[Shy? he wonders, initially, brows dropping a bit, eyes narrowing at the back of Miyuki's head in concerned confusion. It's promptly obliterated by rapidly recalling the older boy's previous reactions, an adamant lack of interest; Alois almost wants to say, to captors, Couldn't I switch with someone else, if you're going to keep me here, anyway? Being captured is one miserable fate—or punishment, cruel cosmic joke—and having to return to, what may as well be, his roots is another, but leaving him with co-captive whose skin looks like its crawling periodically—well, it's enormously distressing.
He's unused to it. He's polished and intended himself to be desirable for such a long time, even knowing that they're strangers, even knowing there's nothing between them, even knowing Miyuki will forget all about him, he wants to demand his attention, and for Miyuki to say, 'You're perfect, you're perfect; I'll never have anyone like you,' and he might feel a little bit comforted then, because he can't do or be anything else.
The dress has been laid on the bed, and with residual, clinging awkwardness, he silently removes clothing. What he wants to do is make his skin crawl right off, and cement the idea he's most sure he's harboring that Alois is syrup of ipecac. Cross every border with the teasing they'd only just shared. And normally, he would, cushioned by the promise that he'll never have to look at his face again, because it'd surely run him off, but who knows how long they're to be here. Perhaps they'll never be sent home, which is to say, that if he isn't going to amplify his loneliness, he's got to keep himself under control. It's obnoxiously challenging.
But Miyuki is spared, and Alois undresses blankly. His gaze goes from brunette hair, to suit, to Miyuki's clothes from home, and with no urgency it occurs to him that his own costume is likely not to receive any finishing touches. And he decides it doesn't matter, not at the rate things are going. The dress isn't as complicated as he thought it might be to get into: the buttons are only at the bodice, an additional one at the collar, and he unfastens them, and slips it over, and reaches around slim back to do them up.
It's an unfairly beautiful color; he wishes he were as wonderful a shade as this, and he wants to look at himself in the mirror, but he doesn't want to say so. It doesn't feel complete, not only without stockings and shoes, but with his shorts present. He dusts his hands over the skirt, and smooths them down the bodice, hugging his waist, and then, unceremoniously, he drops to sit on the edge of the bed.]
Done, [pouts sulky thing, trying to sound bored, and sitting with his legs extended again, with a kind of inattentive, puerile grace. Sylphlike as he is, the dress seems right at home—with dainty, willowy limbs, no accentuated muscle mass, no bulk to disturb the feminine design of it. He sweeps his fingertips absently over his hair, seeking flyaways.]
no subject
He's unused to it. He's polished and intended himself to be desirable for such a long time, even knowing that they're strangers, even knowing there's nothing between them, even knowing Miyuki will forget all about him, he wants to demand his attention, and for Miyuki to say, 'You're perfect, you're perfect; I'll never have anyone like you,' and he might feel a little bit comforted then, because he can't do or be anything else.
The dress has been laid on the bed, and with residual, clinging awkwardness, he silently removes clothing. What he wants to do is make his skin crawl right off, and cement the idea he's most sure he's harboring that Alois is syrup of ipecac. Cross every border with the teasing they'd only just shared. And normally, he would, cushioned by the promise that he'll never have to look at his face again, because it'd surely run him off, but who knows how long they're to be here. Perhaps they'll never be sent home, which is to say, that if he isn't going to amplify his loneliness, he's got to keep himself under control. It's obnoxiously challenging.
But Miyuki is spared, and Alois undresses blankly. His gaze goes from brunette hair, to suit, to Miyuki's clothes from home, and with no urgency it occurs to him that his own costume is likely not to receive any finishing touches. And he decides it doesn't matter, not at the rate things are going. The dress isn't as complicated as he thought it might be to get into: the buttons are only at the bodice, an additional one at the collar, and he unfastens them, and slips it over, and reaches around slim back to do them up.
It's an unfairly beautiful color; he wishes he were as wonderful a shade as this, and he wants to look at himself in the mirror, but he doesn't want to say so. It doesn't feel complete, not only without stockings and shoes, but with his shorts present. He dusts his hands over the skirt, and smooths them down the bodice, hugging his waist, and then, unceremoniously, he drops to sit on the edge of the bed.]
Done, [pouts sulky thing, trying to sound bored, and sitting with his legs extended again, with a kind of inattentive, puerile grace. Sylphlike as he is, the dress seems right at home—with dainty, willowy limbs, no accentuated muscle mass, no bulk to disturb the feminine design of it. He sweeps his fingertips absently over his hair, seeking flyaways.]