( it isn't asking for permission--more like asking for forgiveness, when esikko touches whatever the fuck it is he touches, whatever it is he thinks he can reach inside of him and feel. despite his disbelief, he feels it all the same, like a cold hand in the early morning hours, fingers tracing the ridges of his spine, beneath the seams of damaged and healthy skin alike. a little like there's someone inside of his own skin with him, someone curious and eager, someone that makes him feel--alien, there, for a moment, lips pressed together against a sound, like he could tear a hand in and burn the intrusion out of himself.

he probably wouldn't have given permission, anyway--not that he thinks it would have stopped esikko, anyway. but he doesn't lash out, doesn't boil up with anger, either: too late for that, and not like he feels anger, either. just something odd, and strange, like they've shared something intimate that he's not sure he likes.

a scoff of breath, stubborn and bated. ) Yeah... alive. The soul is willing, the body isn't.

( but his gaze slides, moves away from esikko to look into his lap, like he's--embarrassed, or something, like he doesn't like it being called out like that.

better, then, to focus on what else they have here. more information. )

...Maybe it's like that, then. ( a brief glance up, then down again. ) Warm, because the soul is there, even a little bit. But maybe the body is different.