loverboy.

And maybe that’s him - maybe that’s who he is. The devil on their shoulders, the devil on his own - that’s the thing: he’s so many different people, different things. With so many demons to bear, all he can do is consume them before they consume him. 

One, he bursts open with the heel of his boot. Its throat goes concave, a line of red spit up by the loud snap of surrendered bone, ripped cartilage. Blood slushes around as he cements the job, gaze sharp when it lands on his next target. Lifting his foot away from the severed head, he hears the straining of more secondaries. 

Two is a criss-crossing of limbs, because the skeleton has its arms raised like Godzilla’s, though its reign of terror ends so quickly in. Though he doesn’t work with lighters (they wouldn’t cooperate well if something on his clothes or… reanimated flesh happened to snag), the fact that one might come in handy to light in the center of its ribcage crosses his mind. Nothing to do about that now, though.

The knife works just fine, shattering any borders between him and its draining life force. People - the still-living sort - must think of him in a similar way. Draining. Sucking the life out of those still accepting of him and feeding from those they provide or stumble upon. Yeah, right, he reminds himself. Kanon and himself have never stumbled upon anything. It’s always been a hunt, always will be. Even if he’s blissfully unaware thus far, his hunger is unusual. He’d starve if he were to purely depend on chance. 

And him? He would rot, just like every other godforsaken creature that’s tried to feed on their own meat as sustenance. The consequences dissipate when he realizes the other’s been taken a chunk out of, instincts kicking in as he redirects its attention. Before handling it himself, Kanon’s returned the favor and sliced the head clean off its shoulders. “Kanon!” His voice breaks.

Reassessing, there’s about three-four more of them coming their way. “I’ve got you. Stay,” he instructs with an open hand of warning. They’re coming from his direction, after all, and it’s not like they’ll anticipate attack from his end. And he keeps his word, the first two pieces of less appetizing cake and the last two obnoxious… but only because they’re in the way. Their heads topple over with several thunks. Refusing to let them pass him and have any further access to the one he should’ve been back to back to, he partially understands the initial jealousy. Enemy or not, he doesn’t want anyone else tasting Kanon. It shows, all over his face and written in blood. 

But it’s black, blotchy and doesn’t taste anything like what he typically appreciates. At least the ambush is over with, the end of it harder to remember as he chanced reverting to the animal impulses  that could take care of them. Lady Luck must be visiting, because the head count is clear, and he has a second to collect himself before gathering Kanon close, trying not to breathe in the scent of his shoulder. Not now. “Should get back - clean you up. Almost time… to switch, anyways. Think the coast is clear.”

He doesn't know where Cain is. His location would be impossible to discern, and asking for assistance hadn't even occurred to him. The only things on Kanon's mind were survive, don't get bitten again, and ignore the unwanted pain in his shoulder. He'll have to stop the bleeding too, if he doesn't want to die from blood loss.

His attention is caught by the shouting of his name, and by pure reflex he calls back—"Cain!"—before having to fend off yet another secondary. It becomes habitual after awhile, falling back into combat, and the right way to take off the head quickly comes naturally. The zombie falls like the others, but Kanon can't deny the furthered strain his injury causes him. At least it hadn't been his dominate side.

His partner is by his side the next time he looks, and while he takes a moment to let his heart calm down and the adrenaline to settle, he manages to breathe out, "Alright... Thanks." He doesn't like letting Cain take care of everything, doesn't like being a burden, but he at least knows his limits. And his stubbornness had never been too remarkable.

So he stands idle as Cain handles the last of the wave, cutting through them with inhuman ease. He regrets sitting aside, but a hand gingerly touching his shoulder painfully reminds him why he'd be little use anyways. Besides, watching the intensity that Cain puts into every slash of his blade, the thought that is stems from him somehow makes Kanon just a little bit happy.

When the last one falls, Kanon takes the chance to to approach him, although he only gets a few steps before Cain meets him halfway. Merely nodding in response to his suggestion, Kanon casts a wary look to the darkness briefly. "I doubt there's more waiting, otherwise they'd have attacked I think." Secondaries aren't any kind of tacticians, unless swarming counts as a strategy. "So... we should be fine to retire for the night." Turning towards camp, he trusts Cain will follow as he heads towards the medical supplies the group has accumulated.

"Do we have... disinfectant? Huh... looks like we don't. Guess bandages'll have to do--" He reaches for the roll with his left arm by instinct, but the pain that shoots down as he does stops him.

There’s no doubt in his mind that the hunger would take over, sending delays about the synapses of his brain and freezing them over further. The inferno wastes no time slowing him down and making it harder to retrieve any conceptualized versions of who he should be, or who he once was. Getting those two confused only grows easier and easier the longer he spends as a fully functional corpse. When he doesn’t eat or sate the urge to fill the blotchy holes on his tongue, the back of his mouth itches until it feels like he could spit it up.

Speaking of spitting up, a hollow moan from a dozen or so yards away startles the bushes and Cain goes into high alert, scanning the area and finding at least three secondaries closing in on their encampment. They can argue more about this later - right now, they’ve got to take care of the problem. More so, it’s his responsibility to overpower the skeletal, moving dead before they get too close. 

“Don’t move.” He says calmly, knowing they’ll bolt forwards the second they make too wide a movement. “Can you get your knife slowly?” 

Of course, it goes from ‘slowly’ to about as fast as he can go when they jump into action, spiraling towards them too fast for him to follow. Horrifying as it is, Cain is once again faced with demons, both inner and outer and only one method to get rid of them. Gunfire will attract more of them, so they’ll have to make due with the weapons they have on hand. His just so happens to be a thick blade that cuts through bone like a hot knife through butter. It’s probably just best he doesn’t think of the secondaries as anything more than ghoulish bones, because the episodic guilt might come to be too much. “Hey!” He calls over the cracking sound of its skull, his weapon’s edge piercing through shadow as it falls to the ground. “You good?” Even though Kanon can handle himself, it doesn’t hurt to ask.

There's almost nothing worse than being useless. Than feeling useless, more like. His words can't possibly do anything, or Kanon just isn't eloquent enough to make them do anything, and he can only sit by as Cain reflects bitterly on his own existence. The existence he thinks he wanted.

His own silence is suffocating, but it's through it that a moan tears and draws both their attentions. Is that—? His body tensing, Kanon squints into the darkness. He can't see anything... But they're definitely there.

"Don't move." He's lived in this kind of world for awhile, being as still as possible is the instinctive response to dealing with secondaries. His hand is already sliding to the inside of his jacket, where his primary weapon is often hidden. He doesn't bother giving an affirmative. There's no need for more noise.

But all sorts of precautions are broken the moment the skeletal creatures start charging anyways. His eyes are adjusted, and at the very least he can make out motion. It's fairly dangerous—it could be Cain—but Kanon has learned to have the utmost faith in his partner in that he wouldn't be in the path of his blade, and that he himself would never mistake Cain for one of them.

Red eyes dart to the right, and his blade flashes momentarily in the waning moonlight before embedding itself in bone. His fighting isn't elegant, it's not planned and has no form. The second one falls to the ground, he's whirling around to beat down another. Thrashing, he kicks some away, kills others, steps on the remains of ones already done in, it's all blends into one. Regressing to pure reflex, he hardly gets a moment of rest. Unlike Cain, his strength is only human and his body tires far more easily. It's a strain, but screaming muscles and sweat are better than death.

Cain's voice reaches him over the sound of undead carnage however, and Kanon takes a few breaths before calling back. "Fine! Fine as usual, anyways." His breaths are ragged and perspiration is beading on his forehead, but he's used to it. He's not so fit as to get through a wave of secondaries without breaking a sweat, unfortunately. He cuts down another offender, slicing through the brittle link between head and shoulders. How many are there? He can't tell, but--

A searing pain rips through his shoulder, and his head twists to meet the lifeless gaze of the maw embedded in his flesh. His arms comes swinging at it, knife in hand, impaling the skull and forcing it away. In the process, a chunk of his shoulder must have been bitten right off, because the burning only intensified, and the secondary stops for a brief moment, as if to finish devouring its morsel. Kanon takes this chance to sever its head before it can even swallow

Even from behind his hands and his senses, cut-off now, he can hear the doubt and insecurity in the other’s voice. Being able to point it out doesn’t equate to being able to pick a reason why in this case, so for now, Cain is out of luck. So rarely does he stew in the consequences of his actions because of how far he’s fallen - too long, and he’ll fade completely. Dying is one thing, starving is the next… and then it’s a lot less like a white light and more like a black hole. Ripping off your own skin and feasting upon it, not feeling the pain it should ignite… 

Such is the fate of a secondary. And behind the blackness of stolen vision, Cain fears another metamorphosis above all else. After all of this, after everything that they’ve done, how could he let it fall to nothing and leave Kanon behind? 

The answer is simple: he can’t. And he won’t. So when the other delves in self-doubt, he tries to pull away from the death-induced haze (how it is that combination of words even applies is hard to swallow, but he’d rather gulp down something else) the best he can. 

“Details… were all pretty confusing - I don’t know, I was gonna just… He was right there,” Speaking in tongues, for all he knows. Remembering word for word responses when he succumbs to hunger isn’t just a skill he possesses any longer. “I couldn’t — I was too… I was really—“ (What, hungry? Aren’t you always?) Choking on his explanation, he jerks his head back and tries to stay resolute in this decision. “Like I always am. Can’t help it.” Crestfallen, the zombie steels himself and tries to absorb the information being given.

‘Nothing is your fault.’ Yeah, right - that’s the best joke he’s heard since the apocalypse started. 

Oh, never mind. He can’t claim that; not when he doesn’t remember half of it. Ha-ha, right?

“Doesn’t matter who I am to you or who you think I am - it’s still my fault. And you’re hurting all over again - because of me.” Maybe not physically, but the mentality of needing to fix himself is nothing healthy. “Nothing to fix, Kanon. You’re fine. I’m the one who needs to…” His throat goes tight. “Stop giving in all the time. I’m sorry, I promise— I know you did this for me, okay? I’m not gonna let you down.”

He wishes he were being modest. He wishes his insistence on nothing being Cain's fault was sugar-coated words to make him feel better. But the reality that Kanon and Kanon alone knows weighs his words with truth. Watching, hearing Cain struggle with his nature, his hunger, drives the knife even deeper. "You never wanted to be like this. You never wanted to go through this." Kanon imagines his lips moving, these words tumbling out, except not a sound escapes him. He'll probably never say them.

His anger and jealousy have all but melted away. Another interaction with Cato may spark it all over again, but for now Kanon's petty feelings of possession pale in comparison to ensuring that the suffering Cain has to go through is minimum. "It's fine..." he tries to reassure him. If he were speaking to Cato, it would certainly not be fine, it would never be fine, but to Cain, it's okay. Everything is okay if it's Cain. "I don't blame you, I never blamed you." This had always been true, at least. His irritation always stemmed back to Cato; the zombie had never crossed his mind as the one at fault.

It's hard to respond while simultaneously keeping up a lie. Cain blaming himself, finding problems with himself, Kanon wants to whisk it all away. He wants to see him happy without any troubles binding him. But it's hard to even think that, when it's him who put the shackles on in the first place. How hypocritical. "I--but--" Kanon's words are cut short, both by his own loss and the other male's continuation.

Doing this for him... that's right. That's what he'd told him. The willpower to resist is drained instantly with just one line, and Kanon's eyes are drawn to the ground.

Because in any other scenario, he should be. But Cain doesn’t know all the specifics - he doesn’t know that this really isn’t all his own fault, that this gift is a curse bestowed upon him by none other than his beloved. “Maybe not before! But now? You love this, too?” Not thinking to lower his voice, he stumbles into a state of frustrated decay. Pupils dilating in dark holes, mouth dry and stomach churning, he almost dribbles in response. Heightened emotions, as of late, are associated with feeding. Saliva is welling towards the back of his mouth, eyes going foggy. 

No— not now! I won’t! 

But maybe that’s just it: these tests of faith that continue to haunt their every conversation… Cain’s infernal, repetitive hunger that finds endless means to an end, are his only constant. These cravings never leave. “How am I supposed to believe I don’t make you sick when—“ It all comes together with the last statement, as he’s always been a bit of a slow learner when it comes to intuition. Even if that’s picked up since they’ve started a new life and he’s been forced to manipulate to keep them on the right path, it doesn’t apply quite the same to Kanon. 

“You’re… But— he doesn’t hurt as long as you do.” Oh, great job. Make him sound more appetizing, while you’re at it. “Doesn’t taste… as good, either, but… I don’t - I don’t wanna make you hurt. I don’t - sometimes… I don’t know. I’m sorry— look, I’m sorry… I won’t—“ 

Both palms push their way into his eye sockets, rubbing furiously and clutching at his scalp and hair with the tips of his fingers. He shakes his head over and over no, a sensory overload giving the impression of drowning. It shouldn’t matter that he can’t breathe, right? Because he’s hurt Kanon in more ways than one? He doesn’t need to, anyways - he’s a dead thing. Dead things aren’t worth breath, right? 

Get ahold of yourself… 

Now, before, it doesn't matter. Kanon wants to grasp Cain's shoulders and hammer it into him that every part of Cain, any Cain, blind hunger finding a vessel in the flesh that once belonged to Cain, all of it is who he loves. But instead he clenches his hands together, and his jaw tenses before letting out his thoughts in choppy, ineloquent sentences.

"I do! Now, before, you're still Cain! You'll always be Cain! I don't care if you turn into anyone else—anything else because you'll be Cain to me! And I will always love Cain!" Kanon isn't sure what he's spewing, and he doesn't care to check as long as it conveys his feelings. Cain has a lot of reason to doubt him, it's a miracle he hasn't yet, in fact he should. If he knew half of what Kanon did, about Before, he would. But he can't question Kanon's feelings. He can't lose faith in the one thing Kanon is sure of, what's led him to do everything he's done!

He can feel heat and wetness welling up in his eyes, but stubbornly he refuses to let anything fall. No, he can't start crying, that's too pathetic. He won't cry, he's not going to let anything but his raw emotion translated into the best words he can muster affect Cain's thoughts.

Then all at once, with his declaration Cain's is cut off. The tension in the air dissipates, and instead it lingers only stagnant as the other's words falter. Kanon can feel his shoulders relax, but rather than relief washing over him, it's as if all of the energy from before has been left to sink into his heart and slowly weigh it down.

"He... heals faster?"

Why? How? Why can Cato do something he can't—physically can't? Looking at the flesh of his hands, his arms, and dazedly reaching up to feel his cheek, Kanon feels utter disgust. Why is he so damageable? "I... I don't know how to speed that up. Maybe medication could have but now I can't—then... black magic?" He wracks his brain for a solution, anything anything he can do in this apocalyptic setting. "There's got to be a ritual, some kind of spell or-or something..." Lost in his own thoughts, he almost misses the rest of Cain's words.

"...look, I'm sorry—" What? Why is Cain apologizing—it's not his fault. Nothing is Cain's fault. "I'll... fix myself, it's alright. It's not your fault Cain, didn't I say that?" How distraught his partner looks when he finally works up the courage to face him catches Kanon off guard, and by instinct he goes towards him. How fast the mood had shifted doesn't occur to him, only that Cain is upset, and... it's his fault.

“Okay.” Agreeably, he shuffles a tad - even while nervous quirks and mannerisms have been reborn in Cain’s subconscious mind, they’re only half of what he was. The same could be said for his state of being now, his sense of humor, his crooked smiles… they’re all stained. Stained by blood, by oblivion, by the choices Kanon didn’t let him make. “I like them. I like it here.” He’s right, it really is best that they don’t start narrowing down forgiving resources. Cato just happens to be one of those. 

One, because the regal male seems to adore the mirage his face proposes, and two, because he heals. For whatever reason, he’s an active survivor of a feeding frenzy Cain wasn’t sure he’d come away from. Their first companion, Kiel, is something else entirely. Finding him and his creatures to be a joy, the zombie’s mouth twitches into the tiniest of smiles. Couldn’t they just as easily have wound up with a bunch of hunters with vendettas against the dead and what they’ve done? Instead, they have a fighting chance - more than that. Their party is brimming with advantages; they’d be ridiculous to put it at risk. 

But the next part is something he doesn’t really expect. ‘I could deal with him if he just hadn’t done that’… What? Eyes going slightly narrow at the clipped reply, Cain makes no mistake in tensing and parting his lips in confusion. “Talking about what? All of a sudden you’re not cool with the fact that I’ve gotta—“ This is when he should pause and think about it, right? Contemplate how disturbing the next sentence sounds? Wrong. “Eat people to keep going?” ‘Survive’ just isn’t the right word. Not anymore. “Now you don’t wanna talk about it?”

Rude, creepy and irritating could also equate to strange, unfamiliar and interesting - but shouldn’t he be more understanding? Shouldn’t he remember that sometimes he thinks with his stomach? (It’s always been that way, only now in a separate sense.) “If he hadn’t done that… What’d he do?”

Isn’t this when his heart is supposed to speed up? Oh, wait… “You mean what I did? All the shit that I’ve done?

Immediately the sharp expression on Cain's face pierces Kanon deeper than any blade. As his rebukes come just as harshly as his gaze had, panic is settling in. What had he done? "N-No! No, I would never-- that's not it--!" As futile as his attempts may be, the moment Cain insinuates that any part of who he is now bothers Kanon, the blue-haired male has to speak up. His mouth hangs open, lips moving in words unsaid, as Cain continues on. This isn't--he hadn't meant to--that isn't what he'd said!

Blindly grasping for words, any words (right ones, wrong ones, any), Kanon finds every idea clogging up at the back of his throat. No! It's not Cain's fault, it's never Cain's fault, there's not a fiber of his being that would ever blame Cain for anything! It's all Cato's fault, it's Cato who's the blame; when had he ever accused Cain? His hands are shaking, and despite the chill of the night his palms are breaking out in sweat. "Every single part of you, all of it, I accept all of it! I love all of you, everything, I'd never have any problems with you. That's why--"

"It's not you. It's him! He offered himself, right? I'd never blame you for doing it, it's not your fault, it's his fault, why would he do that? How could he do that, I can't stand it!" God, what is he saying? He doesn't dare to look Cain anymore, instead on talking, speaking, doing everything in his power to convey his feelings with words alone. "I'm happy to kill for you, I'm happy to make sure you can eat and continue on, none of that has ever mattered to me! I-I just..." He's starting to calm down, if only enough to be more conscious of the things spilling from his mouth.

That’s right - this is a gift. (It’s a reminder he forces down his throat because sometimes it doesn’t fit just right in his head.) But these gifts don’t come without price or sacrifice, and he’s prepared (and armed) to utilize both to the best of his ability. Even if hunger often gets the best of him, that doesn’t mean he’s unaware of how to use it. The strength he gains in starved trances is inevitably more than a typical boost or burst of adrenaline, and it acts as a fatal weapon: one that rips flesh and shreds remains between razor edged teeth.

At least the window of opportunity for another (possibly) unnecessary death is grazed away with Kanon’s stammering. “Uh-huh,” he muses, lost in the fond memory of the old leader’s taste. “Took care’a him, didn’t we?” 

But it’s so much less about the deadliness of him. Blood falls on Kanon’s hands because on occasion, Cain thinks the him before death might’ve wanted to be less… volatile or dangerous. Even if it’s a good thing now, appreciating it proves difficult when he strains to recall a past life. “You did, anyhow. Like you take care of everything and take care of me.” Somewhat distant when he speaks, gratitude colors the dull tone of his voice. No usual lilts - he’s too calm, too vigilant. “So I’d do anything drastic if you asked. But I’ll hold back if you want that.”

Oh — some things? And it just so happened to unravel to where Cato told Kanon of their altercation? “What kinda things?”

It sounds more personal when he puts it that way, but what was he supposed to do? Even thinking about the way Cato waved himself before him like fresh meat dangling on hooks - god… “Sounds like… weird thing to talk about.” He tries to avoid the slurring of words, but they’re stuck in the sludge of sweeter memory. “Mm… Wanted me to. Just about put it in my mouth for me.” Quirking a somewhat languid brow, he shoots Kanon a vacant glance. “That why you hate him?” 

Cain often speaks about doing what he asks. Gratitude is evident in every word, but instead of invoking appreciation in the blue-haired male, each word is another stab of guilt. Took care of him... Kanon hesitates only briefly at that statement. He wonders if what he's doing can really be called "taking care" of anyone. Rather than Cain repaying him by abiding his wishes, it's Kanon who should spend his entire life devoted to the other. What Cain doesn't know--what he'll never know--is that every one of Kanon's actions serve as his secret repentance.

"Thanks, I do--I mean, I do want you to... hold back. We should lay low in this group for at least awhile longer I think. I don't want a grudge to jeopardize our survival or anything." He skirts around certain things, purposely brushing them off. Just more and more ways to keep the truth shrouded. Nowadays he can ease his conscience with the thought that he isn't really lying, along with other cowardly technicalities. (But he's allowing past lies fester, and is that any better?).

Now is where it gets complicated once more. Lying, despite his current situation, has never been Kanon's forte. Being vague and staying vague is likewise not one of his strong points in the least. "Y-You know... things... you do on night watch." Things that include tackling Cato to the ground, and fisting his shirt in a way that reveals scars Kanon is oh-so-familiar with. Things that end with his hands clamped around the other male's throat, constricting it as if the tighter he squeezes the less true his words will become ("Cain sure bites hard."). But Cain can't know this either. He can't know that Kanon has already endangered their standing.

He wishes his feelings of shame and guilt would consume him for once, but as Cain describes in few words his time with Cato, the ugly feelings in his heart and the sickness in his stomach mix to an unholy degree. He doesn't want to imagine Cain eating someone else. He doesn't want to imagine Cain eating Cato, and having the very person live to tell about it. When he opens his mouth to speak once more, Kanon almost anticipates having to force down bile from his throat, except his voice comes out as effortlessly as always.

"Stop talking about it." It comes out more snappy than he'd meant it to. "Yes it is. He's also annoying and rude and creepy and irritating but... I could deal with him if he just hadn't done that!" How could Cato have offered himself? How could he do something as unforgivable as that?

At a loss, his jaw sets. Typically the opposite of serious, his lack of a profound response in just a moment should relay the corpse’s feelings on the matter. Naturally, he’ll side with Kanon no matter the circumstances. So far, he simply can’t think of too large a reason to dislike the male other than his profuse, obsessive attitude towards them. (Oh, he comes to the conclusion belatedly - probably not ‘them’. Him.) But his partner is right, they haven’t been really alone since his last feeding session. Which, currently, is best not to think about. 

It’s not likely he’ll serve as a good eye on lookout if he’s lost in the frenzy himself. If anything, he might lose track of his senses and head before just joining the rest if a swarm falls through. God, this place is dangerous - and the secondaries have this knack for closing in the second you feel safe somewhere. 

“Pretty cool that nobody’s trying to boss everyone around yet. That’s usually the first one to go.” All things considering, people have joined them thus far - their group with Kiel and Cato having attracted others with nowhere to go… but still. Some have leadership ingrained in their blood and won’t rest until they feel in control of a situation. All in all, Cain is consistently happy getting rid of threats in their way and is grateful there has yet to be one in their group. Then again, this poses a question. “Really? How come?”

And a better proposal: “Do you want me to do something about it?”

Usually groups of humans all succumb to some kind of disarray, or at least that's how it's portrayed in books. It's been awhile since he's been able to read one, but Kanon marvels at the realization that no one has particularly vouched for power amongst them. Perhaps the reason lies in the fact that not all of them are particularly human exactly. But that's okay, if they all work together for the good of the whole, they shouldn't need a leader of it's just them...

Ah, but he's never had experience like this, so maybe it won't work quite like he thinks. Thinking too hard would hurt his head probably, so for now Kanon sweeps it to the back of his mind. "Yeah, we lucked out this time. The last group had someone like that, right? But he was actually the last one." Idly reminiscing, Kanon doesn't think he's too spiteful a person, but that one... was irritating. He hadn't felt a shred of guilt slaughtering him for Cain to feast, though he supposes he never really does.

The next part... is the hard part. A part of Kanon regrets bringing it up the moment the words leave his mouth, but most of him feels too antsy to let it go unaddressed. As he mulls over how to explain his feelings though, Cain's offer catches him by surprise.

"Wh-What?! N-No... you don't have to do anything drastic," he sputters, struggling to make sense of his own reactions. Sure he hates Caro, can't stand him really, but... the only thing Cain could do is to not do something. As in, not eat him. But that doesn't sit well with him either, because restricting Cain's hunger is something he's vowed not to ever do. (He'd made him like this, so it'd be too cruel to hold him back even more). Besides, if anything happened to Cato the group's unity would be in jeopardy. Sure he himself had almost... but it's not like he actually did.

"I just... I had night watch with him first, and uhm, things happened..." How does he ask this? "And uh..." He steels his nerves and glances at the other.

One thing is for certain: this group is much more engaging than their last. Intriguing, even — worth keeping around? He’d suppose only time will tell. Now, he’s not one to pull the strings for fun. In fact, Cain’s never been one to tug or control in a main room… but when the opportunity rests in two palms ridden by decay, he can’t resist opportunities so unholy. It is what it is, and he’s thrilled to get to know them better.

If, for some reason, things don’t work out and he’s forced to feed to quell a hunger they can’t sate by any other name, so be it. 

But it doesn’t seem to be going that way, as now he’s been handed two almost impenetrable sources to taste. Their newest addition - Cato, his name an imprint just as much as his distinct face - is ever the fan of being consumed to some degree. And even if he finds it strange that someone is so dedicated to a past life or a similar face (he doesn’t know for sure - just that he tastes as good as he smells and doesn’t die or drain), it’s a worthy investment. 

“Looks like we’ve got the night shift, huh? All alone,” he hums, arms folded across his chest. “Just like old times.” Just as bloody, but maybe a little more entertaining. ”Speaking of old, whadd’ya think of the new crew?” 

Although he can't say all night watches are good. His first one had been a disaster, absolutely awful. Cato is an unbearable human being, and Kanon still isn't sure how he managed the night. (In truth, it's debatable whether he'd really "made it" considering what had transpired but-- an argument for another time). What really stuck with him, and what still sticks with him, is what Cato had claimed. The scars on his body... had been much too similar to his own. Identical, rather, which only means one thing

Cain had eaten Cato--but he hadn't killed him. For so long that had been a privilege he alone possessed, but now... The thought had gnawed at him ever since. He hadn't brought it up to Cain afterwords, and hasn't, but now that they have night shift together it's at the very least on the forefront of his mind.

"Heh, yeah. It's been a little while since we've been all by ourselves." All alone... their survival chances have increased greatly with their new group, but if they could have been alone for longer... Kanon mentally shakes his head. They're alone now, and that's what he should focus on. "The new crew... well we've certainly found some unique people in such a desolate place. I think I like a lot of them." Unfortunately he suspects they don't all return his sentiments. "Just..." He hesitates, but his childish side takes over.

Just belongs to the hunger, this not at all foreign sensation that surges and steals, forcing will to surrender. Instinct is the making of his parts, tied together by stitch and the will of necromancy, its pull nearly gravitational and equally inevitable. The kiss is reciprocated, as it always is, and it might be some sort of miracle than he can still recall it at all. Such an exchange usually fades to black when Cain is finished, consciousness a dull hum. Sight is blanketed by a fog that does little to quell his appetite, temperatures hardly reach him, touch itself is a stigma he only understands between sharp teeth. And what a concept it is: to touch. Stolen from him is a previous warmth that never would’ve left, hotblooded as he is hotheaded… the only fragments still remaining dead and mangled by insatiable truths. 

Their exchange is beyond salvageable, ‘unorthodox’ hardly covering the half of it. To feed from Kanon and give nothing (that he’s aware of, at least) in return is hardly a fair trade - but it’s something he’s forced himself to accept. Getting used to the hunger may not be a skill he has the capacity for, but he has reduced, if not obliterated second thoughts about it. Without guilt, Cain is a faultless weapon. Hesitation can’t buckle his limbs while hunting, and worry doesn’t cloud his head when impulses carry a compelling sea smoke over each one of his senses. (And oh how they surrender, it all tastes so sweet - you could go again… but it’s not safe. That’s your goal, remember? Stay safe. For the both of you. Or was it to make sure that the both of you were safe?)  

I’m alive. As a concrete thought, it’s odd - not a phrase that everyone is capable of claiming, nowadays. Cain certainly can’t.

Even if they’re supposed to stay safe, if his only purpose is to eat and keep moving, just what qualities of a ‘living’ being does he have? “I know,” he assures, aware of what it means to be alive only in the short bursts of full reanimation that Kanon spares him in agonizing episodes. “Gotta keep you that way.” A little coyly, still content with the meal his metabolism so quickly wastes away, he sets the other carefully to rest and shifts to lay on his side. Propped up on an elbow to look over Kanon, he watches the wound and applies only the slightest bit of pressure with leftover fabric. The bleeding needs to stop, after all… he took a lot out of him. 

That being said in a literal sense, the collar of his shirt still tainted with the macabre scene from just moments ago. 

Contribute to the ‘mood’? There’s no mood. Just consuming - he knows that. An absolute and constant lack of lucid memories from the time he’s spent ‘digging in’ explains it well enough, no further elaboration necessary. “You were perfect.” He says, unsure of what blanks he’s supposed to fill in now. Leaning over to rest one hand on Kanon’s bare chest (and gently so), he measures his breathing. 

He just wishes he could measure the change— even if it would bury him then and there, suffocate him in the greatest sins. For now, though, he doesn’t think as much. Cain doesn’t think this is wrong and has nothing to compare it to. All he knows are the words so forcefully carved into his head - how they feel, how they make up his reality.  

“Nowhere else to go, remember?” Teasing, he gently drags his thumb down Kanon’s lower lip and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Just rest. You need it.”

Beginning, middle, or end, each has their own good points. Kanon almost likes to compare the conclusion to this taboo practice to afterglow, except rather than pleasure his body is wrung with pain. It's dulling though, and as long as there's pain he can clear his mind of anything that isn't the here and now. Closing his eyes, he's not sure if it's his body that's numbing or his senses themselves. Not that it really matters, he notes to himself lethargically.

He can't find the words to speak with, so instead Kanon simply smiles as he feels himself lowered to the ground. Yeah... he has to stay alive. Unless it's what Cain wants, Kanon wouldn't let himself die anyways. He doesn't deserve it... and Cain doesn't deserve to be alone (or maybe it's him who doesn't want to face even death by himself).

The press of cloth on his injuries makes him wince, teeth clenching before Kanon forces his jaw to relax. A reflex, he supposes, since since Cain is helping him he doesn't want to appear in too much pain (ironic considering the reason he's in this condition). But then and now are different, Cain's intentions are different, and Kanon leaves it at that.

'Perfect'...? Kanon isn't sure how he managed to pull off being perfect at being eaten, but there's no harm meant by the statement so he accepts it graciously, forcing his eyes open to look at his partner properly. "Thanks... you too...?" The compliment probably doesn't quite go both ways, but it only seems fair to reciprocate. Cain hadn't killed him, and Kanon had successfully received his secret relief from the affair, so it wouldn't be too abstract to return the sentiment even if he couldn't properly explain it.

As Cain's hand lays on his chest, the contrast between the careful action and the voracious hunger of just moments ago is enough to invoke perhaps a twisted sense of affection in him. Cain... was never someone who wanted to hurt others. He was someone who could charm anyone, and reminded Kanon daily of why he fell in love with him. (What he isn't, what he never wanted to be, is what Kanon had turned him into). And while Kanon embraces every aspect of this Cain, he can't help but find solace in the ones that emulate his former self.  Even if these very traits had been planted by him.

Cracking another smile at the mention of Cain technically having nowhere else to go, Kanon lets such woeful thoughts slip away. "Guess you're right. I just... like asking you to stay." It feels like something a lover would say. When the other's lips touch the side his mouth, and bid him to rest however, the weariness Kanon had been staving off begins to drag his eyelids down once more. What a shame... "I would've liked t' lay with you... and talked... a lil' longer..."

Perhaps to another victim of this plagued society a survival group would be ideal, a blessing amongst the despair so deeply rooted. How unfortunate, that a blessing of this degree could occur to someone such as himself.

It truly wasn’t a blessing at all.

He’d never asked for anyone else, nor did he long to be “rescued”. The only true gift he’d been granted was the eventual expulsion of the human race, a purification in progress—-slow, but oh so gratifying. The trivial sense of “survival” was nothing but a foolish decision, ridding oneself of sin was the only viable answer. His time couldn’t come soon enough.

Those were his principles, but in the group Cato remained regardless. It held his interest, in a way—he looked over them like a boy watched ants burn through a magnifying glass. Cato linked his fingers behind his back, stepping through a garden of entrails. One member of the party, however, did not fit such an ant-like description. Prominent chin, hair as dark as their starless sky with a mouth that could tear through him whole—a replica of past memories and gorgeous tragedy. One who called himself Cain.

His name simply did not matter, words of comfort held no meaning. The desire to be destroyed, that kind of eternal pleasure was all that was required. And Cain (for now) could provide it. His lifeless body was not perfect by any means, but its beauty lingered despite that. His hunger lingered. The prince recalled the experience, blissful and painful (tear into me again, please please please) scars plentiful on his body, decorating him like a painting.To be so lasciviously devoured, his face went hot at the recollection.

If only, he thinks briefly, I could be indulged immediately. His skin twitches for it. It seems possible, if the dead male was also picked for duty.

Disappointment sinks in quick and all expression even hinting at excitement is drowned out by a look of boredom. A name he can’t recall, with a face he chooses not to remember. It’s an ant, this time. 

The blue haired male exclaims his name, shocked (perhaps repulsed?). “That’s correct."  his tone of voice is dull and without interest. “Seems so.”

"…What are we watching for, then?"

Be friendly. Be civil. Be nice. Kanon repeats these words like a mantra in his head. Even when Cato gives him the most disinterested face, with the most disinterested voice, with the most uncaring words, Kanon is the better man. He purses his lips, and closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath. If they let conversation die, and Kanon focuses his entire being on watching the shadows, he can probably ignore Cato's presence providing the other doesn't initiate more talk. Judging by his attitude now... Kanon figures chances of that are highly unlikely.

Naturally his eyes had followed the other's form by habit--you should look at who you're speaking too right?--but even the mere sight of him makes Kanon grimace. So he pointedly turns his head like a child. "Mhm..." He doesn't know why he's still talking. "Just us..." Hadn't he just said that? Clamping a hand over his mouth to prevent anymore meaningless chitchat from pouring out, the blue-haired male can't even pinpoint what makes Cato so disagreeable. Cain, obviously, and his rotten attitude but... there's something else that just unsettles him. Maybe Cato is just naturally repulsive.

The following question jerks Kanon out of his thoughts.

"Wh-What are we...?" he sputters, twisting his head once more to look at his company for the night. "I-I mean, you know...!" It's a question that's so simple, it sends Kanon scrambling for answers. "The secondaries... uhm m-maybe other people...? And any, uh, creatures... we haven't met yet. There's a lot of dangers in a wasteland... And we're most vulnerable at night." It doesn't make sense that he'd have to explain this. Taking the chance to look away once more, he mumbles to himself, although he can't help it if Cato happens to hear

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When he's composed, clear-headed and not drunk off pain, Kanon puts on a convincing show of mortality. In fact, he's sure they both do, only showing others whatever skin deep characters they want them to see. The grotesque and sickening parts of their relationship--well... isn't this their reality? It's the truth they've settled on, the truth Kanon secretly knows is better than the truth. This abnormal behavior is something that's shared between them, no one else knows (or lives to know for long), and no one else is a part of it. Theirs and theirs alone, a whole secret nature... a twisted part of Kanon relishes it. But he wonders if it's really so twisted at all. Isn't it natural to want something sacred and special with your partner? Just the two of you?

Such unnecessary ideas run through his head, possibly a mix of his innocent affections and ugly desires as he transitions from one extreme to the other. It's possible he can let go of his innermost thoughts more freely in times like this because of their closeness. He fancies such a romantic connection, but in actuality, between their private activities and their public facade, words are simply lost in between. Due in part to their mutual understanding perhaps, they're able to draw conclusions and dismiss what's said in the heat of the moment individually, and continue on with their lives. So he'll always have the silent reassurance that anything he says now is less likely to be regarded with too much consideration for deeper meaning. And... it's not like Cain would know where to look deeper if he tried.

It sputters in his throat when his teeth start to swell. This is no longer something he can fight, tame, or control - it’s death or… secondary death. Whichever fit may be more appropriate for the equation doesn’t matter, as it sure as hell isn’t ‘life’. He’s not fighting to be a living thing, anymore. Cain is a dead thing. He is accustomed to not thinking right now and doesn’t consider that, but if he did it wouldn’t hurt. “Still mine,” spoken directly into Kanon’s collarbone, he lets his head sink and the top row of teeth do their job. Against his tongue presses warm flesh - salted with the sweat of travels he can no longer recall. 

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The pain is excruciating. Truth be told, it always is. As teeth break into his flesh, the fresh sting of skin ripping sets his nerves on fire. Kanon winces, and his breathing becomes labored as he clenches his teeth. God it hurts. Hurts doesn’t even cover it, the feeling of not only being punctured but eaten, dug into and finding no relief when the offending mouth retreats to gulp. Instead the wounds are left to throb and cry out in pain in a way he fights so hard to avoid vocalizing.

But for now, it feels like there’s glass cupped over his ears and all he can breathe in is Kanon’s living flesh. 

“Like— what,” voice low, he watches the other’s face as he goes from humanly distinguishable and intricate as his beloved to prey, yielding to him. “Now… I’ve got you all to myself.” It’s both his and not at all his voice, the words distorted by desire. Somewhere inside his head, this is a thank you for understanding. His attempts to get through the sludge of undead hunger and speaking still, crooning to Kanon as if he’s aware of what he’s doing doesn’t come naturally.

Or easily, for that matter. Even the smile he puts on feels out of place.

That could be because it isn’t one, even in its rawest form. It’s barely more than a half-open mouth resembling a black, gaping maw in a thin, crooked slit. But he pulls his lips back over white teeth and pushes the other up against the tree trunk just a little more, his tennis shoes steady atop thick roots. 

Disbelief catches him in the midst of it all, his muscles moving through sludge the closer he gets. The more Cain resists, the more difficult it is for him to respond properly. Maybe it’s a good thing Kanon’s never expected too much of him (other than giving up his choice towards the end of his human life, that is… too bad, right?). 

Blinking drearily as he remembers it’s probably best not to rip any more clothing (they’re in short supply), the dead gazes offhandedly and tries not to suck on his teeth when his mouth waters. “Everywhere.” Picking the word apart as it grows in complexity, his head jumbled entirely too much, he hones in on a more ample area around the chest, remembering it well enough from the last time they participated in extracurriculars like this one. Breath hitches and his shoulders hike up as he closes in, contributing a great effort to act as though he’s aware of his surroundings… of his own name - of anything but this want and need. Of anything that doesn’t equate to Kanon’s sacrifice for the both of them. "Please."

Funny how on the verge of being devoured Kanon is only intensely aware of the embarrassment resulting from Cain's words. His first impulse is to explain, in not-so-intelligent words, exactly what he'd been getting flustered about. But the split-second instinct is overcome by the realization that his words are getting through to Cain less and less. So instead he's silent, left to contemplate within himself. Cain's following declaration may or may not have come from Cain himself, truly, but Kanon finds it makes him happy anyways. For all the tying he's done (tying Cain to this world, tying Cain to him), perhaps it had all been a projection of his own desire to be bound and restrained.

"I've never been anyone else's." He speaks even if he knows his words may fail to be conveyed. Despite the exchange of words, eyes that seem to be focused on him, Kanon can already sense the one-sidedness of it all. However if Cain persists to communicate, with words, expressions, or otherwise, the blue-haired male intends to respond in turn. If somewhere in his partner wishes to maintain any semblance of humanity, Kanon will return it. If it comes time to cast such a pretense off, then Kanon will fall silent and submit himself. In an ideal world, yielding to the other in every way possible would undermine the one time he hadn't.

Cain's actions become more and more persistent: forceful, hungry. This is never a truly gentle affair. Intimate, perhaps, sharing a skinship that goes beyond the skin, but never without pain. And Kanon welcomes it. Any and all damage done to him is fine, especially if dealt by Cain. To satisfy--if only for a moment-- the insatiable hunger is his greatest service as the one who invoked it in the place. After all, whatever bodily harm may come to him, it will always, without fail, pale in comparison to what he'd done to Cain.

Chuckling despite himself at the brunet's response, Kanon works quickly to remove the interfering article of clothing. "Got it," he replies as his shirt is hauled off with minor difficulty considering the close proximity of their bodies. Laid bare with nothing between his chest and the awaiting mouth of his partner, Kanon is at least vaguely aware of the struggle the undead faces to even form words. So he hesitates a moment, debating whether to disrupt the immense amount of control Cain is trying to exhibit, before speaking again. His voice is soft and coaxing, and he chooses his words carefully even if they may not all make it through.

What they’ll be like seems so trivial, all he can think about is what they’ll taste like. Nothing is quite the same - it never gets boring, that’s for damn sure. All meat is different, depending on a person’s diet and metabolism. Some salty, others sweet, all perfect to indulge himself on. The only bad meat is dead meat. His. “Interesting, I hope.” Otherwise, there’s no telling whether or not he’ll consider them worth keeping alive. Kiel has already proven himself both a worthy asset and entertaining company, but there are no guarantees they’ll luck out a second time. 

He won’t lug around a dead weight. In fact, as a habitual binge eater, he’d much rather devour one whole. “If they’ve made it this far, they should be. I think so, anyhow.” Hardly conventional, Cain’s standards and definition of ‘interesting’ is probably the farthest thing from.

“Guess we’ll see tomorrow.” He keeps pace until Kanon speaks up again and makes a pass, however subtly. Content in reading it that way, Cain drops a hand from the strap on one shoulder and turns swiftly, eerily, and blocks the other’s path. “You wanna be alone a little longer? Heh, sure.” Cracking an unsteady smile, he tucks a knuckle under Kanon’s chin and tilts it up a notch. “Me too.” Since they won’t be stopping the next people they run into, he should take his this opportunity to ‘have his fill.’ Which, by human protocol, would be considered unusual behavior.

Only coming out of his dazed state for a few shorts moment to reply, his eyes flutter shut once the bridge of his nose is pressed up against the other’s throat. “A day…” Shrugging the bag off his back and onto the ground, he drinks his partner in for all of a moment before pulling back in a moment’s clarity. (Oh, how rarely they come when he’s hungry like this.) A massive, shaded tree seems suitable enough for shelter. “…Here?” The corpse asks, its lips parted and eyes clouded.

Not just anyone can survive in this apocalypse. Kanon hasn’t thought so deeply about it as to identify just what determines life and death, but if one doesn’t leech off others, they must possess some kind of quality that lets them live. And by that logic, as Cain points out, if whoever they discover has made it on their own, they shouldn’t be a disappointment.

But if that turns out false too, then at least Cain have a proper meal.

"Yeah, they should be! I’m kinda excited," he remarks idly. "What’ll we do if they actually turn out to be a break dancer?" It slips his mind that Cain wouldn’t know about his previous line of thought. But nonetheless, it’s certainly an entertaining possibility. If it turns out they’re no good, Kanon ponders the chances of getting to witness their final encore before Cain has his fill.

As his path is suddenly obscured by his partner, Kanon feels the blush spreading on his face.

W-Well maybe his words had… some kind of intentions… It’s not like he’d been totally oblivious or anything too but… Hearing Cain pick up on such a small hint so directly is embarrassing! Head tilted upwards, Kanon’s lips open and close in vain attempts to speak.

"I—Uhm, well, you don’t have to say it like that…” He averts his eyes briefly, but nonetheless offers no resistance, merely easing into the other’s touch and allowing him to act as he pleases, taste as much as he pleases without truly consuming.

        ❛ᴋɪᴇʟ.❜

  He gestured towards the creature ahead of him as he reattached his juju to his waist. It walked on all-fours, similar to that of a dog in shape. Only, definitely easy to tell that it’s not a dog..as the similarities ended there.

        ❛ᴛʜɪs ɪs ʙᴏᴋᴏʀ. ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴏᴛʜ.❜

  He stepped past his companion and firmly grasped the one introduced as Kanon’s hand, placing his other hand on top of theirs as he shook it merrily. Of course, his beast was on edge, and he preferred it that way. Wouldn’t be much of a guard if it lowered its own. This allowed Kiel to be as open as he liked, as he held upmost faith in his children for protection. Before releasing the handshake, he took note of the feeling of touching someone else alive—and not like..that—once again. It had been a long time since he was met with smiles and a kind of comfort instead of contempt and judgmental eyes.

  He didn’t really miss it. Not a lot. Maybe.

  Now that he was even closer he did get a better look at Cain, his..well..he betrayed his appearance, it seemed. Kiel thought that maybe it was a trick of the eye or whatnot, but through and through he did look a lot like some of those people he came across previously. Granted, he looked a lot better than they did. But, Kiel’s not exactly someone that can tell how well people are off or not anymore in terms of how their head is. Honestly, all he ever saw in people lately (and ever, at least since it all started. He needed more to improve, more to build, more to take) was parts, parts, parts.

        ❛sᴏᴏ..ʜᴏᴡ’ᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ғʀᴏᴍ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ?❜ he gestured towards where they came from, or where he assumed the direction they came from was, ❛ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ sᴇᴇ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ…❜ another gesture, only this time to his newly acquainted pal Hank, ❛ʜɪᴍ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ?❜ The question was mostly riddled in terms of whether or not he should move past them himself to gather or just not bother with it if it deemed to be a waste of time. 

Kiel. Ah - how similar that rings clear to another familiar word in Cain’s vocabulary, one that equates to a full stomach and unholy rapture. When Kanon shakes his hand, the corpse’s eyes trail over to the other’s companion. For a fraction of a second, he’s surrounded by flesh. Which, he wonders, between him and the other beast, is more feral? (More prepared to protect, to defend? More enamored with their life source?) Difficult to distinguish who stands where, particularly because Cain’s never had the best posture and he isn’t necessarily distinguished… not with eyes boring holes that only wait moments at a time. 

Wait for… what again?

Oh, social cues that signal for him to speak. “Bokor.” He repeats, not at all bothering to keep a safe distance from the stranger nor his fellow creature. “Hey there, bud.” Giving the animal a warm nod, he closes the leftover gap between Kiel and himself. 

“Pleasure’s mine.”

From up close (even with his body language not at all minatory), there’s no mistaking his status as the living dead. He flashes every symptom before wiping them away with an enveloping smile. Casually, he offers his utmost respect to their to-be addition… it would be unfortunate, should this meeting go south before they have the chance to become better acquainted. “Don’t usually see that kinda stuff jingling outta anyone’s pockets. Guess that means you’re one of a kind out here, huh?” That is, Kanon’s brief dabbling in the occult aside… as it’s resulted in such a state of change that he’d rather not regard it now. 

(He could get too enthused, after all - what, with all the gratitude he has to offer.) 

“We cleared about twenty miles south recently, but the secondaries might have stopped by to pick at any bones. They’re out of luck - the road’s full’a ghosts. Isn’t that right?” He shifts his gaze to Kanon for further confirmation.

‘Secondaries’ being the common term for level two zombies - corpses like him who don’t find feeding imperative as he does. Who couldn’t appreciate the gift of a second life (even if he begged, choked and prayed for anything but this… now it’s a gift, a forsaken blessing that they’ll have to rip from disjointed hands). They infuriate him - ingrates, by every definition, though his expression says nothing of the sort. 

“How ‘bout you?” Cain tilts his head, still close enough to balance a safe medium by Kanon and Kiel respectively. Ghost roads could easily entail that he’s picked them clean himself - or just that they’ve made it out unscathed. Either way, the conversation should be interesting and he’s eager to see if they’ll hit it off any further. Their sense of humor has already clicked so well, envisioning this going wrong is becoming a challenge.  “Headed anywhere?”

Kanon had been conveniently ignoring the creature that, of them all, appeared the most visibly unhuman. As the boy, Kiel, names it Bokor, his attention is once more drawn to the beast, except the fortunate luxury to look away shines upon him at the most opportune moment to continue ultimately avoiding Kiel's... pet, he supposes. Gleefully smiling at Kiel and looking only at Kiel, Kanon nods politely. "Kiel kinda sounds like kill! Oh-- and our names all have a 'K' sound, isn't that funny?" 

If he talks a lot, maybe he won't hear Bokor breathing.

As Kiel steps back once more, and Kanon's attention returns to Cain, he freezes. He's being so... friendly! The creature is-- well he doesn't need to dwell on that, but as his partner goes closer to Kiel and by extension Bokor, red eyes dart anxiously between him and the beast he can only say is akin to some kind of canine. But a domestic little dog is the farthest from its appearance if anything.

He only catches bits of the conversation, and by some stroke of luck Cain's cue for affirmation is included it those.

"Y-Yeah! Ghosts! Full of them... that's it!" He sweats at how suspicious his response is, and also at the fact that it's not the content that affects his speech but an outside source entirely (three guesses what, and the first two don't count). "I-I mean, we made it here so..." he trails off in hopes that they can fill in the blanks so he doesn't have to. He's having a hard time as it is.

Stubbornly refusing to sneak peeks at Bokor, out of anxiety and wariness primarily, Kanon watches the conversation unfold and focuses himself on what the stranger reveals. It'd been rough with just the two of them, so if Kiel is as alone as he presents himself now, Kanon wonders how he's fared in this wasteland.