there’s a countenance to violet hues of grief, and it is replaced by a sullen kind of fondness given time... concealed into nothing, and abiding by nothing. he finds the stifling feeling in the stark-white hospital room, and it is unavoidable as it is unforgiving. there’s an reciprocated, eerie silence in the way shotaro's hand cards through her hair, a wooden comb trails after the path curated by his smoothed-down fingers. even as the strands of noir get caught in tangles at ends, they evidentially get brushed out, losing collective pieces along the way. it resembles them: matted, festering, then unfurling... coming undone at the seems, abdicated in the process bound to only them, and the roles they have both have played. here, she granted permission to him, and only this once.
the inhospitable air commands the space, and grows increasingly thicker... it's to where shotaro isn't sure if he's even breathing, while wakana looks better than she did yesterday. there's a supple glow which tinges her fingertips with pink warmth, placed delicately down on the plush of her lap, slowly reprieved from a life of only porcelain... but that isn't the case, is it? the bed springs creak from a body lurching, but it's never hers. it's only playing house, or playing dolls, in better words. for the sake of her comfort, he had relinquished his stifling tie, placed his hat upon the stool by his side, and wears his best manners in place. the window has been opened today as well, but fuuto's breeze is watchful, dismissive of any hard work that's to be in vain. princes wakana smells good. it's a feminine freshness, but because it’s a fragrance the detective cannot pinpoint from his fleeting thoughts, it's left untouched under the meat of his tongue, held between his teeth. the facility's hallway smelled unlike here... she must've retained her grace, due to how the room looks brighter now, too. he recalls how soft her hair is, and how she breathes is reassuring. she’s alive from a price paid, nothing goes without a sacrifice. it's then where the detective smiles softly, all incessant thoughts stilled by relief in contrast to the vile truth: thank goodness. thank goodness she's alright. thank goodness.
but somewhere in the distance is a presence that isn't either of theirs, and he wonders if he's watching his sister be taken care of by his request, a pass of the baton or under his over-preened wing. with it in mind, an exhale unpins itself from his lungs... feeling indebted by the lack of a mirror in their vicinity. he cannot bear to see himself right now, how exhausted he must look... this isn't like him, not at all, when there's still an undeniable avoidance glazed in the backs of his eyes. instead, his haggard gaze remains down-turned, focused where the sunlight paints shadows of her back, and of himself... it's an unrequited abyss that he cannot plunder into when wakana's sigh doesn't go unnoticed. they're both cognizant of routine motions, beyond the perpetual strife they've endured this past year. indeed, right now, they're a caricature of domestic bliss... and he begins to wonder if he is played for a bigger fool than he already is.
however, shotaro doesn't mean to crumple his wound grip at a strand's end, nor does he mean to tremble when he releases, either. he's almost hesitant to handle her any further than this. even when he bleeds at the pads of his fingertips, he obediently laps it up at her signal. this is what's meant for him, because wakana doesn't tip-toe over his reluctance, she wears it instead— a hospital robe in guise of a wedding gown. shotaro wonders if it’s a metaphor for the both of them, where unrest settles in the deep pit of his core... ah, i must be sick, too.
' ... you look beautiful. ' shotaro mutters past his doubt, rehearsed with a lit of powdery admiration. his tongue doesn't move elsewhere in that regard... frayed by a red flame that can't be blown out. he pushes the nausea aside, now's not the time to get her worked up. the stray strands of hair seemingly fall from around his index finger, cognate to free-flowing silk— to how no matter how he may tend to keep control, it slips away effortlessly in the end from his white-knuckled hold. it goes without saying, how she doesn't reply, but continues to stare off to the other side of the wall. she knows it well by now what he's waiting for.
it's a metaphor of you and me. you've kept this part of you beautifully intricate for so long. this is how i knew you, and yet, i don't know you.
as shotaro hooks his fingers around tresses once more, kept in place, the comb is delicately placed upon the bedside table... his fingernail lightly cascades over her overtly soft skin, until the back of wakana's neck comes into his tremoring sightline. suddenly, he's at a loss. the man had never seen this part of her before. it's bare, none of her accessories beguile him nor the presses. here, she's as vulnerable as he is, and he's unsure if it's inherently to be revered or adverse to. while he's gulping down dryly, his heart skips. it feels like an eternity passes by as the man wavers there for a moment, his breathing grows featherlight while he moves barely further down— perhaps this is a test of courage, letting his lips finally timidly press along the center of her nape, leaving quickly as it came. it's curtained for her as he lets go... that intimacy becomes veiled behind a warm, transitory pandora's box.
they both don't say anything. they do not move. it would be far too tragic to speak anything more... he picks up the comb, and repeats it all again.
... if only the wind could pick up as well.
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