[It'd be a lie to say that there's not a sense of loss when he wakes up in the morning, knowing that there's at least a decent chance he won't see the demon again.]
[Wrong response, he knows. That's part of the problem. Yet what else can he say? It had been so nice to be touched so often, even if he had been leery of it every time just because of the unknown factor of the creature's intentions. It had been nice, on some deep level, to hear that he was wanted and valued.]
[But... Demons lie. A simple fact of life. It had only been a matter of time before that sort of thing would reveal itself, and then nothing else could be looked at the same again. Chikusa tries to forget it. It's hard when he wakes up in the middle of the night, body warm and aching for another touch, for lips stroking his so intimately. All he can do for those nights is try to desperately go back to sleep, or take a cold shower when it's particularly bad.]
[If some nights he gives in, softly strokes himself just a little and presses fingers to his lips as if that can mimic a kiss, never reaching release.... Well. That's between him and God.]
[Chikusa doesn't let himself dwell. Best he can, he moves on with his life and tries to change it. It becomes apparent to him all too soon that every part of his apartment reminds him too much of things- a kiss in his kitchen, a stroke along his hair in the living room, another's body heat in his bed. It makes Chikusa realize how beneficial it is to not spend much of his money on anything- that means it's easy to make the move to another apartment when time comes to renegotiate his lease. He doesn't need it, not really, but the change helps drive the memories away.]
[Yet home and church have always been closely tied for him, and change in one needs to be reflected in the other. Chikusa tries. They're not very elegant tries, no- more than a few times he suspects he's made a fool of himself. Yet... Even those times almost seem to help, in some strange way. Chikusa doesn't understand it.]
[That doesn't mean there's no effect when, after a couple of months of being back and recovered, his mentor carefully but gently puts a hand on his shoulder and thanks him for his work after one mass in particular.]
[Chikusa spends that night by himself, staring blankly at his television and recovering.]
[Objectively, he knows the changes have been very little. A room to sketch in and watch a busy street from, having his schedule occasionally asked about, being invited for coffee after service. Yet when he's used to nothing, anything feels enormous.]
[He's in the middle of going to get lunch since there's nothing for them in the church and things are too busy in preparation in the back for a fair to draw more visitors to the church when he hears someone walking through the pews. There's no helping it- he emerges, ready to see if it's one of the usual church goers or someone in need of help from the church...]
[And promptly freezes when he sees that familiar face sitting quaint as you please in one of the pews.]
[For a solid moment, his mind can't put things together. He... knows who that person looks like. But, it can't be. Maybe- their encounters were dreams, and demons didn't look human. Maybe it's, by pure coincidence, the person Mukuro stole the look from because he liked it-]
[Wait, no, nevermind, now he's waving at him.]
[Stunned, Chikusa can only walk down the aisle in a daze before stopping by him. He can't even get himself to speak.]
no subject
[Wrong response, he knows. That's part of the problem. Yet what else can he say? It had been so nice to be touched so often, even if he had been leery of it every time just because of the unknown factor of the creature's intentions. It had been nice, on some deep level, to hear that he was wanted and valued.]
[But... Demons lie. A simple fact of life. It had only been a matter of time before that sort of thing would reveal itself, and then nothing else could be looked at the same again. Chikusa tries to forget it. It's hard when he wakes up in the middle of the night, body warm and aching for another touch, for lips stroking his so intimately. All he can do for those nights is try to desperately go back to sleep, or take a cold shower when it's particularly bad.]
[If some nights he gives in, softly strokes himself just a little and presses fingers to his lips as if that can mimic a kiss, never reaching release.... Well. That's between him and God.]
[Chikusa doesn't let himself dwell. Best he can, he moves on with his life and tries to change it. It becomes apparent to him all too soon that every part of his apartment reminds him too much of things- a kiss in his kitchen, a stroke along his hair in the living room, another's body heat in his bed. It makes Chikusa realize how beneficial it is to not spend much of his money on anything- that means it's easy to make the move to another apartment when time comes to renegotiate his lease. He doesn't need it, not really, but the change helps drive the memories away.]
[Yet home and church have always been closely tied for him, and change in one needs to be reflected in the other. Chikusa tries. They're not very elegant tries, no- more than a few times he suspects he's made a fool of himself. Yet... Even those times almost seem to help, in some strange way. Chikusa doesn't understand it.]
[That doesn't mean there's no effect when, after a couple of months of being back and recovered, his mentor carefully but gently puts a hand on his shoulder and thanks him for his work after one mass in particular.]
[Chikusa spends that night by himself, staring blankly at his television and recovering.]
[Objectively, he knows the changes have been very little. A room to sketch in and watch a busy street from, having his schedule occasionally asked about, being invited for coffee after service. Yet when he's used to nothing, anything feels enormous.]
[He's in the middle of going to get lunch since there's nothing for them in the church and things are too busy in preparation in the back for a fair to draw more visitors to the church when he hears someone walking through the pews. There's no helping it- he emerges, ready to see if it's one of the usual church goers or someone in need of help from the church...]
[And promptly freezes when he sees that familiar face sitting quaint as you please in one of the pews.]
[For a solid moment, his mind can't put things together. He... knows who that person looks like. But, it can't be. Maybe- their encounters were dreams, and demons didn't look human. Maybe it's, by pure coincidence, the person Mukuro stole the look from because he liked it-]
[Wait, no, nevermind, now he's waving at him.]
[Stunned, Chikusa can only walk down the aisle in a daze before stopping by him. He can't even get himself to speak.]