Souji has always been fond of casual touching, to the point where people sometimes find him kind of weird and uncomfortable, and he's had to watch himself very carefully because he never wants anyone to feel like that about him. So the ease of the touch warms him, makes him beam just as brightly back at Yamato in turn. His own touch is a bit cool, his circulation not the best in the wake of the narcosis, the pain killers, the stillness of rest. It's almost like he can feel warmth flow into himself now, tender, not invading but curiously exploring, and he welcomes it.
"That's... very nice of you." He runs his thumb along the lines of Yamato's palm, as if trying to figure out what's written there, to figure out the source of his warmth. "Sweet things are usually the only things I can eat when I'm nauseous, and I can't really swallow very well, so that was a pretty good idea, too."
He takes his own pillow instead, folding it up and shoving it under his knee, allowing himself a bit more leeway to bend it. He still winces when he has to shift his foot a bit, but it allows him to sit a bit closer, so he'll consider it worth it. It means he can gently scoot their hands back toward the other boy's lap, slacken that IV a little bit without for a moment denying him contact, closeness. Without denying himself, either. He would never have anticipated this, but something in him feels a sense of purpose stir now, and the notion of something being meant to happen twists the knife again, pinning down his life in no uncertain terms. He's never sure if he loves it or hates it, but at least like this, he feels safe and whole, and like there's something for him to look forward to. "I'm Souji," he replies softly. Then, with a small grimace, halfway between embarrassed and weary, he adds, "Okita."
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"That's... very nice of you." He runs his thumb along the lines of Yamato's palm, as if trying to figure out what's written there, to figure out the source of his warmth. "Sweet things are usually the only things I can eat when I'm nauseous, and I can't really swallow very well, so that was a pretty good idea, too."
He takes his own pillow instead, folding it up and shoving it under his knee, allowing himself a bit more leeway to bend it. He still winces when he has to shift his foot a bit, but it allows him to sit a bit closer, so he'll consider it worth it. It means he can gently scoot their hands back toward the other boy's lap, slacken that IV a little bit without for a moment denying him contact, closeness. Without denying himself, either. He would never have anticipated this, but something in him feels a sense of purpose stir now, and the notion of something being meant to happen twists the knife again, pinning down his life in no uncertain terms. He's never sure if he loves it or hates it, but at least like this, he feels safe and whole, and like there's something for him to look forward to. "I'm Souji," he replies softly. Then, with a small grimace, halfway between embarrassed and weary, he adds, "Okita."