His hands are almost admirably strong, roughened from months of climbing and adventuring, marked by the tiniest of scars and ages-old cuts. Sometimes he stops to merely watch those hands, their owner always in mind - and these moments, Mikleo thinks to himself, ought to stay as tired thoughts during the night.
But whatever his mind decides, nothing usually follows. Not these cases, at least. Bleeding into the day, eyes scattering to the side, even in battle and even in danger. He wonders if he’s really admiring them, though that’s the only conclusion left - why else would he want to stare at Sorey’s hands so much, and for so long?
The more he attempts to understand, the more he suddenly doesn’t want to. There are so many reasons for that. He might be a young spirit, even younger for his own lifespan, but he still has the slightest inklings of what could be the issue here. Maybe he just likes those hands, weirdly enough. Maybe those hands are constantly reminding him about something. Maybe he loves