[Someone treated Mista's scars, she thinks as her eyes skim over the faint marks left behind on his skin. Maybe it was someone like Josuke, someone Mista had and trusted to help keep him safe, so that even something as terrible as getting shot only seemed like a temporary grievance, rather than a life-threatening one. And when he mentions Giorno, that only confirms it — so he did have someone with him, when he'd gotten those scars. No wonder he misses him so much. It must be hard, being used to relying on someone like that and then suddenly not having them anymore.
(If she'd had to do this without Rohan, or if Abbacchio were to be the next to disappear — no, she wouldn't handle it well, either, would she.)
But it helps, that he'd done this for her. He's made her feel more comfortable, made this into a mutual thing instead of a personal confession.
It's her turn, now.]
I wish I'd had someone like Giorno. Well...I did, eventually. It just took a while before he found me.
[As she speaks, she angles her body away from him, turning her back more fully toward him before taking the final step and folding her wings in, no longer keeping them extended to help obscure the flat planes of her back.
It's not just one scar, left there by the blade of Kira Yoshikage's knife. There are at least a dozen of them ripped into her skin, some narrower and flatter where the knife sunk deep in, others jagged and wider from a more reckless swipe of the blade. Each and every one of them is, without a doubt, disfiguring; some are thick and raised, others concave and off-color around the edges.
Just the sight of them tells a gruesome story. Kira had gotten cleaner and neater with his killing as he'd grown older, more refined and more professional in accomplishing his terrible aims. But he'd been young when he'd killed her, and she'd been his first — at a glance alone, the scarring makes it apparent that there had been very little finesse in what he'd done to her.
There, too, is the evidence of a struggle. The first one hadn't killed her. The second one hadn't, either. She doesn't remember how many it took; maybe that's only to be expected. She doesn't remember much of anything from that moment, except that it hurt more than anything in the world, and the carpet had scratched her cheek, and she'd prayed and prayed that Rohan wouldn't cry and make a sound.
Her shoulders are shaking, wings trembling. It shouldn't be so hard, doing this. But it leaves her feeling raw and vulnerable anyway, eyes closed and chin low, and she doesn't even realize that she's holding her breath until her lungs start to burn, wobbling on a tightrope of anticipation for Mista's reaction, whatever it might end up being.]
no subject
(If she'd had to do this without Rohan, or if Abbacchio were to be the next to disappear — no, she wouldn't handle it well, either, would she.)
But it helps, that he'd done this for her. He's made her feel more comfortable, made this into a mutual thing instead of a personal confession.
It's her turn, now.]
I wish I'd had someone like Giorno. Well...I did, eventually. It just took a while before he found me.
[As she speaks, she angles her body away from him, turning her back more fully toward him before taking the final step and folding her wings in, no longer keeping them extended to help obscure the flat planes of her back.
It's not just one scar, left there by the blade of Kira Yoshikage's knife. There are at least a dozen of them ripped into her skin, some narrower and flatter where the knife sunk deep in, others jagged and wider from a more reckless swipe of the blade. Each and every one of them is, without a doubt, disfiguring; some are thick and raised, others concave and off-color around the edges.
Just the sight of them tells a gruesome story. Kira had gotten cleaner and neater with his killing as he'd grown older, more refined and more professional in accomplishing his terrible aims. But he'd been young when he'd killed her, and she'd been his first — at a glance alone, the scarring makes it apparent that there had been very little finesse in what he'd done to her.
There, too, is the evidence of a struggle. The first one hadn't killed her. The second one hadn't, either. She doesn't remember how many it took; maybe that's only to be expected. She doesn't remember much of anything from that moment, except that it hurt more than anything in the world, and the carpet had scratched her cheek, and she'd prayed and prayed that Rohan wouldn't cry and make a sound.
Her shoulders are shaking, wings trembling. It shouldn't be so hard, doing this. But it leaves her feeling raw and vulnerable anyway, eyes closed and chin low, and she doesn't even realize that she's holding her breath until her lungs start to burn, wobbling on a tightrope of anticipation for Mista's reaction, whatever it might end up being.]