*killua's fingers explore the junction between kalluto's shoulder and neck, thumb running back and forth along his collarbone as he regales him with his experience. his skin feels unnaturally smooth and perfect, free from the scars of his harsh training -- another side effect of the room, he assumes. like they're made of plastic like everything else.

but kalluto is not made of plastic. he's more real now than he's ever been, his words flowing like poetry, quivering like a blossoming flower in his palm. he's never seen him so open, so raw.

killua's breath hitches slightly before he responds.*

so you touched yourself.