* unum solum *

THE WORLD REMAINED A FOREIGN LANDSCAPE, but one thing remained constant ; that scent. Metallic and ghoul. Fresh and lively. It had lingered when he had first awoken and stayed under his nose while he searched tirelessly. Searched for the one to draw him from his slumber — a brave soul to awaken a King from his tomb. If it had been intentional, why not stay around to play catch-up? Yuuta had better manners than that. 

You see, tracking was easy. In the Underground, there was no breeze to carry it away. Not a soul could trek through without leaving some kind of mark behind, and often that mark would stay. Now he had followed the scent to, what he believed to be, its origin. Just at the maw of the Underground, he had managed to locate something alive. Something bipedal. Something like a ghoul. The being cast a silhouette in the midst of where Toyko roared above. You.

Tokyo had changed, but so had the King. Aged some, weakened some, all in all, the Naagaraji was not quite as a formidable threat as before. Lips parted, the croak in his voice already evident — ‘ You. It was you, wasn’t it? ’ Used a dialect previously used by the old upper class. His head lulled to one side, tresses of inky hair framing his face and spilling over his shoulders. The yukata on his frame was worn and tattered along the seams, the now-faded black material dusted with age-old silt. A husk of his former self, truly, but carried an air of the past. Hungry, more than anything, but it could be staved. For now. There was something much more pressing on his mind,

 ‘ Tell me. Just tell me how long it has been. ’

@inter-se-solus here’s a starter fam ♡

     ◆ Seeking the end of a maze that truly was one only in confused minds, tumbling with the desires to keep contained, closed off, away, who had been the undoing of a whole civilization, the reminders of such now hurrying to hide the moment the creator had made to leave the awakening King. Why ever does he proceed in wandering off? Now that his unexplainable desire to stoke a lightly burning fire back to life had been fulfilled? Answers to such a question would elude [ maybe it had been fruitless from the beginning ].

    ◆ No, the weight of someone's presence, now clad in remainders of the past, would off-set any and all subtleties of Uta's fine and brilliant senses till he turns and offers nought else but a smile [ should he raise up a defence? ]. " Indeed, it was me~ " Picture-perfect ludicrous to speak in softened sing-song with the ruler of their kind, but---

    ◆ ---was he even a ruler at all anymore?

    ◆ Smile disappears. Thus their play would remain rehearsed. The fallen monarchy's last remnant, to find himself bowed to by one of the most elusive ones of their current reign. It's nothing short of mimicking what the mask maker knows would be desired, even though expression worn was as finely crafted as his own creations. " Uncountable months, I fear, your Excellency. " Does he mean it? [ who would know? ]. " Uncountable years, even? Ah, a hundred years, if I recall correctly. " The picture before him desired change in Uta's mind, the mingling thought brushed away to reach out for him, to aid in clothing once again in glory who had come and tumbled to ruin.

          " I wonder, how long will it take for you to stir? "

                              Nothing but howling, how disappointing.

          " Or you do not care to have everything you accomplished fall to ruin~? "

          This pernicious show of one's ravenous hunger had, by the time echoing approach would lead him around, stretched as wide as the eye could only see in this dissonance of destruction and rebuilt; appearing so truly, so undeniably ineffective to even assert with power and might whose time will never come again. Should never come again. So, why even was he here right now? Searching in the depths for a 'forlorn' myth? This intricate yin and yang of brittle man-made stone and the last recluse of inhumanity’s own showing nought else but a madman's pursuit of mental egality. Still: drowned - devoured - destroyed; when not attaining the means of worship a broken soul does call for like his own.

          Searching inside a fairy tale told to the youths of his kin. Shall they not marvel at these wordless wonders, impossible to truly quite explain?

          Structures, bold and towering, turned into impenetrable walls in aching quarrels, winding themselves along the cities inner bowels like a snake to find a prey to snap at. To swallow it whole. It's a fitting explanation for what the mask maker's eyes could see and for what whispers of a language long gone do meddle that would, finally indeed, reach his ears.

          " Many had come after you. Taken up your reign with different goals in mind. "

                              Not a single stir, how frustrating.

          " Desired to be more and yet they were sure nothing at all. "

          Murmurs and breaths and the quietening down of the surrounding’s chilling fatality. Harm, nevertheless, has not come down upon them due to the incessant, unremitting words, syllable for syllable melting together, amounting to nothing quite at all. Merely had they scattered and hid once more. As the desire of his own to truly mingle - to truly engage - had been near to nought. Still, had they not tried desparingly desiring to make Uta's approach stop and turn, uttered claims of danger? Of peril? Of catastrophe? Shall he not return?

          This city had devoured so many with hair and bone. With tooth and nail. With heart and soul. Laughable; thoughts in the jokester's mind to ring out a chiming one of his own delight, drawling throughout the darkened surrounding, similar to a neverending night. Wondersome to be caught in such a reckless abandon.

          Perhaps in the very core of this place that never someone had been able to reach, repelled by force like from the fairy tales, thorns alike that had grown over stems and branches, like from a rosebushes' very curse [ a simple thought that had settled into lunatic’s mind ], there was something. Someone. Just worthwhile to claim.

          " That world above, would you like me to tell you how it looks? "

                              Tingling air around them, how promising.

          " Ah~ I know yet, you would not believe me. "

          Where hours would flow into one another, time does not matter anymore at all. The caustic desire to reach for a goal so closed off and so hidden away from the avariciousness of greed and a forlorn eternity. Had not his own friends laughed about the auctioneer's conation? The ceaseless dream to set out and pursue? Mocked and ridiculed in fashions of admirable attention; off still he went towards the depths of a stomach that had swallowed a civilization whole [ or so, the legends had told--- ].

          It feels like a heart that beats. It feels like the air was suddenly scarce to breathe and a pulse thrums and thrives around him. Unapologetic taking from the wanderer what nought else the reminders of inhabitants were so unwilling to give.

          How exhilarating. Choking out a laugh in sing-song voice was all he was willing to commit. Now then, a door creaks open [ in mind? in reality? ] towards widened, destroyed, endless void of this peaceful world. Finally [ how many days had truly passed? ] coming to face with something of a legend and yet? - how to awaken that beast at last?

          " Or maybe, you do. But want to breathe in the air above. Want to reclaim what all                 was taken from you. "

                              Roaring in his ears like a drum, how exhilarating.

          " Do I still need to help you to rise? "

          Comfortable was his position amongst the uproar of conflict and bloodshed. High above does he sit, the very leverage of the fallen monarch to be offered by the means and movements made so many years ago. So much time has passed that every bit of it could dissipate with the snap of fingers and fall to all but shimmering dust. He does sit and watch and wonder. Had spoken endlessly, eyes watched attentively, nothing at all that stirred. One may believe him to lose well-trained patience piece by piece. One tick of the time. Failing reactions coming to a maniacal mind. What does keep him from standing and brushing off centuries-old remains? From taking his leave towards a goal better gained? Find a mind better off swayed by ideals and the stories Uta had to tell.

           Unmoving still he does sit and watch and wonder. Legs crossed over one another towards the hidden power scarcely glancing up, yet outright listening to him - as he had felt it in the surrounding's air to shift and grow heavier - harsher - harder. A means to rise and nearly choke whoever would dare to come too close.

           Waits with his hands placed upon his knee, long fingers, telling stories of his own, intertwined with one another - may be that just with that? Mayhaps, he could rise the King from his hardened throne.

          " Does it disturb you not, that so many feel you all but a legend? "

                              Rumbling of the buildings abound, how devastating.

          " That parents tell these to their children, worth alone to make them behave? "

          With the very life to flash upon pale planes of skin. Further and further exposed with tilts and turns of his lithe form. Each shift of muscle beneath fine linen would drag the eyes upon stories uncountable to tell. Who would have thought? That the very man to climb into the monster's den - was a monster unlike any other and like the fable's legend very own? Oh, he would not wonder if that very someone spoken to in softened coos, would want to never dine, to surely deny, the essence of his very being.

          With sudden blinks. With startling gaze. Opening eyes and eyes and eyes to appear before the entertainer's very own. Such would the tales and stories go: the devourer of his own kind, ready to swallow him whole.

          No, that by all means and possibilities, just this once: Uta was so surely saved. To garner the one that could turn inside out this discardable earth; to offer them back laughter, as so tired they were of this dreadful future to behold. Let him see. Let him seek. Read each and every page so carefully and beautifully crafted upon white and unscathed skin. A mocking little invitation, spoken by the Cheshire's grin.

          " Now come, your Majesty. "

                              With life flooding all senses, how thrilling.

@inter-se-solus - ★

“Oh! Sir Uta!!”

As always, he’s been caught with his hands tied behind his back– metaphorically, of course! Originally having situated himself into a crouch with back turned to his superior, he was suddenly at the alert with both hands proudly on his hips as if feeling truly triumphant. After just another moment, he’s wiping away a nonexistent bead of sweat from his forehead (it’s so theatrical. it’s so dramatic. it’s so… him!) with a big, wide grin on his face.

“I was not expecting to see you here so late!” 

“You really do know how to sneak up on others, hmm?~”

Nonetheless, it’s merely a tease. Nothing more, nothing less. Arms move to cross over his chest in sudden shift of feeling, Yori subconsciously guarding himself against whatever sort of questioning he’s come to expect. Perhaps, though, he could swiftly work to deflect the spotlight from falling onto him and turn it over onto Uta (for once, that’s what he wants. he doesn’t want attention. he finds this… particular subject somewhat embarrassing– somewhat childlike.) with little to no problem.

“How are you and sir Renji faring? Well, I hope!”

     ◆ Many would want to question late-night appearance of one so surely busy, so enigmatically evasive with his doings and plans and why he would turn up where nobody would except him so. But, could the same not be said about the actor and whatever little scheme he had been working on? Did it truly matter when the mask maker tilts his head in mild wonderment, a tale-telling smile attached as if to question whatever would drive him to linger around here?

    ◆ Truthfully, he didn't care.

    ◆ So steps would take him around that fellow clown of his, ignoring any perfectly rehearsed mimicry of an artist's play, before setting down objects of preparation, forms and shapes, materials, all to be brought together soon enough [ tomorrow, perhaps? ] to something grand and needed---

    ◆ ---ah, now he should humour the attempt of conversation. Uta was only here because his shop was closed now. His own mind free for a bit longer. [ Free? How laughable ]. "Perhaps." Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. Whatever would it mean? Nothing, and everything quite at all. "Curious, aren't you~? And that where I haven't even said a word."

@inter-se-solus - 📝

“–His name.”

Words were spoken with careful precision, Ichiro quiet otherwise with his hand rubbing absentmindedly (but it’s a farce. everything he does is a farce. it’s just a matter of finding where the lie began and if it ever ends.) at opposing wrist. From behind the ever-shifting shield of fingers revealed faded marks of black and blue. He chooses to say nothing revolving around them.

“I’d like to know how you knew his name,” he went on moments later, gaze primarily hidden behind thick layer of eyelashes. “That you knew what he looked like…? It’s all very curious to me.”

He has his back resting against the wall in lax slouch all the while.

“Hachiro, was it? That was his first name, I believe.”

“Hmm.” A pause occurred– distinct but brief. “Tell me… What does my face look like?”

     ◆ Careful. Careful. Any wrong step could elicit someone's absolute ruin brought forth by his very own hands - and do they not both know it? Are perfectly - painfully - aware of it~? He could have laughed about the very happenings right now and would only grin about the cautious play of syllables, now that the creator was even open for that talk taking place.

    ◆ Was even willing to listen to that obvious disaster brought down by his own iron grasp and the other's willful movements to desire crushing punishment [ but was it true? was it correct? ]. So a hum was all he offered until words would settle upon tip of tongue. "Ah~ I do have a friend who holds all the knowledge I need." A lovely little friend. A pleasant companion, being protected. Cherished. "She is quite eager to let me know this or that tidbit~"

    ◆ Playing even more. No distinct answer anybody could use, for himself is not compliant this time of the day. When hands tinker with items and materials in his grasp. "Why do you ask me that~? I have a mirror over there." Oh, he could easily oblige to the needs and wants. "Or do you want me to explain it to you? The subtle horrors of nothingness engraved in your very facade? The way you look as soulless as some of my creations, only to be brought to life when I so very will it?"

MISTRUST. ANGER. to suddenly disregard one’s impulses… it is no simple task. acclimating to change is a process - a slow transition that is lacking in certainty. what remains of self-assurance hangs by a thread. . . yet it hangs, nonetheless. it clings to her person like the last leaf of the season. what remains of confidence is what enables her in taking affirmative action - or something along that line. she leans back against the chair, allowing hands to communicate that which goes unsaid. in a shop of many faces, she makes no attempt to mask her discomfort.

she really has changed, hasn’t she ( ?? ) there was once a time where she was in complete command of her body. efforts to conceal the mechanisms of a diamond mind were hidden in plain sight; fumbling fingers would curl unto themselves, forming fists that adhered to her sides; the curve of her spine rarely did succumb to poor posture - even in such moments of temptation. now, akira mado is the inverse of a dead persona. she tenses && tilts her head away from the other, while subjected to a prying eye. such rudeness is uncharacteristic of her - but then, so are a number of other newly discovered traits, which circumstance does not hesitate in revealing. ❝you say such peculiar things…❞

unthinkingly, she crosses her arms, as though the construction of an imagined wall between herself && the other would /somehow/ alleviate the tension - sentiments that likely remain one-sided. the artist appears to be in his element… && what of herself ( ?? ) a bird fluttering left && right behind bars; a chicken running amok with its head cleaved clean off; is this what’s become of her ( ?? ) even so, she offers a listening ear - intrigued by his stories, && more than willing to stifle her own.

❝that’s a very long time. you’ve had plenty of years to perfect your craft, then…❞

such as it is. perfection is a pipe dream. how does one define that which lacks boundaries ( ?? )

she holds the mask in both hands, examining it with great care && contemplation. the cracks that hold together a neutral facade tell a story; one that is told not through words, but through SIGHT… through TOUCH… the pads of her thumb brush over the curvature of the surface - a curious texture. the piece itself raises a number of questions… all in due time. is it strange that she should see herself amidst the interwoven fragments ( ?? )

❝very well…if you insist.❞

     ◆ A broken puppet. That was all he would see when wandering through his own property, regarding her antics with this or that glance. With a softened smile or a calm line of consideration, forehead set to a frown. He had brought along that very specific mask for her to hold and trace, as of right now - it seemed at least - that this would be the most fitting one. How to get someone to speak who seemed so surely unwilling? After all? Even with him offering reassurance that he had unlimited hours to spare, her own reaction was marginal, shy and soft. Hesitance coating eyes, coating voice.

    ◆ Alas, it wouldn't be too hard and that much he truly knows.

    ◆ "Perfection is an unattainable goal." And a very boring one, were he to be honest. If one desires to reach for it or, by the very extension of the problem, proclaims to have attained this what many else would call an impossibility, they might just stagnate. Never grow. Never change. Maybe---? Maybe just this was the point to reach for and have the little bird sing. Caught in a cage, scuttering and shuffling away from the cat's fangs and claws - was it not far too easy for anybody walking past and by to see this very picture illuminating otherwise darkened room?

    ◆ "But I know many enough that would want it. Or at least utter words that they had truly, unwittingly or not, succeeded in holding it, calling something like this their greatest accomplishment." He watches how her fingertips would follow the intricate design of something quite as simple as neutrality in black and white. How she wanders along the very faint cracks, finding herself inside of them, a winding path of someone's personality while he had made to sit again. One leg crossed over the other with his arm drawn back and lazily placed upon the backrest of chair. Not sitting quite straight upon his chosen place, hands then lacing fingers together as if he is waiting for something. Anything [ and does not quite at all ].

    ◆ "What is it that you see in this mask I just gave you?"

@ieiunum  Yuu no 8  |

     ★ Staring at him like he would be a patient spectator for a curious little monkey hanging from a branch [ and even that was, by chance, meant as an insult to the poor animal ], when walking past had been stopped in tracks, all - visible - and with no mask, no obscuring features added to his person - for now. These types of auctions had a long preparation time. Specifically, shall the inviting party be the clowns, objectively running amok each and every time with their own show and own presentation, not stopping, even when being told they went a bit too far. [ maybe the desire was to hear their pleading? their begging? where would be the fun otherwise? ]. 

   ★ Bringing this little human along had, honest with own fact of stalling boredom, added to the fun when watching glances of disgust and shock, contempt rising where words would not [ for nobody would ever oppose the auctioneer ].

    ★ Head tilts to one side in what could only be called a mock-inquiry of the ‘what’ and the ‘why’ this man was doing in this displayed triviality of ridiculousness, even though Uta found it not in himself to even voice a query at all. “Hey~” Irrelevance of the word in greeting. “Do I think so? I wonder~”

    ★ And alone words like these were enough to have him move, from marginal distance [ yet a distance still kept ] further, prowling ever closer with that sway in his step telling, telling - screaming - until a gloved hand [ all the same, a part of his attire perfectly slung around his form ] reaches out towards unruly hair falling in unkempt strands, framing face and place of action so perfectly. Tugging upon one or two fine strands of deep blue colour before threading fingers deeper and deeper into mass that was quite so hard to keep in check. One would want to ponder if he was not petting that little ‘creature’ picked up by whatever whim had possessed the mask maker’s unexplainable mind. Would offer mere breaths of adoration. Mimicry of owner’s comfort and soothing touch for whatever deed done right, had been well-proceeded.

    ★ Would be in need of applause, of praise, of approval.

    ★ Before it was turned inside out in flashing moments of his own deliberately executed show. When hand twists at the backside of Yuu’s head, pulling harshly as if to try and tear out fine structures from the root, with a cracking sound in neck to be torn a bit back. Leaving arch and throat exposed past the possible [ heavily aching. would he find that funny too? ]. It’s an easy picture on the eyes of spectators and those ghouls that had earlier taking their places. Now had been left to wander about? How might they not spy carefully around edges and corners. Wonder and whisper about the sudden shift and change in Uta’s usually so eerily calm demeanour that had cracked [ and had been cracked ] so swiftly beneath the other man’s clambering reigns of painterly mockery?

    ★ [ Or so it would seem—? ]

    ★ “There are so many who actually wondered about the reason I uphold for me not quite fulfilling an easy task like this - yet~” How quaint. “It would take little for me to do something like this~ Would be as simple as to snap your neck. Break your every little bone. Take your meat and offer it up, grind you to a perfect meal for all of those that drivel and slobber to have a taste of something I call my own to keep~” Loosening his grasp in radiant colours when near soothingly caressing along ache left behind before he pulls back leather-clad hand in discarding what his mere grasp had pulled from scalp.

    ★ Just a few strands of hair - the little human should have expected such, no?

    ★ But it was not quite over yet. Flicks of wrist do indicate that he has the need to rid himself of whatever ‘dirt’ that had been gathered, so his formerly unoccupied hand would reach and grasp, mere tenderly lace hand [ just upside down like the child’s own whole posture had been from the beginning of their merry charade ] around slack of jaw. “So I do wonder indeed, is it an act that would hurt~?” Closer, ever closer. “Especially, someone like you~?” He could near hear every bone and aching muscle from position that he had brought himself inside creak and tear [ painful? ]. “Did it hurt what I just fulfilled?” Was ist [ painful ]? “Or would you not like to know how true pain could feel~?”

    ★ With the slight pressure. A bare perception of his own hand closing with help of joints and tendons, all that he needed to exert was scarce a feeling for the Ghoul at all. Open, open [ would he struggle? ]. Oh, in a sense, he believed this boy to be a far more durable kind.

    ★ “But alas, maybe you are right~” ‘A runty pet’? Oh, not even good enough for this term was that discardable piece of worthlessness [ and still? he kept him ], hand then sets itself to a trace when only eyes had been indulgent enough with the display of muscle turning and twisting - so unable to hide [ like a worm that would not capable of digging back down into the dirt ]. “I would find myself regarding own actions as nought but mistreating a runt just as poor as you~”

    ★ He wonders just, if not one of his other possessions might find far more interest in something like this. Would need to inquire about it, perchance Yuu would loose his mind and momentum; would blabber on about how the creator had done to him, with the marks of fingertips seared into the softness of skin. Then, another movement as if regarding all but a small animal in his grasp with the near chiding pat of the back of his hand against cheek. That formerly mocking smile turned near too sweet. “Alas, the show is not even an hour away, do be somewhat useful now~” [ Else ‘painful’ is the last word in mind you were about to pray— ] “The prop you hang on needs adjusting on the stage. Shoo now, hurry along—”

Should man have been made to sustain off of his own life’s essence, Yori would have taken that option over what was being presented to him. Blood swiveled and spun within own mouth (like threads of a red string. how inappropriate.), applying for cause of his stomach churning and lurching out of sheer disgust. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting… disgusting! 

Absolutely disgusting!

“N-Nnn–!!”

(how could i say no to you?)

“I… I can’t,” he managed out, voice as low as a murmur and practically on the verge of cracking. His whole body’s shuddering and shivering and shaking. It’s too much–

(when have i ever said no to you?)

–and it was pathetic, the way he was still behaving. If Uta wanted to, instead, slay him and put him out of his misery, Yori would be unable to blame him. Perhaps it was death that was more viable and an alternative that the actor preferred. Begging and pleading had been done for such a time that he’s already forgotten (miraculously. it’s as if his mind were trying to spare him from further embarrassment.) truly how much he’s actually tried. There was so much effort, so much energy exerted that he’d shed the need for dignity.

The restraints are pulling at him, beckoning for him to follow along with Uta but, surprisingly, are unheeded. He remained in his spot, only to be moved in the form and mocking shape of being dragged– like a lamb to the slaughter.

“N-Never, sir Uta.”

All at once, the fight’s drained from him again. It had been a repetitive battle of the wits between Yori’s brain and Yori’s body. He knew it would come back, the will to fight and to reject, once Uta would cease in this scene. What made the man panic and fester, though, was the idea that this would never end. The thought actually terrified him.

“Why would I be…?” Jealous? Was that even a question directed at him or at someone something else? It’s enough to make Yori’s blood slow to a halt and freeze cold. “You are… You are putting words into my mouth.”

Yet, he wouldn’t dare to deny it.

It was hard to admit when one was wrong, and usually Yori was an outlier. He had no problems in admitting his wrongdoings, but with Uta…? It was hard. It was difficult to admit when he was right when, so badly and so desperately, he wanted to show himself as the opposite. He was different, he wanted to prove. He was abnormal, he wanted to say. Sir Uta, you do not have to do this, he wanted to shout.

(what would father do?)

Ah, he’s always loved it when others begged and pleaded with him, but now he’s realized he absolutely hated being on the other side.

(what would mother say?)

Hypocrite! Hypocrite! Hypocrite! Absolute fucking hypocrite!

The term’s ringing sharply and triumphantly within his ears, almost tuning Uta out even as he’s told be grateful. He’s a dog, chained cruelly to a wooden post and left to lounge beneath the sweltering heat. Gaze averts as soon as the prize’s presented, Yori’s hands dropping to grate fingers and grind palms into cold, unforgiving concrete as he’s already seen what it was. A tongue, something that he’s always been particular in keeping for himself. The sounds were near dull to his ears, hardly inciting a reaction as he could feel the weakest attempts of his kakugan popping to life.

(i’m so fucked up.)

“…”

(I’M SO FUCKED UP.)

Yori’s suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his body lean forward with heavy arms raise towards the “gift”. Now he’s finally feeling tears run down his cheeks (is this what it felt like to truly disconnect? to remove one’s self from the heinous crimes he’s once committed with a smile on his face?) as fingers felt. They felt around the victim’s skull, touching and pulling at gradually loosening skin before he opened his eyes. Refusing to blink back the blurriness, Yori’s fingers clutch behind the ears and give a firm pull.

Jaw was disconnected, loose and slack from Uta’s ministrations. He swallowed, eyes flickering fearfully from one strand of artery to the next and then to the next and then to the next and then–

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the only way, he tells himself. It’s the only way, he tries to convince himself.

He lurches forward, mouth opening wide with teeth sinking into meaty vessel. His eyes grew wide at the taste (repugnant! he knew this was going to happen! uta was wrong!), but nothing would be said. Not even a noise would escape as he pulled and reared back, fingers tightening their hold around the decapitated head before he jerked away. In flickers of lucidity did he see muscle meat spray alongside blood fluid and splatter itself around and onto him. The urge to vomit’s never been so, so strong, but this was what he had to do to please Uta, wasn’t it?

(i need to die. i need to die. i need to die. die die die die, i have to, i have to–)

Well? Wasn’t it?

(–why me, why me why why why wHY WHY ME WHY ME I CAN’T–)

Body hunches forward, grip falling away and off of the victim meal’s extremities as he hugs his arms around his stomach again. Head lowers, dropping towards the ground as he tries to hide his expression of utter fear away from Uta. Teeth reluctantly chew, but he doesn’t swallow.

(–I CAN’T DO THIS I CAN’T DO THIS I’M BETTER OFF DEAD PLEASE PLEASE–)

Yet he doesn’t spit it out.

Instead, he’s shoving his hands up to his mouth to keep it. He’s hoarding it. He’s making himself eat it. He’s chewing even as his body’s wracked with sobs, shudders, and tremors. Yori’s staring hard at the ground for what feels like centuries until, finally, he manages to swallow. For a moment, he’s quiet and his hands fall. Blinking once and then twice, Yori crinkles his nose. Suddenly, mouth falls open moments later, forcing him to hack out a large chunk of pinks mixed in with red– chewed remnants of the rest he’s tried to swallow.

He knew he couldn’t finish it. He knew he couldn’t.

(–I JUST WANT TO GO HOME.)

He knew he couldn’t.

     ◆ And how easy had this all not been [ nearly too easy ]? To apply this momentum thought of force where no force had been applied at all [ it was all mental, twisted thoughts as his hands had not made to hurt ]? He couldn't help his very picture-perfect charade of a demon to be dragged out a moment longer. Couldn't help the fact that, in his swivelling ways and the mess Yori had been turned into, to find it in himself to near applaud the efforts of struggling. Of opposing. Of denying orders [ but had it truly been orders? ].

    ◆ If he had wanted to, he could have killed him on the spot. Ground to worthless nothingness, these remainders of once proudly standing actor in front of masses, a way and call back towards the flashing seconds when they had 'met' - and the creator himself had forced his own hand to protect and save his little dear toy had learned about later [ Itori had told him, after all, such a darling she ever was ]. And yet, when urged to perform before the one that could be called a personal 'patron', how undeniably did he not fail in his trials of missing rehearsal.

    ◆ Perhaps it had been that?

    ◆ Do actors like these? Perchance have the need for it?

    ◆ Ah, these thoughts were as discardable as the head he still held in hand. When once grasped for and pulled upon, once the 'indulgence' of flesh and blood had been found as a twisted form of delight, it all came down to nought and an unimportant 'prop’ in their little show. He's holding it up with iron grasp, higher and higher and still not high enough that he would need to strain and hurt himself attaining prized possession of Uta's amicability and generosity.

    ◆ It was all so entertaining to watch - and found itself not entertaining at all. If he were to be asked by those that might come by and catch a curious glimpse with shining eyes, forms and physique that bends at the waist, as if closer inspecting, fingers curling beneath chin in mindful exploration of this very meticulously crafted scene of blended sanity with the fine strings of insanity snapping [ it nearly felt similar to the fine dangling strands of softened tissue and meat--- ], he would say, outright, that this whole engagement was boring. And he would simply [ as it was ] not abandon it for the sake of all the work put into it.

    ◆ How could he help it along? With the ticking feeling of the music box still running and churning, a discordant song, while he plucked and pulled, made to wind up with small and shining silver key the symphony of one's catastrophe yet once again.

    ◆ How could he help it farther? "Am I now?" Perhaps, with the broken whispers of own voice ringing out all of a sudden before gaining a fading impetus once more. Merely, as it was, to be so truly - so undeniably - a mixed amalgamation between amusement and disappointment. But could he blame a dying star of an actor?

    ◆ "Do I really~?" Sing-song growing stronger the closer he came. [ And he was so close all of a sudden, once again, like the shadow devouring whole when no light may shine upon them. ]

    ◆ ‘Prize’ that had been taken from his grasp [ not quite, still held up by the scalp and dirtied pieces of hair ] for a botched performance seemed to speak to Yori as well alongside the auctioneers very lips pulling and twisting into what could only be deciphered as words fairly and truthfully so far off and away, splayed over nothing but this mind's small and tiny miseries.

    ◆ Apology does not go over missed. Finally enough to raise a true smile upon his lips. He watches the attempts of eating. One. Two. Three - and within the moment Yori finally falters in trying to please that superior of his [ a hell’s spawn, was he not quite that? ], hand holding whatever measle rests remain would flick at the wrist, discarding it with a loud 'thud' behind his back and a good few meters away from them. All that does chime out for the fact that it had ended its travel, was the loud metallic clang of a - well, he supposes - dumpster stopping the head's exciting travel. All like out of a dream, endlessly, relentlessly, boring down in the chilling realisations that no matter the take on the act, he would turn it into a treacherous, tragic nightmare.

    ◆ "Hm~ I do not wonder that you are unable to."

    ◆ So he speaks after what felt like an eternity. After what felt like the wait for punishment to be bestowed upon whimpering mind and cowering form. After what felt like hours watching fine glinting reminders of tears still wetting cheeks - mixing, matching - with fine drops of crimson red. It's near beautiful, in all its haunted, puny delicacy.

    ◆ "Does it not suit you~?" Mock ways of speech when he comes once again so cloe. Squatting form of his own, bending and twisting, hands placed upon knee for diminishing the distance was all too easily done. He seemed, undoubtfully, like a garish spectre in all its pristine perfection. Would he not doubt that, if Yori looked too long at him, that all those beautiful creations carved into his own skin may come to life and dance? So why not underline that very picture? With his hand reaching out, to be covered in style and picture of fox and snakes amongst other things, leaning and tending to curl fingers beneath the poor child's chin. [ A child? how laughable. ]

    ◆ Lifting up that little head a bit farther, expression falling to a considerate frown, just to be so truly able to figure out just what was going on. He decides to believe that even only smell of blood of their own ilk would be enough to drown out the sanity so barely and desperately held onto [ and was he truly the man to tear it away and apart? ]. So all he does was smile yet once again. "Tell me what you hate about it~?"

               And oh, how he bleeds. He bleeds like a man, even if he is barely an approximation of one in moments like these, eyes nearly black with hunger and wicked joy and flashing content somewhere beneath it all; but his split palm all but pours with the song of his body as it drips and drizzles off his slender fingers in glittering waves. The pain is next to nothing, a spark against his nerves that fills his head with a pleasure only hazily remembered anymore (it has been so long since he has hurt, after all.) The ache ripples through him like dull rolling thunder, and his smile betrays nothing but an eerie joy as he first watches himself bleed; and only then, the face of his evidently grateful companion. The pulse in his wrist pounds all the harder against those snatching fingers, but the beat is nothing if not an even waltz in the other man’s hold to accompany Kain’s lowering voice. 

                “Could be that I have. Could be that I am ancient beyond age, beyond numbers and time and all things quite like it. It could be that I am not human enough to think in these concepts to begin with, or to ever intimately belong to them.” Could be? Could be? It’s laughable even to his own ears, how he plays at being coy even in a moment so transparently far from it. But the game is entirely worth playing as far as he’s concerned, better than babbling all truths and answers at once; the occasion is quite the unique one, and why shouldn’t he celebrate it as much? So he celebrates, laughs–ever so sweetly to the sight opening up in front of him. A hungry mouth finds itself upon his wounded flesh (not quite, but oh so near), to drink of him so gently, so sparingly that it leaves the devil purring in wonder. A finger wet with blood curls with a mocking gentility, only to nudge beneath the other man’s chin and beckon those strange, strange eyes back to his own blackening stare. 

                   They ask why. Of all things, of course they ask why. He takes pause to even begin with his answer and gives himself time to near dreamily set his head to one side. His voice keeps its hush, however lilting it becomes with every passing moment–the silence of the bar is so vast until then that nothing but the generous patter of Kain’s blood troubles the fleeting quiet.

                  “…Because I know hunger so much like it. I know pain and ache and want. I know a lust for red quite like your own, one every bit as vast.”  If not more, if not so much more sometimes that Kain is nearly sick with the grief of wanting. He lids his eyes with a sigh moving through his narrow chest, a shudder of sympathy for that hunger he so deeply understands. But no sympathy in the world moves the smirk from the devil’s arching lips while he breathes in deep of the scent of copper and sandalwood filling his lair. Till his lungs sting, another fancifully human thing, while Kain bends his waist and winds back the white of his sleeve all the way to his elbow. To keep the blood from kissing his cuffs, or to make a show of all the blues and sea-greens that decorate his peeking veins–it’s never sure, whatever it is that Kain intends. Perhaps he only prefers for things to be left to the imagination.

                  “Because we are more than our human veneers, and I tire of pretending at mine in the company of things like yourself.”

     ◆ Bleeding. Opening oneself up before another so greedily taking in what was presented without tempting word [ without the need for another one altogether ] and still - words and their discardable symphony of syllables strung together was the ring inside his ears where the blood's rushing beat would not quite fill them. Had risen a talk and receives an answer that means little to nothing to either of them [ also because he had asked merely for the strange deception of 'normalcy' or the far-cry form of something 'human' already discarded around them ]. He laughs the same way when only lifting for a second from the well of shimmering red that he had tasted instances prior, and watches all the little details of intricate display unfurl in front of dark eyes.

    ◆ Until they had been drawn away from the picture-perfect theatrical dissonance this man fulfilled and his stare had been met with the same subtle inhumanity drawn out further and further until it's unbearably suffocating to be around the mixed scents of something sweet and metallic and so undeniably tempting. And tempted though he was, albeit mentally strong enough to hold back and only take as much as he had been welcomed to [ and they both know he would be welcomed to even more, shall the Ghoul require as a ‘guest’ of the house ]. How thrilling and exceptional. There's so little in this world that would engage him so unequivocally as these small ticks of the clock rushing past both their perception in blinding speed. "A being as old as time~?" He could believe that. If only for the taste of blood now shining and trailing itself over his own hand and arm and the coloured pieces of skin that show through exuberant clothing.

    ◆ As if embellishing pale tissue and trying to set to a bloom what otherwise would be lost in the unknown [ and he wonders just how must this host of his would already understand only for watching all these little places filled with ink map out his strong physique? ]. He could have commented that something was 'off' about this one. And would have found it laughably obvious in the same second tongue would trail along his lower lip in catching the faint reminders of a taste so 'divine' it was near horrifyingly corrupting.

    ◆ And would he not like to feel himself corrupted even more past the ideas and concepts that flood the perception of those that could so easily and perfectly play pretend? Oh, certainly.

    ◆ "So I see. I can understand that. Surely can appreciate it." For he limbers his hold around that delicate wrist the creator knows he could break and crush so swiftly [ a whim in a second? ]. No matter what this entity possesses of powers and coats himself with the tempting and sinful colours of the night: he feels still how feeble and fine, how breakable bone would be with that strength of his laced in palm that was far beyond humanity's own. But why should he? Whatever own ilk and kind may want to prove and entertain, was nought himself found thrilling excitement in. They wanted to prove so very much. With screams. With fights. With destruction. With war. And how much more do they not both prove within one another and in quietened acceptance of being so truly - inhumane. "A thing like me? Oh, why not offer said knowledge? Except, you would want to 'guess'?” Guess? Laughable of an assumption. "Or maybe you even know."

@inter-se-solus -  8|

        “… Uta.” He loathes having to vanish for such long periods of time whilst he sorted out arising problems. Loathes departing from his family [ though his cat has ignored him, curled up on the sofa ]. 

         Fingers reach out and curl ‘round partner’s waist to pull him close, lips brushing over his temple. Yes. This was it. Everything he’d wished for during those darkened moments of solitude. “ I missed you.”

     ◆ No reply drawls forth but small smile raising up on features when he watches partner come home, get comfortable, and yet call out to him with a stark [ near saddened ] softness he can understand, knows very well where it came from.

  Suited him? He’d never thought of that. “She’s old and doesn’t like it if I’m gone for too long.” Sometimes Renji questioned if he’d accidentally picked up a dog instead of a cat with how she often acted. But the claws she enjoyed embedding into his jeans spoke enough of her true nature.

  “I’m just cautious. That’s all.” In his line of work, it would be terribly ill-considered not to be. “Can’t go around just letting anyone know where I live. I’d get killed.” Ghoul parents whom had lost their children and the reverse, those who’d watched their friends get slaughtered mercilessly– All would be out to get him. And part of him, buried deep ‘neath the layers of training received at the CCG’s academy, understood why. It was a similar feeling to the burning anger he felt towards their kind for taking his sister and her children away from the living, an emotion nought could rid themselves of; They’d carry it forever.

 Top of his building is spotted from afar, head then tilting in his companion’s direction. “– You’re making it sound like you want to come inside.” A hint at an invitation? Perhaps. 

     ◆ There was nought but a smile to explanation given, seeing just well enough how the other man found delight in this addition to own home [ yes, he would still think it suited him quite well ]. "So each time you go to work, I assume~?" A jest, of course, days of an investigator were long, sometimes expanding even over the night, robbing them of what little free time they had [ why was he even thinking about that---? ].

    ◆ "That's understandable too~ I won't want to intrude upon your privacy~" And still, words like these easily fall from lips, could be turned and twisted and ultimately to be regarded as the 'truth' behind that cheerful visage. Invitations given were none were due, for the both of them shouldn't wander like this through hurriedly emptying streets [ if only the other knew ] but still it made him stop when the disguise of a bidding arrives to chime in his ears. In the end, he had only been joking, but stops all the same in his own tracks.

Sick! He’s so fucking sick!

(please! PLEASE!!!)

There’s bile! There’s bile rising in his throat, and he can feel it! 

He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout. He wanted to hurt Uta, but… was it worth it? Would it be worth the inevitability of death? It would be in vain, would it not? He swallowed at the thought, already feeling the disgusting burn of vomit’s aftertaste roll back and down into the pits of his stomach. 

It was enough to make his eyes water further. It was enough to make his mouth go dry.

Mouth hung open in modest gape, Yori forcing himself to hold back the urge to lick his lips. He didn’t want this. He never wanted this, but he unknowingly found himself astounded at his fellow clown’s insistence. It was persisting– nagging, gnawing, and biting. The temptation licked at his skin (eat eat eat. feast! feast, you pig!) and was cause enough for him to look away. It wasn’t there, it wasn’t there it wasn’t there–!

“I don’t want to,” he dared to fight back again, using pitiful words as he could feel grip never leave. Even if it had been removed, it’s left its mark on Yori’s body– like a brand. Disgusting. “I cannot. I cannot, I cannot I cannot!”

(i’ll do anything. i’ll do anything you want. anything but this)

Eyes screwed shut at the sudden invasion of squelching (dear god! it’s horrible! a horror show!) within his ears, Yori’s jaw going slack as he felt himself heave. Even as he was staring into pitch black, he could hear the scene perfectly. Head was ripped from neck. Blood splattered itself everywhere. Drops dripped onto concrete. Skin was but mere crumbs on ground, sticking like adhesive. Yori wanted to pick at it.

“No,” he whispered in a near growl, voice wet yet dry at the same time.

He was scared. It wasn’t hard for him to admit, but he was absolutely terrified in voicing it.

Uta was a demon. A real life, genuine demon that Yori’s read about in books. He wanted to cry, but it’d only damn him further and further into the confines of hell.

May it have been morbid curiosity, or could it have been out of a primitive desire that Yori found his head raising. His arms continued to hug tightly at his base, clutching at his sides as nails tried to dig into and through clothing. They scratched– itching at something nonexistent (disgusting! disgusting! scrub it away! wash it away!) at his flesh as he saw it.

Eyes popped wide (as big as saucers. he could’ve screamed if he hadn’t known it was grounds for his death sentence.) at the sight. He kicked his legs out and fell onto his backside, trying to scoot desperately away as he heard Uta speak to them, treating them like they were a guest at a rather accommodating dinner. He’s found himself completely and utterly horrified yet, cursing himself all the while, couldn’t take his eyes off of the scene. Where could he go anyway? Nowhere.

Lips parted, revealing teeth in brash grimace as he felt blood drip closer and closer to his legs, to his feet, but, most important, to him. Yori scrambled, like a rat caught in a trap. He tried shaking Uta away from him, arms bending and shoving at invisible chains and shackles. It’s so clear in his mind, these provocative clinking and clanging screeches of metal against metal.

“The… The–”

Why was he answering? Was he truly that much of a savage?

“–I…”

Hands clamped over his mouth, the actor instinctively biting down on his tongue and causing for it to bleed. He hunched, splitting his fingers open to allow for a fresh globby strand of red to stretch before he tossed his head over his shoulder to stare at his superior (his god? no. not his. never has been his.) with big, horrified eyes.

(it’s the tongue. it’s soft. it’s plump.)

It was a show of weakness, but Yori didn’t care. Makeshift shield lowered, revealing gash within open maw.

(it’s always been the tongue. you should know.)

     ◆ A living and breathing nightmare. Lulling destroyed souls into the security of waking up when only the puppeteer would allow it - and what beautiful strings had he not attached! Searing and snatching, closing around neck, making it ever harder to breathe---

    ◆ Screaming. Screaming. And still making no sound. The horror engraved into the other man's eyes was near deafening to recount in a tale well-spun. And yet himself? The picture-perfect symphony of stark calm { he wouldn't even wonder if one were to compare him to a demon. to the devil }, with the dangling reminders of life completely extinguished to be brought closer and ever closer to his dear 'friend' so decidedly wanting to slip out of his grasp and into eternal slumber. He couldn't have that. Wouldn't allow that. "Still speaking out against me? Refusing my generosity~? Do not make me order you." Speak out the words that would stall any refusal - for their ranks were clear and all the Mask Maker felt himself to be was generous in not toying with this shivering spirit's life more than he already had.

    ◆ A worm. Pathetic. Quivering. { wasting your time, aren't you? how interesting--- }. For having it all stop like the clockwork in his mind when gaze takes in any and all movements before his very eyes. Cradling oneself in moments of sheer horror and terror, before scrambling and crawling away like the bug the useless actor might just present in these seconds ticking away feeling like a mind-numbing eternity { did know it better. had already broken that feeble spirit like the finest glass shattered upon the ground }.

    ◆ So just, the entertainer rises from his own position. Takes that lovely little 'guest' of his along for a travel. With each crimson drop to paint the way from this carcass only waiting to be torn apart by maggots and flies, after Yori's desperately escaping form. Without being able to escape at all.

    ◆ Would he feel bad that Uta had it so much easier - so much simpler - to provide a captivating show indulging not only one, but would be able to indulge masses with the nightmarish terror that was his own brilliant mind? Would he feel--- "Jealous?" ---It had cracked. The symphony that had kept him grounded now repeatedly surging along the same song. Time and time and time--- "Again? That I hold your life in my hands? That I am able to entertain you with a show that your own perception would cling to remember once we are done with it? Once this is all over with?" Spinning along the words of clear abandon when dangling openly gashed wound above the other man's head. He had answered, now had he not? And what a fulfilling answer without any words at all spoken had it not been?

    ◆ Blood to mix with another rotten soul. He could have laughed. And still jokester smile tearing itself over his visage was the cruelty in person experiencing endless horrors. Holding it higher and higher. And if Yori were to glance up? Remains of arteries, dangling pieces of skin embellishing the soaked and sullen ground, rests of vertebrae, stuck in the middle of this near masterful construction--- "Oh, you do not need to answer me~ Be grateful that I understand even if you do not know how to voice your wants and wishes." ---right in front of panicked eyes now. Open wide and unable to be closed, would be stared at by clouded shades of red and brown.

     ◆ One thing would lead to another. Would offer possibilities and opportunities, with the new one rising to be a guardian, the one that had come around to them. That would now mingle amongst them brought in by one of the King’s most trusted ones. As heard, it was the brother of the King’s choice of successor, now acting about in the garden area. The holiest of the grounds occupied by someone that exuded a feeling of stark calm and warmth. Therefore, Renji was sneaking around him, watching that slender figure in the middle of paradise, watching it engage and play with something, unable to really figure it out quite yet.

                          ‘ You should say hello to him. ‘

                                            ‘ I don’t know--- ‘

                          ‘ You might get a little gift if you do. ‘

                                             ‘ I don’t need anything, you know that. ‘

    ◆ And still, that thought would not let him go. Mingling in his mind, an opportunity to actually approach, to greet and get to know someone that seemed so elusive in their times and towards their ways. With those small little somethings toddling around him, caught and let free once more. Floating around, playing with the wind as if being nothing at all but the fine reminders of someone’s dreams and thoughts. He smiles just, that dark someone that seemed near shadowlike in his appearance sitting amongst bright colours and lights making up most of the flowers, of the water, of the sky. He smiles when a little creature of his own chirps and flutters, jumps out and behind him and in direction of their ‘guest’. Quickly being snatched by the stranger’s careful hand and lifted up, yet still { still like this }, eyes had been caught, Renji being exposed from his idle watch of such a near innocent scene unfolding.

    ◆ It chirps again. The small creature in Uta’s palms, flapping lightly those tender wings as if wanting out and let go, wanting to greet properly now that it had figured out they could play. They could find someone being their friend.

                        ‘ Just go. You want to meet him. ‘

                                            ‘ ...I don’t know. ‘

                        ‘ Don’t be like that, he will be a Guardian from now on. ‘

                                            ‘ Alright… ‘

    ◆ It only took a few seconds, a few pulses beating a little bit quicker before they were even closer, maybe half an arm-reach away { too close. too close } and the powerful man’s thoughts spiralled. How eyes widen for just a tad, as if wanting to ask something, thoughts closing in slowly upon the fact that he’s spoken to. Asked something. “May I help you~?” With how that certain someone speaks so softly and lightly. That small spirit in hands fluffs up a bit more { as if being drawn towards him }. “I think he likes you~” These sounds mean little to nothing, caught in the instances that tick away slowly in halting the clock’s hand, caught in the precious moments it takes to realise all that is going on. “Ah---”

    ◆ Say something - mind urges gradually - to finally break that moment of softened enchantment and unravel itself. “---he’s adorable.” And such smile grows a bit wider. Brilliant and light, as if being quite so delighted upon the prospect, upon the small compliment. “You can take him, if you like.” There’s no need to be shy, for how coy of a behaviour one of their own in highest ranks could display in front of something that captivated him so wholly { like nothing had done in thousands of years }. So careful hands do reach out, take the soft and light creature in palms to hold close, to hear the noises and see how happy, how truly content such a small being could be.

    ◆ How odd, perhaps, that it felt like this small bird-like ball of fluff would belong to him?

    ◆ “He’s a small raven.”

    ◆ Such it barely looked. Round and feathery. Weighing less than a single one of those Renji strokes idly with gentle fingers. “What… is he?” An odd small creation. “I call it a ‘guide’. They are made to lead you around obstacles and hardships.” How odd - indeed. He’s lifting it up, gleeful chirp erupting before small wings move and flutter, trying to pry itself off and settle down on broad shoulder, all to be watched and followed with those dark eyes and their velvety feel. What had striken Renji more? The stark softness of someone quite so captivating? Or the small spirit now being ready to find adoration? To offer it so surely in return?

    ◆ He felt like a suddenly lovestruck fool. It had taken less than a minute to find himself so sunken into this very moment, while his hand would reach up and stroke the subtle recognition of small feathers beneath searching fingertips. Absentmindedly only being able to stare. No thoughts delivered past these very few ones in awe-filled eyes. He couldn’t help but see the laugh, a faint rouging of cheeks following swiftly in return when he recognises perfect observation. When his captivated moment of realisation shakes itself just as much out as the small guide would nearly tumble down from its comfortable seat. Noise of surprise raises itself, still being caught securely in one palm.

    ◆ “Ah, sorry for that.”

    ◆ How naturally did it not come? To treat such a small creation as nothing short of a precious gem, for him to keep and care for. And all the creator himself could do? Was smile and laugh, having the taller being, the more powerful one, just turn away with blush still aptly present on his cheeks. He knows { don’t they both? } that this was only a beginning.

“I– I don’t want to.”

Weak. Pathetic. Squashed. Worm. He knew he looked like all of those things and more.

Feeling something akin to a petulant child, Yori refused to move even as Uta had drawn closer. Usually, he’d retreat or lean further into it. There was no in-between and there should continue to be no such thing. However, he’s found himself struggling just to retain his composure. Did a man such as he even deserve to cry? He felt as if that was a long lost concept… an idea or an theory.

(i don’t want to i don’t want to i don’t want to i don’twanttodon’twantto–)

Mouth was open, somewhat slack-jawed as he tried to breathe. Air rushed in like rushing hisses and came out like shaky, cry-filled wheezes. What a sight he was! He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. Breath hitches in throat, though, once hand made itself known upon back of neck. For a second, he’s forgotten how to breathe and has both hands reaching up to clutch helplessly at his own throat. Teeth bared in blatant sneer (or was it just a frown?) as eyes caught the fleeting glimpse of body, already feeling the will to vomit surge and jerk within his gut.

“I want a human instead, sir Uta,” he mumbled, afraid of raising his voice even as hands paused within their ministrations upon gradual realization that it was all Uta. “I don’t want this. You can have it.”

He’s since given up keeping up the role he’s been responsible for. Uta could make him. Uta probably will make him. It’s cruel. It’s so very cruel, but was that not the point of being a clown?

At times, he found himself wondering… why him? This was one of those many times.

Eyes reluctantly raise away from the ground, directing towards the body before immediately averting. Lips press hard together, Yori feeling tears threatening to expose their selves as he dared to slap Uta’s hand away. It was all so quick, so clumsy, and so shockingly bold that all he could do after was bury his face deep within his hands. Body shook rapidly, switching from side to side in gross show of rejection and denial.

“Their death is enough! I cannot!”

Stomach heaved, nearing that of a subtle growl as Yori’s immediately hugging his arms over it as face twists. It distorts, forming into an expression of pure and utter disgust as he, once again, peered towards corpse. Voice grew low with gaze darkening, the ghoul tried his best to ignore all there was around him.

“You can’t… you can’t make me, sir Uta.”

     ◆ All those little mingling thoughts splayed out before one's perception in regarding a fallen actor just as this one { wanting to hide it, scoop them up and cradle them closer }, would also drawl themselves before the creator's very eyes. It's easy enough to see this creature as nothing else but its pathetic, weak self - a worm indeed, to be squashed and ground to nothingness. Why did he even bother with this one? Could discard him into the trash on the side like he had done with some of the corpses deemed useless and 'unclean' { he had incomprehensible habits sometimes, others from the clowns would come and pick up the rests when he ordered it }.

    ◆ Stroking motion along exposed back of neck ceased prior to these traumatised words. He's all too calm, soft nearly in his touch and grace, the fine lingering gentleness that could be turned into brutality of strangulation in any moment's notice when Uta decided he was done playing around.

    ◆ But it didn't happen.

    ◆ And he didn't loosen his grasp either---

    ◆ ---"We can't have that~" Like the rushing cling of a crooked music box somewhere in the back of his mind. A very soft symphony of discordant tones and voices, coming to a screeching halt. He had lowered himself beside the cowering man { when had that happened? deafening in his movements now that he was on eye-sight with the discardable mess of tears and sobs }. Still would keep his hand upon the fine and silken skin ready to be torn apart by not his own fingertips, but the actor's in his fight for control that he would never garner again.

    ◆ "What a waste of good flesh~ If you eat it, you would become more powerful~" Forfeit one’s mind to the temptations. Empty hand to extend and wander over, the head of something sure so lifeless it could be misconceived for being a doll { if not for being covered lavishly in glistening sheen of red } now carefully touched and a fistful of dirty, blood-crusted hair taken into palm. Moving what had been done away with, near carefully lifting up to have something so empty stare expectantly back at Yori's disturbed and broken form.

    ◆ { Broken in body, or broken in mind? }

    ◆ "I am not interested personally, I came here after refreshing myself already~" { It is not a secret what he wallows in with a vice--- }. Letting go of the shaking mass of self-ridicule and panic, there was a sickening crack that followed the otherwise calm and near tranquil cadence of a soothing show.