It’s debatable if he does. For a few seconds, there’s not an answer, and his attention is focused purely on the distorted color of his own shattered knees. Before any worry can be had, however, he stirs. “Maestro…”
What does he want to do? He doesn’t want to leave his body, the precious body that’s so useful to Mukuro, in the hands of someone he doesn’t know… In the hands of someone with scalpels and stitches and memories that are too strongly attached to both. On the other hand….
Running from his own body and the things it goes through are what he does all the time simply to survive.
“...Please.” He looks up from beneath his bangs, the action more vulnerable than what really shows on his face. If it were himself digging into his own flesh, he wouldn’t care about seeing all the gore and blood. However, in the hands of someone else… He doesn’t want it.
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What does he want to do? He doesn’t want to leave his body, the precious body that’s so useful to Mukuro, in the hands of someone he doesn’t know… In the hands of someone with scalpels and stitches and memories that are too strongly attached to both. On the other hand….
Running from his own body and the things it goes through are what he does all the time simply to survive.
“...Please.” He looks up from beneath his bangs, the action more vulnerable than what really shows on his face. If it were himself digging into his own flesh, he wouldn’t care about seeing all the gore and blood. However, in the hands of someone else… He doesn’t want it.