‘ cause yer human, kid . ‘ humans with blunt teeth & soft skin, humans with blood & power creatures & monsters like to feed on around here. like to break. like to feel better than, somehow ( like to feel different than, whereas they’re the same cookie cutter void of teeth & claw . ) she wants to be sad for him, but finds no room for pity in her ( they ate it all . ) instead, she offers what she can, & presses a covered hand close. not touching, no, never something as threatening as that. but a constant, stable pillar. she’s human too, she remembers. willingly so. something hard - fought for, something many around here grow out of.
she remains, anyway . ‘ this is a land of gods & the beasts that make them . you’ll always stand out, but that ain’t a bad thing . humans kill gods & monsters all the time, ‘ she pauses here, smiling some. smiling like she knew. smiling like she enjoys it. ‘ ‘least you can make art outta it . ‘
he tips his head when she reaches to him, leaning into the air between cheek and palm, like a cat stretches into the hand that pets it. he doesn’t touch her either, remains crouched there, dark eyes serious, fixed on a point over her shoulder. he does not know much, but he knows this:
but where does one draw the line between man and monster? what’s the difference between sharp teeth and a sharp blade, in the end, other than the fact that one has more reach? he never understood before; he looks too human for kirigakure, acts too monster for anywhere else, but now he knows he has to carve out his own place with his own hands, nestle into the blood and the muck with blunt teeth -- soft skin that glows under the light of the moon -- the ink-dark shapes that linger just below his skin, in the corners of his eyes. every scrap of respect, of fear, of camaraderie he’d fought tooth and nail for is wielded like a blade, worn like armor.
there’s never been any room in his life for things like hope, but he can have something like faith in the things he knows. orcas, wolves, dolphins and piranhas all hunt in packs. the bitten hand slaps hard. the sea wears at the shore and the things that linger beneath the surface almost always want to eat you. the sun rises and sets and so does the moon, pulling the tides, pulling the seasong from the throats of a thousand spirits in a secluded bay a mile from here, a thousand miles from here.
the last thing he knows: monsters and men bleed the same, in parts like these.
“art?” he asks, finally. there is a dragon that winds in loops and coils around his shoulders, her face poking out of his collar, wisps of ink-smoke curling and disappearing into his hair. she snaps her teeth and dives once more, ink-scales ever shifting on the canvas of his skin. “something like it, at least,” sai thinks maybe he sounds a little amused, a little lost, a little tired. mostly, he is nothing at all. “do you think yourself human, kasumi-san?”
