Chapter Text
The tugging of your skin was less painful than you had expected it to be.
Though it went without saying, Jiro had thoroughly numbed the area prior, had slid syringes full of lidocaine one by one into the laceration running from your sternum to your ribcage with a practiced hand.
The chill of his large hands, perpetually cold, and the unyielding blue nitrile gloves, which were no warmer, offered no comfort. A shiver danced across your skin as his fingertips grazed over your bare chest. You squirmed, your back lifting a few centimetres off the sheets covering the medical bed, their colour matching the blue of the nitrile.
“Hold still,” Jiro instructed. His voice was as frigid as the forceps holding your skin taut. The small hook of the suture needle pushed through your flesh, allowing you to feel the pressure of your skin being pulled back together as he knotted the stitch into place.
The bottom of his palm brushed against your breast as he readjusted his positioning for the next suture. You tried to look anywhere but at his elegantly poised face, glancing away from the raven-coloured frames of his glasses sitting just beneath his waterline, containing deep mahogany irises.
Your eyes scanned around the room, though there was little to take in. The four white walls surrounding you were far too tight for comfort, rendering the atmosphere much more intimate than it felt right to be.
The forceps picked up the edge of the laceration as Jiro returned to his work, the sharp metal piercing through skin and flesh, a midnight blue trail following behind like the strings of a kite drifting away.
With nothing else to hold your interest, you turned your attention back to him, feigning indifference while you studied his tousled hair, a striking blend of purple and blue hues.
However, the small shifts of weight on your sternum as he worked were avalanches of sensation with unprecedented intensity, each minuscule movement of his digits sending a trail of icicles sharply puncturing through your nerves.
A small gasp left your lips, instantly alerting Jiro. His hands froze in place, movements coming to a sudden still. Vivid orbs the colour of cherry wood seemed to burrow into the marrow of your bones. He didn’t speak; not yet. He observed you with an intensity that almost prevented you from noticing the conflict brewing behind his knitted eyebrows.
When he spoke at last, the long silence was broken by a clear expression of the hypothesis that had materialized in his mind.
“Do you enjoy this?” he asked, deep copper eyes intently searching your face for the answer.
“No,” you tried to deny, but could only avert your gaze in shame. “Sorry...”
Jiro scrutinized your face, his eyes scanning your face as if there was an answer etched onto your features. A chill slithered down your spine, and with no other option, you waited with bated breath for his final judgement.
You weren’t sure if it was relief or disappointment that you felt when his hands returned to their task, deftly tying together another stitch.
You laid on the thin hospital cot, the aftertaste of uncertainty pooling around your tongue. You could only wonder what his conclusion was—had he believed you, or not?
But then it came; delivered in two succinct words.
“You’re lying.” His voice was as stoic as ever, but it lacked the apathetic tone it usually carried, which was further exemplified by his looking away.
You didn’t say it; there was no need to. After all, the black medical mask concealing his face was not high enough to hide the faint rosy hue which had begun to bloom over his cheeks.