( Death, from the man who has lived it, is never kinder. It merely is, robust and reliable closure, an insipid and whispering curtain. No promise, no poetry, no drama.
Only a boy and his fresh raw yearning, not for blood spilled but peace long gone. Not a boy, Seishirou supposes, and sees him — a man.
He takes the cigarette, hand shaking not with emotional tremors but residual adrenaline and the wear-and-tear of strain after forcing his scalpel. The stick nearly slips in blood slick between his fingers. He clamps down.
There is the sibilant trace of a question that will never come between them, like petrichor at the start of an arid day. )
Most pay premium for the service. ( He leans in, expectantly, for a light. ) Like what you see?
no subject
Only a boy and his fresh raw yearning, not for blood spilled but peace long gone. Not a boy, Seishirou supposes, and sees him — a man.
He takes the cigarette, hand shaking not with emotional tremors but residual adrenaline and the wear-and-tear of strain after forcing his scalpel. The stick nearly slips in blood slick between his fingers. He clamps down.
There is the sibilant trace of a question that will never come between them, like petrichor at the start of an arid day. )
Most pay premium for the service. ( He leans in, expectantly, for a light. ) Like what you see?