It was an anklet - not nearly a sustainable and substantial gift for the aging brother, but it only meant as well. 

Weaving the last amidst its siblings, a dexterous finger brushed back a loose strand of raven hair.           Finished.

  Happy Birthday Marco.

Hell could not accept him. The gates had shut; refused by death, it wasn't suicide  - but sacrifice.

It did not heal him. Wounded and wound up, the festering lesion too raw to be handled, too raw to be seen.

It danced between his fingers, waltzing from knuckle to knuckle; leaping amongst his fingertips. Tiptoeing, swanning, sauntering over the wooden panels. The historical board of travel wailed at his extensions, mourned at the musicality; performing Tantalus. Tails; loose; gallivanted amongst the gentle coax of wind – a touch of familiarity, a trace of family.

   Kaizoku.

A beard, as white as the snow that rested upon his kimono. White. They stood significantly, enraptured in a tale and journey of their own. A companion; so many a story to tell, brimming with flakes of falling union, devising a content end, collecting on the 16th commander’s wrist; the protruding bone. It dissolved. Dissolved in a cooling pool of water. The trickle of the sky glided to the palm of his hand in a delicate twirl.

   A rhythm picked, heightened; vanished.

All within a few moments, it rose again; years; years upon years – too many years. Youth, a sudden flash, distant, valuable. Alongside that of the falling cold it disguised itself with its absence and went; a melancholic exit. Izou’s eyelashes accumulated the pale flecks off winter; it bestowed him a mild and tender blanket. They were closed, always closed. Immersing himself within the dance, reminiscing; he was contained within a bubble of nostalgia.

It was at these times, he missed the warmth of the sun; cried for a prideful shadow; beckoned for it all to return.

   The winter was cold.

Moonlight whispered a pocket of guidance and this made for a sweet atmosphere to take his right of selfishness and comfort his day break pain. He was there. He saw it all happen. It reminded him; forced him to be reminded.

Collecting his soft steps, his movements slowed to a dejected stop. For moments; in silence; he stood.

   Waiting. Waiting. W a i t i n g.

             For what?

                     Something.

Glossy eyes blinked away the distasteful gloom and it was supported by a wiping action from a shaking, trembling hand.

Seeking refuge behind the walls of his room - the sound of the lively party, based with a little silence, hummed beyond the wooden door beside the raven. It distanced; galaxies filled with years of wisdom glazed over another day. An exhalation of short breath was succeeded by a perk in interest. A delightfully attractive gift had caught the darker blacks of his eyes. Waltzing over, over and over, the kimono drew closer. Its carefully folded state revealed the gifter.

There could only be on so experienced in the careful manner of kimonos.

   Blood; blood. Izo.      ‘Merry Christmas’.

Perfect lips could not refuse the smile from emerging on his pale face. His pale face; a soft touch of pink brushing the tips of his cheeks.

   Shizuka.

And the raven rested his eyes in a standing woe, inhaling the whispers of the night.

//FRGRMGIRG WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN.

MIIchuuUUUUU -PUTS FISTS UP- COME HERE AND FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN I CAN DO IT.

I can do IT SO COME FIGHT ME

HUH HUH????

COME ON.

///Does anyone else love horrible histories and all of the history nerds in that program because seriously I do

i’M GONE KILL YOU Miichu!!!!