It's not just that. I could use a couple of shirts, too; I just ripped the back out of this one.
[And suddenly this is shades of That One Nurse Trying To Treat His Wound Back In The Infirmary, and for a second it shows; he stops and holds still for just slightly too long with remembering (it's not a pen, it's a thermometer, and then suddenly there he was, Kakyoin sitting in the window), then visibly shakes it off and seems to regroup.
That's the determination that leads him to follow through where he might've once been reluctant; maybe it's something like expending the last fuck he had to give, or maybe it's about proving something to himself, but in short order he's turned away and gotten out of his notoriously expensive pants, idling around in plain soft boxers worn backwards so that his lump of tail has room to escape out of the split.
The rest of him is there, too — the talons that resemble Star Platinum's black boots, the scales that make his Stand's patterns on his legs and run up over his hips toward his ribcage. At home, he'd drop his clothes on the floor and be sure that his mom would pick them up eventually; now he folds his own in half and tosses them over some nearby empty space of surface, then absently makes like he wants to stick his hands in his pockets and stops when it occurs to him that he doesn't have them available to him anymore.]
...So. That's it.
[It sure is a tail, all right. And those sure are his wings showing through the ripped back of his shirt, and those sure are his legs, and his arms, and his all of him.]
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[And suddenly this is shades of That One Nurse Trying To Treat His Wound Back In The Infirmary, and for a second it shows; he stops and holds still for just slightly too long with remembering (it's not a pen, it's a thermometer, and then suddenly there he was, Kakyoin sitting in the window), then visibly shakes it off and seems to regroup.
That's the determination that leads him to follow through where he might've once been reluctant; maybe it's something like expending the last fuck he had to give, or maybe it's about proving something to himself, but in short order he's turned away and gotten out of his notoriously expensive pants, idling around in plain soft boxers worn backwards so that his lump of tail has room to escape out of the split.
The rest of him is there, too — the talons that resemble Star Platinum's black boots, the scales that make his Stand's patterns on his legs and run up over his hips toward his ribcage. At home, he'd drop his clothes on the floor and be sure that his mom would pick them up eventually; now he folds his own in half and tosses them over some nearby empty space of surface, then absently makes like he wants to stick his hands in his pockets and stops when it occurs to him that he doesn't have them available to him anymore.]
...So. That's it.
[It sure is a tail, all right. And those sure are his wings showing through the ripped back of his shirt, and those sure are his legs, and his arms, and his all of him.]