[ Possibility turns over in the spying glass of his mind. Not the kind that sows hope in the wound's edge of the apocalypse, unscarred by their arrival, but the kind that looms its precipice. And the human condition that begs him to look over it, to see what exists beneath. He doesn't have to say it; Sakurazuka Seishirou is always one step ahead of him. He'll know the concern dredged by the silver spoon of the Sumeragi's notice. They, all of them, were also given Sleep's magic. In the animal maw of her calling and the sacrifice made by One exists the possibility of a mirror image. To cultivate it past its infancy may lead to similar bonds, similar ends...
— his fingers twitch, the jewel-facet inlay of his marks sitting prettily in the gallery and bridge of Seishirou's hand. There is little resistance in his wrist when guided aside and away from the handkerchief. (Look, only look.) So little that he doesn't think to remove it even when the journey ends with both settled on the table.
There are still things he wants to ask. But the last tang of a dying cigarette's nostalgia bids higher.
Don't touch, or he ends up like this: half-asleep in the sworn enemy's unimpressive kitchen. ]
Alright. [ Subaru retrieves his blood-splattered teacup. Its tepid contents wet the height of his heartbeat; it'd escaped his attention, crawled secretively, destructively high in his throat. ] My last formalized contract was this...
[ And he goes on to recount the remaining days as the head of the Sumeragi, among the bellowing of dragons as they cracked Tokyo's ribs raw, teeth trailing the human belly of its innards over the land that would serve as their apocalypse. Beacons of humanity that would make anyone welcome the end, were they to look too long: a resurrected husband to be returned to ash at a desirous mother's behest; a week's worth of exorcisms at a demolished soapland condensed down into a single Sumeragi ceremony; a rash of murder at the hands of a woman believing herself to be the host of kitsune tsuki, an arbiter of slaughter for petty slights...
On and on, never as emptily as he might prefer. His schedule was as busy as a Dragon of Heaven as it was when he was clumsily thundering around his apartment trying to redress after two-hours worth of sleep. A bad habit, too nostalgic — You can, is what he thinks in the case of sleep and affordability. ]
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— his fingers twitch, the jewel-facet inlay of his marks sitting prettily in the gallery and bridge of Seishirou's hand. There is little resistance in his wrist when guided aside and away from the handkerchief. (Look, only look.) So little that he doesn't think to remove it even when the journey ends with both settled on the table.
There are still things he wants to ask. But the last tang of a dying cigarette's nostalgia bids higher.
Don't touch, or he ends up like this: half-asleep in the sworn enemy's unimpressive kitchen. ]
Alright. [ Subaru retrieves his blood-splattered teacup. Its tepid contents wet the height of his heartbeat; it'd escaped his attention, crawled secretively, destructively high in his throat. ] My last formalized contract was this...
[ And he goes on to recount the remaining days as the head of the Sumeragi, among the bellowing of dragons as they cracked Tokyo's ribs raw, teeth trailing the human belly of its innards over the land that would serve as their apocalypse. Beacons of humanity that would make anyone welcome the end, were they to look too long: a resurrected husband to be returned to ash at a desirous mother's behest; a week's worth of exorcisms at a demolished soapland condensed down into a single Sumeragi ceremony; a rash of murder at the hands of a woman believing herself to be the host of kitsune tsuki, an arbiter of slaughter for petty slights...
On and on, never as emptily as he might prefer. His schedule was as busy as a Dragon of Heaven as it was when he was clumsily thundering around his apartment trying to redress after two-hours worth of sleep. A bad habit, too nostalgic — You can, is what he thinks in the case of sleep and affordability. ]