#enough....hopefully

Sweat and rain dripped off of Vivia’s face, indistinguishable from one another. He was never one for umbrellas or hoods—the effort expounded to unfold or lift one exponentially that of energy he could put towards turning a page—but his hair stuck to his face and he rather wished he had one. Trying to push it off his cheeks would only smear dirt and blood across his face, and then he’d have to shower, and the list of responsibilities would grow indefinitely.

But after an hour of a rather obnoxious game of cat and mouse, he has his desire in the palm of his hand. He might be gripping a bit too hard, but it’s warranted with how the man is struggling in his grasp.

“V-Vivia!” Yakou said, somewhere in-between a gasp and a growl. His voice is rougher now, gravelly like his smoking finally caught up to him and hoarse like he’d forgotten how to speak.

Vivia had always thought it was strange how readily they grouped any dead homunculi together. He’d seen some of Makoto’s attempts to separate the groups out by coherence on his way in, but there was clearly nothing he could do to catch those who remembered sorrow. Yakou should have been in the tidy rebuilt area of the restricted zone, and the fact that he wasn’t gave Vivia a miserable bout of hope.

“Chief…” He said carefully, watching him closely for any kind of reaction. “Why would a bird not sing?”

Yakou’s brows furrow, and he doesn’t tug as hard the next few tries. “… Sad?”

Vivia shook his head. “It’s cries too, are a kind of song. The bird sings of mirth… and of woe.” Yakou groaned in frustration, trying to dig his heels into the ground for more leverage but the mud is too soft. He slipped backwards, and lays there, staring up at Vivia.

“Go… Vivia.”