Sᴜʀᴜᴛᴀᴋᴀɪ

                    ❝ They are the same! ❞           Yukine’s cadence was colored with both the desperation to help the deity, and           the deep hurt that clung tightly to his heart from the continued lack of trust           between them. He thought ——

                                 He thought the trust between them was mutual.

          The youth tucked himself further towards his eternally chilled core, and           clamped down on the shivering tremble that wanted to clack his teeth together           incessantly. His willowy frame stayed crouched, and determined. His hands           were still held out with a impatient desire to cover the self-inflicted wounds on           the other’s pallid flesh before dirt could infect the area further. A rough,           unhappy sigh slipped past his lips. The temptation to inch ever closer - to drop           from the toes he balanced precariously on to his knees in a subtle effort to           eliminate the space between them - left his muscles itching with anticipation. 

          In the end, Yukine kept his hands to himself. The first twinge of discomfort in           his legs brought a new grimace to his lips, yet he was afraid to move, to even           twitch the slightest bit. He allowed Yato his tears, and stubborn silence. Was it           mere seconds, or long minutes before the teenager swallowed uneasily.

          He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. It hurt to watch the deity           - in a way, his other half - break down in the way he did. A tear dripped from his           eye, and he hurried to swipe it away as he returned to reality.

          The teenager shifted and his weight fell awkwardly against his heels. His           arms felt wobbly from the continued, if gentle, strain on them, and they           drooped away ever so slightly. Yukine licked his dry, chapped lips in further           contemplation before he began hoarsely, ❝ Listen… you’ll know if I’m lying,           right? Am I lying when I say I want to be here right now? It’s not pity. I           don’t want to be anywhere else.

                                 Look —— ❞

                                 Yukine pointed to his name etched across his collarbone, ❝ It’s                                  a promise, right? I’ll protect you, even if it’s from yourself, for                                  as long as I’m Yuki. ❞

                                 Of course, he couldn’t promise to protect the deity from Hiyori                                  when his idiocy reached unacceptable peaks. 

                    ❝ I would die - again - for you. Do you really think you can get rid of                                 me or scare me away this easily? If you don’t want to tell me                                 why you hurt yourself, fine. I’m used to your secrets. But tell me                                 what you need from me — other than for me to leave, because                                 I’m not taking stupid requests tonight. ❞

                                He forced tired arms up once more in expectation. His gaze                                 remained fixed, and unwavering on the dark-haired man.                                       ❝ Hands, please. ❞

                 Diffidence permeated a mask of anguish; strained features melting away                  into juvenile hesitation, azure irises finally rose to met with marigold                  counterparts. Framed by thin eyebrows, blood-shot pupils searched for                  any semblance of differentiation of the adolescent's gaze as despairing                  words were spoken--

                  Conforming with expectations, the flaxen hair of the boy flopped across a                   pale forehead, as normal, sunset eyes concealed for now by shadows                   pulling across innocent, saddened features.

                                                        It was those eyes.                     The deity averted his gaze then, his eyes tracing the fractured edges of                   glass shards littered about the ground, before flashbacks could overpower                   whatever uncorrupted calm was left in an already noisy mind.

                   A chagrinned darkness overcame the faulty avoidance, as a fleeting                    reminiscence overcame an enfeebled deity; the recollections made the                    male sick to the stomach. If he had eaten, he probably would have                    thrown up by now. 

                          Thanks to open wounds, the heavy metallic aroma of blood filled                           his nostrils--Though reminding him of those misdeeds carried out by                           his own sword, something about the warmth and dull pain radiating                           from his own flesh rather than other's... Was grotesquely comforting.

                                  Though this comfort, only pacified the guilt with various levels                                   of effectiveness; with each night, it seemed, more was needed                                   to for penitent reconciliation.

                   Dismissing the train of thought abruptly, Yato used the back of his hand                    to dry his now damp hairline, creating a distraction instead in formulating                    theories as to how much time has passed since he dazed out; though this                    too, was interrupted not by the deity, but rather the young boy.

                                                               雪. Yuki.

                    Using a slender finger, Yato found himself tracing the complex character                     with his eyes; the single entity in his clan... family. Staring at the crimson                     tattoo, and then the equally deep red on his palm, the deity allowed his                     palms to be visible to the young regalia, steady streams of tears falling                     down his face. 

"Yer in the Queen Anne district track suit. Ain’t nuthin really goes on round here but yer here. This where ya wanted t’ be or…" Hank trailed off. The old language of the boy was making the conversation a lot longer since Hank had to spend a good thirty seconds trying to translate. 

          While the words were spoken to draw attention as he came to rest along the           smooth, polished deck, they were spoken in little more than a whisper. His           palms pressed against the wood as his weight shifted, and his shoulder           blades nearly came together beneath the sweater he wore to ward off the late           evening air. Marigold eyes stared at the dusty sky overhead, his lids at half           mast in swirling contemplation.

                    His back was to Yato, perhaps because he knew                     the answer to his question before he spoke it.

                    ❝ What do you think my dad was like? ❞

                    It was a stupid question that had been asked in a different way a                     hundred times before, and had received the same answer each time.

                                        There was a reason he didn’t know.                                                                                                    Still ——

                    Yukine sighed. His heart remained eerily calm. If he wanted to be                     stereotypical, he may have described it as the calm before a storm.

                                        That was a stupid analogy.

                    ❝ Will you tell me… someday? ❞

      ❝—Why are you so hung up on that?❞

                 The words came rough off the deity's tongue, as thin eyebrows furrowed                  together in contemplation. It was never a mother, never a sibling. Without                  fail, the regalia always questioned his relations to his father.

                 In contrast to an even-tempered regalia, Yato could feel his hands growing                  clammy, the facile nature of his own kin resonating through his mind.                  Regalia were always so eager to learn about their parentage... Always                  looked onto their patron deity with such hopeful eyes--

                              --as if the will to live,                                       the reincarnation into a godly servant,                                              required a tale of happiness.

      ❝...❞

       Relying on others was a sign of weakness. It showed a lack of character and zero strength of will. For the most part, she preferred to flounder about and struggle than to give in and ask for help. At least she could say she tried. Some things, however, defied physical possibility. In those cases, there wasn’t much choice.

       On her way to the market, she had seen graffiti of someone’s name and phone number on the front of a dumpster. It was an inconsiderate, careless form of advertising, she thought, but it was definitely eye-catching. They had done something right, whoever they were. She had snapped a picture of it at the time, something to pass around and laugh at later. Now, she gave the photo another glance before dialing the number with great trepidation.

         The racket of the empty tin hitting rough asphalt resonated throughout the vacated alley, as ivory hands moved themselves into deep pockets, azure irises glancing over to his handiwork. Rushed characters written in eye-catching red--It's locale probably led more than one person to disregard his plea for customers for worthless vandalism.

          The deity fully recognized the felonious nature of the actions--But if hardly anyone noticed it, then could he really be persecuted? To most others, his writings were invisible.           A shrill melodic ringer pulled the deity out of his thoughts, elongated digits coiling around a small plastic machine, systematically pulling the device out of the pocket, and flipping it open, pressing it to his ear without so much as a second thought.

          His hopes weren't high; this sort of thing happened quite often, a curious passerby, brushing off his claims in the blink of an eye.

      Seattle, Washington... The United States. Sounded like getting back to Japan would be a pain in the ass.

♕”No, that’s not good either.” Tsukimi mumbled to herself as she drew in sketchbook. Her deadline for coming up with a new design for a Jellyfish dress was coming up soon,but she had no inspiration whatsoever. She ripped the page from her sketchbook out of frustration and tore it to little pieces. She didn’t see someone was watching her until she looked up.