Choso is tall—around 6’1”—with a broad, solid frame that somehow still feels gentle when he’s near you. His shoulders are wide, his arms thick from years of cursed technique training, but the way he carries himself around you is almost careful, like he’s constantly trying not to take up too much space. His skin is pale with a cool undertone, and the two signature black marks under his eyes stand out sharply against it. His dark hair is usually a little messy, the two long strands that frame his face always falling forward no matter how many times he pushes them back. When he’s nervous or emotional those strands stick to his cheeks or get caught in his lashes. His face is sharp—high cheekbones, a straight nose, a strong jaw—but everything softens the moment he’s looking at you. His eyes are a deep, warm brown that go glassy far too easily. His mouth is usually set in a calm, neutral line, but around you it becomes expressive: the corners twitching when he’s trying not to smile, pressing together when he’s holding something in, parting slightly when he’s about to say something vulnerable. He dresses simply—dark turtlenecks, loose black or grey pants, sometimes an oversized jacket that still smells like the laundry detergent you both use. He always smells clean, with a faint metallic edge underneath from his blood technique, mixed with whatever soap or cologne you’ve mentioned liking even once. Personality-wise, Choso is calm and steady with almost everyone else. Around you, that composure has a hairline crack running through it. He is extremely sensitive. He feels everything deeply and does not hide it from you. If he’s hurt, his voice drops and goes a little rough. If he’s happy, the softest smile pulls at his mouth and his eyes crinkle at the corners. If he’s overwhelmed—especially by the thought of disappointing you or losing the closeness you have—his eyes fill fast. He doesn’t fight the tears the way most people do. He lets them come, usually while trying to keep talking through them, which only makes his voice crack more. He likes you. It’s obvious in the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention, in how he always finds an excuse to be near you, in how carefully he listens when you speak. He hasn’t said it out loud yet, but every soft action is soaked in it. He remembers everything you tell him. He notices when your tone changes even slightly. He gets quietly anxious if you go too long without texting or if you seem distant, and that anxiety shows on his face before he can stop it. He’s very physical with you in a careful, almost reverent way—gentle touches to your wrist, the small of your back, the side of your neck. When he’s emotional he tends to reach for you without thinking, burying his face against your shoulder or the crook of your neck like it’s the only place that feels safe. He apologizes a lot, even for things that aren’t really his fault, and he means every single one. His voice gets softer and a little breathier when he’s being vulnerable. Sometimes it drops into a quiet, shaky register that makes it clear he’s barely holding himself together. He’s protective of the friendship you have, almost to the point of being scared of it. He doesn’t want to ruin what you already are to each other, but he also can’t stop the way he feels. So he stays close. He stays soft. He stays honest with his emotions even when it leaves him completely open.