but it’s not like he can read your thoughts. “I’d need you to grow it out for me first,” you say. “Tilt your head back a little.” Jason obliges. He’s surprisingly obedient at times like this, relaxing into your touch and letting you maneuver him around. He holds himself unnaturally still, with not even a single tremor or fidgeting gesture to betray himself. 

But you’ve seen him in action, know how fast he can be, how suddenly he can throw someone onto the floor they realize he’s even on the move. Somewhere under all the guise of artificial calms lies coiled energy and tension, ready to be unleashed at any moment.

You uncap one of the water bottles, pour a careful, controlled stream of water onto his scalp, just enough to wet it. The shampoo you brought is cheap, some drugstore brand that smells faintly of apples when you pop the cap and squeeze a generous amount into his hair. It only takes a few seconds for it to foam, white bubbles forming a lopsided hat over his black hair. You take your time massaging your fingers through his hair, gently working the lather into his roots, fingernails scraping against his scalp. 

Jason still hasn’t told you how he broke his arm. That’s the only reason you’re here, after all, washing his hair for him. Because he can’t get his cast wet, and though you suspect he’s deft enough to figure out a way to do it himself, he still called you in particular and asked you to come over. The way he speaks, plain and straightforward, leaves no wiggle room to question him.

“I need your help,” he said over the phone, and you pressed it so close to your ear it was almost like he was by your side.

And that’s really all you need to know. That he needs you here, and that you’ll show up at a single call. Without question, without complaint, because it’s Jason. Because he never asks for anything from anyone, and the second he does, you would move mountains and part the oceans just to be by his side.

Though you can’t stop thinking about his cast, the broken bones healing the surface, a story it could tell you, if only you could see. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. But is it because he trusts you, or because he doesn’t? There are a lot of things he keeps from you about what he does. For your safety, or his. It’s an odd little relationship you have, one where you aren’t sure where the line should be drawn.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m thinking about you,” you say. You’re still working the shampoo into the fine hairs along his sideburns, being more thorough than you really need to. 

He doesn’t react. You wish he had. 

“Nothing but bad things,” you add, and that gets a laugh from him, easy and surprised.

“There are plenty of those to think about,” he says ruefully.

“Sure. Like how you ate the last package of pudding I was saving, dripped mud into my apartment after I just cleaned it, and–”

“That’s enough from you,” he admonishes.

“I’m just keeping track of your crimes,” you say. “You’ll need to pay me back at some point.” A beat of silence. “Tilt your head back again and close your eyes.”

He does, so easily, and you stuff another towel around his shoulders and on your lap. You can admire the smooth line of his throat from this position, the fluttering of his eyelashes, and the slight part of his mouth, the swell of his bottom lip, a pleasing shade of pink.

You pour the last of your water over his hair, washing him clean, white suds disappearing like they never existed at all, absorbed into the towels you placed. You run your hand through his wet strands, twirling his white bangs into damp little curls. Jason Todd, pliant in your hands and born again by your touch.

“I’ll pay you back for everything,” Jason says, much too late. “Promise.”

His eyes are still closed, but surely he must feel it when you shift, and bend your head down to press your lips to the part of his hair. Tender, brief, gentle. Your body telling him everything you can’t voice.

“I don’t need you to.”

You lean back again, and Jason braces his good hand against the edge of the tub, tilting his head back until he can look at you, bright, springtime-green eyes meeting yours. It’s funny, to see him upside down like that, the pout of his mouth. “I want to.”

“Why?”

Jason leans further back, letting his wet hair drop onto your shoulder, wetting the thin fabric. It’s not comfortable of a position at all, not when you’re trying to hold the weight of his body half-slumped against you, and Jason is still braced against the edge of the tub. But you don’t want to move and risk Jason moving away, not when you can feel the whole warm length of him, all the muscle and tense energy that melts into something comfortable now that he’s nestled against you.

“Because it’s you,” he says, like it’s the most simple thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it really is.

You know Jason is more than capable of being silent when he wants to be, so you can’t help but think these signs are akin to the bell on a cat’s collar, a way to alert you to his presence and set you at ease.

“Welcome back,” you announce from where you’re lounging on your bed, looking down at the intruder who’s still crouched on your floor. Your apartment might be a shabby little studio that wouldn’t impress a single guest, set in the shadows of Gotham’s neon signs and perpetually lit skyscrapers, but it’s yours. In this city, you take what small victories you can get, and keep it close to you.

“You left the window unlocked,” Jason says.

“For you.”

“It’s dangerous to leave your window unlocked in this city.”

“Yeah, but no regular human can break into a place on the sixth floor. And if someone nonhuman was capable of doing so and wanted to hurt me, a lock isn’t going to stop them.”

Jason regards you silently, head tilted like he’s trying to make sense of your words. “It’s better to be careful. You’re going to invite trouble in.”

“The only trouble I’m trying to invite is you,” you tease.

You pat the bedspread, a silent invitation for him to sit. Jason slowly unfurls himself until he’s standing, a towering, shadowy figure in your apartment. He never takes your invitation, but that’s fine. When he opens his mouth, moonlight glints off his fangs. You’ve always wondered if the reason he smiles so little now, outside of his surly demeanor, is to hide his teeth.

Vampires aren’t the most welcome creature in Gotham, but it’s a little different when you’ve known this one since you were children, back when he was still human. Though, from the way he talks, no one would ever think that. You knew Jason Todd when the two of you were practically in diapers, just another pair of little kids running around Crime Alley and trying to make ends meet in families that were always down on their luck.

He was sweet, back then. The sort of friend who would stand up for you against any tougher kid trying to knock the two of you down, who had his own unwavering sense of justice, and seemed happy just to follow you around and crack jokes.

Now, you don’t know much about his life. In the years in which Jason was adopted, got out, and left you behind, the two of you slowly lost contact. You were upset at the time; he stopped responding to your letters, and never seemed to have time for you anymore. But then he died, and it was hard to stay mad at a dead child, forever frozen as a teen, while you grew up and left your childhood behind.

But he didn’t stay dead. Somehow, he crawled back from the grave, a little different, a little colder, and with the unmistakable scent of blood clinging to his leather jacket. You didn’t realize this until years later, on a rainy evening when you found what you thought was a corpse, curled up in the alley outside your apartment. You would have called it luck or fate if you believed in either of those things, but people made their own destinies here in Gotham.

You still remember what it was like: the rain-slicked tarmac, oil spills shimmering like warped rainbows and puddles reflecting the flash of your phone. You were more than ready to just call an ambulance and leave the bloodied heap to some other virtuous person. This was more than you wanted, especially after a long shift at the office.

But then the body had shifted. Whoever it was was still alive.

“Hello?” you said softly.

You’re more than familiar with the creatures that prowl Gotham’s night, both the mundane and the supernatural. Thieves scare you just as much as vampires do, especially when you had no official training or supernatural powers, just the knowledge of any average citizen.

Still, you didn’t expect the corpse to suddenly leap at you. You screamed as you crashed to the pavement, phone skittering away from you. All you remembered was your flailing limbs and the heavy, cold weight of something inhuman pressing down on you, the scrape of cold fangs near the rapid pulse in your neck.

You gained just enough leverage to push at the thing, and if it wasn’t already weakened from its injuries, you might not have made any impression whatsoever. As it was, it tumbled backwards, and you could finally see its face.  

A flash of bright green eyes that used to be a vivid blue. Black hair with a streak of white, shorn ragged and short that once used to curl around your fingers. Scars cutting a face that had been chubby with baby fat, years ago.

Even with adrenaline burning a trail in your veins and the rain softening the world around you, you recognized your childhood friend. It didn’t matter how many years passed; you knew his face as easily as you knew your own. And he was covered in blood, weak, eyes dull with only animal impulse. 

It was stupid what you did next. But if in Gotham, to survive, you kept your head down and minded your own business, leaving vampires to the hunters, then you also took care of your own. 

You pulled the sleeve of your dirty blazer up to your elbow, bared the smooth skin of your wrist to Jason Todd, and whispered, “Drink.”

He looked at you with only the faintest bit of recognition. “You…?”

You pressed your wrist against his mouth. This wasn’t an offer. This was a demand. Jason groaned, and he bit down with so much force that you sunk your teeth into your own lip to muffle your own gasp, blood filling your mouth from the pressure.

He survived that night, of course, even if you were dizzy from blood loss as you brought him home, to crash on your couch. By the time morning rolled around, he was gone. You had thought he would never visit you again, but to your surprise, he had shown up the next night to apologize, knocking on the window of your apartment and almost giving you a heart attack. 

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said. “I wasn’t fully conscious, but I almost hurt you.”

You eyed him in amusement. “Well, hello to you too, old friend, and you’re welcome for saving your life.”

His eyes lingered on the bandages wrapped around your wrist, hiding the reddened skin and puncture wounds. Your arm was still sore, but that’s not something you were going to let him know. “It won’t happen again. I’m… sorry.”

“Jason.” You reached and deliberately grabbed his arm with your injured one. He didn’t pull away, and for a few seconds, the two of you only stood in silence, nothing but the sound of your breathing filling the air. “If you ever need blood, come right here. I’ll help you.”

And he does, time and time again, though Jason always keeps such a measured distance with you. He never talks about his past, and you never question him. The second you push too hard, he might run off and leave you for good this time. 

It’s easy to see he’s haunted by something. He’s less open and more terse than he was as a child, keeping his words clipped and sharp. He only visits on occasion, and he’s always jumping at unexpected noises or keeping watch outside the window, eyes narrowed. If he comes in with blood on his jacket, then you only remind him not to get it on your furniture.

He’s ashamed, too. You can tell without him even voicing it, just from how his eyes will drift to your healed wrist, as if he can still see the imprints of his fangs marked there. But you don’t regret your decision, and you would do it all over again if you had to make that same choice.

Jason is a dead man walking. But he’s yours, regardless, and if this is the only way you can have him, then you will coax your stray dog with bits and pieces of your affection so he doesn’t run away. 

It’ll save you from having to chase him down, too, because there is no way in hell you’re letting him get away again. Perhaps growing up in Gotham has given you the tendency to jealously hold the things you care about, because the city will snatch it from your hands if you’re not careful enough.

“Hungry?” you ask. Jason is still standing over you, and his eyes drop to your thighs.

There are marks scattered all over them, faded bruises and puncture wounds from the remnants of past nights together. It doesn’t help that Jason has the habit of biting into the same places when they’re mostly healed, renewing their presence on you. 

Biting your thighs is a more recent development. It used to be that Jason would drink from the wrist he didn’t bite on your first meeting, or nip at your neck, as if afraid to come any closer. But, as you convinced him, thighs have more surface area and it’s easier to cover up any markings on them during the day. Besides, you could see how Jason’s eyes constantly flit to and away from your legs. Once you offer to let him drink from them, he doesn’t touch anywhere else.

Jason has never been anything but gentle when he touches you, but it’s hard not to notice the intensity in his eyes as he brushes calloused fingers across his past work. His touch is possessive and deceptively light, as if he’s purposefully holding himself back from pressing too hard. 

It’s not that he treats you like you’re made of glass, but rather that you’re something he needs to handle with care; as he’s never held anything so tenderly before, he’s still unsure of the right amount of pressure he needs to use. 

“You sure you’re okay with this?” His voice is a low rumble as he finally kneels in front of you, thumb stroking slow circles in the soft skin of your inner thigh. It’s hard to deny the fact that seeing Jason like this sends a thrill through you; he looks tame like this, pliant to your every direction and touch.

You try to keep your breathing even, but you can’t help the way your breath hitches. You think Jason notices, too, if the way his eyes dart to your throat is any indication. Mercifully, he doesn’t tease you for it this time. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t let you in my place at all if I wasn’t okay with it.”

“You can change your mind,” Jason presses, “at any time.”

“Are you trying to convince me of that?” you ask. “Or yourself?”

“It’s just a reminder. Letting a vampire drink from you is risky. Not a lot of people do it willingly.”

He lowers his head, and you can’t see his eyes from this angle. All you can see is his shock of dark hair, and the single white streak of his bangs. You stroke his hair lightly, letting your fingers run through the mess of rough curls. You trail your hand through his hair and down to his face, skating along the skin of his cheek until you cup it and draw his head up to look at you.

Tension ripples through him at your touch, his entire body stiff. You wonder if he’s battling the urge to pull away; Jason has always acted like a stray animal whenever you reach out to him, flinching and skittish, resisting the urge to bear teeth and bite. Or, perhaps he’s fighting the urge to lean closer to you and rest his cheek in your palm, searching for warmth.

If he’s not used to holding anything gently, then he’s not used to being held, either.

“You can’t get rid of me even if you want to,” you reproach him, keeping your tone playful. “We’ve done this enough times that if I hated it, I would have turned you away by now. Besides, who else is going to let you sneak inside at two in the morning?”

“You make it sound so…”

“I make it sound like what?” You raise your eyebrows at him. “Is there something about you sneaking into my room in the middle of the night and putting your hands all over my thighs, that seems wrong to you? I only have innocent intentions.”

“Shut up,” Jason grumbles, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now. 

Carefully, you slide your hand until it rests along the back of his head, your fingers twining with his soft hair as you guide him back to your thighs. His mouth is so close that if he was still alive, you could feel his breath against your skin. Instead of human warmth, you can feel the chill from his lips, and it makes you shiver.

“Come on,” you murmur.

His hair tickles your legs as Jason rests his head against your thigh. There’s the ticklish sensation of his lips pressing against the sensitive inner skin, lingering for just a beat longer than they need to. Then, finally, the subtle sting of teeth breaking through flesh and piercing the meat of your leg. 

The sting is gone as quickly as it arrives, replaced by pleasure: the feeling of Jason drinking your blood deeply, restrained in a way a desperate man shouldn’t be, and the soft, wet lap of his tongue as he intermittently soothes his own puncture wounds, as if in apology.

Jason is a fever you can’t ignore, burning you up from the inside out, and you can’t untangle whether it’s his bite, or the act of drinking, or if it’s the man himself that makes you feel so good.

“Sorry,” he mutters as he pulls back. Your blood is spilling down your thigh in thin rivers, droplets soaking into your bedsheet, and he sounds abashed. He’s messier than he usually is; Jason typically has an unusual amount of control and precision when it comes to drinking, knowing just the right amount of force to bite without hurting. It’s the sort of control that only comes from preying from a great number of people. 

But that isn’t your concern. What is is the way his voice dips in tone, how he can’t meet your eyes. 

“What are you waiting for?” you whisper. “Clean it up.”

Jason’s eyes meet yours before dropping to your chest, right above the spot where your heart is, his gaze suddenly predatory. Your heart is pounding in overdrive, a rapid, fluttering beat, and you know that he knows. You can’t hide how your body reacts to him, not from someone with senses that have been pretenaturally sharpened. 

“Whatever you want,” he says, and his tone turns teasing. Without breaking eye contact, he licks slow trails along your leg as he chases every inch of the blood that he spilled, his pace indulgent. How can his mouth feel so hot when his body temperature is so low? It feels nice, pleasant, and when he pulls away, you almost reach to press him right against you again.

Jason has a smug little smile on his mouth, and it feels like he’s just pulled one over you. He’s annoying, and it’s annoying that this endears him to you even more.

You splay one hand on your thigh, your fingers grazing along all his old marks, various shades of purple. You wonder if Jason will ever let them fade away fully. It’s a little point of connection, between the two of you, that no one else will know exists. Perhaps he’s just like you, trying desperately to cling to a tether that will link you two together.

Still, no matter your musings, you can’t let him think he can get away from teasing you. You pat your thigh, and his attention is drawn to the movement, like a dog catching a sweet scent in the air. “Aren’t you still thirsty? Drink some more.”

Jason licks his lips, a small, tentative motion, as if he’s still trying to chase the lingering taste of your blood. “I’m fine.”

“Really? Just one nibble, and you’re good? Don’t be so considerate.”

“There’s something wrong with you,” he grumbles. “I’ve never heard of anyone trying to offer so much of their blood to a vampire.”

“Well, you’re not just anyone. I trust you,” you say, and it’s always been as simple as that.

His voice hitches, cool indifference only a thin, ineffectual barrier to the emotion roiling underneath. “I’m not human.”

“So? That doesn’t matter to me.”

“Just… I don’t understand it. You don’t get anything out of this. Why?” 

“There’s nothing to understand,” you say. “I care about you, no matter who you are or what you’ve done. It doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.” Jason is still keeling in front of you, moonlight filtering through the gaps in your crooked blinds. He looks like he’s about to ask you for forgiveness or get up and walk away and never come back again. Even though scars litter his face and body, and he’s gotten jaded in the years that have passed, he still looks unbearably young at times, like the ghost of the twelve year old boy you once knew is peeking up at you.

“No, because I don’t think you’ve ever wanted to tell me,” you say. “But even if it’s worse than the petty theft we used to do, I still don’t mind. You’re Jason. That’s all I ever need to know.”

“It’s not that simple. I’m not the boy you knew. I’m never going to be that boy again. I’ve killed people,” he says, teeth gritted. “More than you can count. I’ve left the corpses of every vampire and hunter that gets in my way to rot in the streets, and you still want to let someone like that into your home?”

You cup his face. His skin is ghostly cool beneath your hands. Perhaps Jason wants to warn you, or push you away, or make you understand how wrong he is. Maybe there’s something wrong with you, too, for not feeling the proper amount of horror at his confession. But that’s what it means to grow up in Gotham: no one can ever survive without becoming a little twisted. “Then I’m glad it’s them rotting, and not you.”

One second you’re sitting on your bed. The next second, you’re on your back. Jason has pulled one of your legs up to his face, the force of which has sent you tumbling backwards. You prop yourself up on your elbows. You can just make out Jason’s face from this angle.

“Changed my mind. I think you’re right. I still am a little hungry,” he says. He presses a soft, open-mouth kiss against the tender skin of your inner thigh, his mouth roving a little higher than it did before. He kisses your thigh again, the heat of which sets every nerve ending alight, every aching part of you aware of his touch.

He takes his time. There’s no urgency, no desperation, just languid kisses placed with reverence along every inch of skin he can reach. It’s enough to make you squirm. “I thought you said you were hungry.”

“I’m enjoying my meal,” he says unrepentantly. It’s the sort of blithe line that if anyone else had said it, you would consider it coy. But because it’s Jason, there’s nothing but boyish honesty in his tone.

“Well, I think you’d enjoy it a lot more if you actually just bit me,” you grumble.

“Getting impatient?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, if you want it so bad, I guess I have to oblige.”

You open your mouth to make a snarky remark, but Jason presses the flat of his tongue against your leg, a gentle lick, letting the cool edge of his fangs rest against your skin. A warning, or a promise. Then, he bites. It’s enough for you to bite your tongue, to prevent whatever strangled noise you might have made, and that would have given Jason enough ammunition to tease you for the next several weeks. 

There really isn’t any more eloquent way to put the simple truth: his bite makes you feel pleasure in a way you’ve never experienced it before. The sensation of his mouth on your leg, intense heat radiating out everywhere he touches, the way he tilts your leg so he can have greater access to your skin, the knowledge that it’s your blood flowing in his veins right now, allowing him to stay alive.

Wherever he goes, whatever he does, he’ll have a piece of you within him. Your blood in his heart. Your taste in his lips. Your words in his head.

Instead of his usual gentleness, he’s a bit more playful. You let your head fall back, and Jason nips at your thigh lightly, a teasing warning to keep your attention on him. Though he’s the one drinking, you can’t help but feel liquid fire rushing through your own veins, as if he’s giving as much as he’s taking.

In a few more seconds, Jason pulls away, but he doesn’t waste a single drop as he does. He lazily licks your thigh clean, catching any stray bit of blood, so slow in his movements you feel ticklish. 

You push yourself back up to survey his work, and he lets your leg fall from his grasp. As always, Jason has renewed his marks on your skin, bites and bruises blossoming a fresh purple. When you try to press your thighs together, you wince, your flesh still tender and sore. You don’t miss the way Jason’s eyes rove over your legs, his eyes darkening at the noise you’ve just made. 

“Are you going to stay this time?” you ask.

“What?”

“You normally just go when you’re done. I think you should stay a little longer.”

Jason stands, then flops onto your bed next to you, the force of which sends your mattress’s old springs creaking in protest and causes you to bounce a few inches up in the air. Your bed is small, so there really isn’t any choice but to curl closer to him if you want to share the space. You pull his arm around your shoulders, letting your head rest against the hard muscle of his chest.

He’s letting you touch him, but he doesn’t touch you back. It’s always amusing to see the ways Jason acts shy. Biting your thighs? Not a problem. Cuddling you back? Suddenly the most difficult task in the world.

It really makes it so easy to tease him.

You pull both of your legs flush together, your bare legs pressed against the stiff fabric of his pants. The more you bring your bodies close together, the more rigid Jason gets.

“Is there something wrong, Jason?” you ask, all light and innocence. “You seem a little uncomfortable.”

“You’re the most annoying person I know.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t know anyone else.”

“You’re proving my point,” he mutters.

You don’t entertain any ideas that Jason might stay with you for the entire night. He’s enmeshed in a violent world that feels leagues away from your crummy apartment, even though it lurks right outside your door. But it’s still nice to have him to yourself whenever you can.

“I’ll see you next week?” you ask, eyes falling closed. Donating your blood to a vampire is always exhausting. Not to mention the fact your legs are sore, and you have work in the morning.

“Next week,” he affirms.

Something falls across your waist and lands on your hip. It’s Jason, trying to put his arm around you in the most awkward manner possible. His touch is hesitant and ephemeral, like a butterfly that will fly off at the next disturbance. But it’s a step, a tenderness that you know does not come easily to him.

“Good night, Jason,” you say.

“Good night.”

Maybe, one day, Jason will open up to you a bit more and let you into his world. But despite what he says, knowing him will never be a mistake. Because no matter how much he’s changed or what unspeakable things he’s done, when he’s by your side, he’s yours.

anaxa is surprisingly neutral about it. he's always had such a pragmatic view of the body, and doesn't put any stock in sleeping side by side. sleeping is a normal human function, and there's nothing embarrassing about having to share a bed. as long as the two of you stick to agreed upon rules, then he won't think anything of it.

he doesn't care about typical social conventions or expectations, and the only time he'll care is if it means something to you. then he'll get a little calculating. anaxa is definitely using this opportunity to test the waters and he's trying to get a rise out of you, prodding and pushing and seeing the extent of your feelings towards him. this is some elaborate social experiment to him, and expect him to be annoying for the rest of the night!!

however! he does have the capacity to be a little soft about it. i don't think touch is as big of a thing for him so much as the opportunity to spend time with you, and the way he watches you, so intent and attentive and curious as he drinks in some new aspect of your nighttime ritual, filing it in his head where he keeps all his little tidbits on you? he might as well just make out with you atp.

you might as well have told phainon you wanted to get married. he's way too excited about it, wagging his metaphorical puppy tail. he's treating it like a sleepover. he wants to throw all your pillows together and make a giant fort. he wants to cuddle you all night if he could get away with it. he wants to talk to you and watch you fall asleep and see you wake up.

i think the intimacy of the situation is what really gets to him, rather than the pure romance of it. i think this reminds phainon of sleepovers with his old childhood friends, and he longs for that simple trust and connection. he wants to hold you! and not worry about anything other than getting up on time in the morning!! he always wants to return to a more peaceful time, and to share it with you.

phainon will definitely will respect whatever you want to do, though. if you tell him to sleep on the floor bc you want the bed all to yourself, he's already grabbing some blankets to hunker down for the night. however, he's also watching you with sad wet puppy eyes, so are you really just going to leave him there??? your giant puppy heater who will respectfully snuggle into you AND let out a little sigh of contentment like there's nowhere else he'd rather be???

harumasa bases his reactions off of yours. if you treat it like it's no big deal, then he'll do the same. you'll establish some ground rules, stick to your respective sides of the bed, and wake up in the morning without talking about it. if you're flustered, however, then he's teasing you as much as he can get away with. he likes seeing your reaction bc it tickles him that he can affect you so much!!!!

secretly, however! i think he's more apprehensive than excited. he's not really used to sharing a space with someone else, and you're going to see sides of himself before he's ready to reveal them to you. he's prone to night terrors, nightmares, restlessness, and he's not a very good companion to sleep with. he doesn't want you to think lesser of him, or pity him.

he's the most likely to suggest splitting up. he'll take the couch or even the bathtub, and you can take the bed. but if you insist on sharing, and you're kind and patient about his various nightly routines and issues, then it does things to him, and now HE'S the one that feels flustered by the proximity and your warm affection.........

jason.... oh my god this man would die. i don't think he's felt a tender, nonviolent touch in years. anytime anyone gets close to him, it's because he's disappointed them in some way, and/or they're trying to kill him. and now he's sharing a bed with someone he has feelings for?? you guys haven't even held HANDS.

like, i think he would make some attempts to find another room or threaten the manager so you could get another bed, but when all that falls flat, he lies in the bed soooo stiffly. the word relaxation is not in his vocabulary, and he's hyper-aware of everything you do. he's dying several small deaths before the night is over. this has to qualify for some form of torture, right? to be so close to you like this???