Rohan was an odd one, Josuke thought.
Because in stark contrast to his own habit of stammering his thoughts before he’d even strung them together, Rohan had a habit of pretending he wasn’t sentient at all.
Of course, there were times when his poker face would falter, and he’d crack a smile or get swept up in his emotions and raise his voice.
But where Josuke was concerned, it was as if he would sooner die than give shape to his affection.
Every kiss was hesitant, every soft smile was accidental, every touch caused a spark that sent him jolting back, like he was afraid it might set off a fire he couldn’t douse.
In hindsight, Rohan was a coward, Josuke thought.
The dim, blue glow of the television lit the room as Rohan sat with his legs crossed in the middle of the sofa,
methodically running through every possible outcome of the horror flick rolling on the screen.
Meanwhile, Josuke was slumped next to him, his head awkwardly tilted against the backrest, his soft snores drowned out by the eerie violins shrilling from the speakers.
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