" take my hand again . " // @kuidaorc
It is an ache that cannot be sated easily, the pull upon the fabric of his stomach, distending then clenching tightly. Koro moves about, small phantom paws that keep him placated, warm with too much love that no longer was able to be poured. By now, his hunger would be sated, long fingers that pull apart the delicate sinew && the laughter that was smooth, gentle, cooing tenderly - how gruesome. The small cubes were no longer working, old man Yoshimura warned him, he would eventually snap seeking out stronger cuts - a pallet that was bred on luxurious delicacies could not last long like the typical ghoul. What a joke, the balmy coolness of the evening comforts him, pressed against his cheek like a phantom kiss, if only it could smooth back the soft strands of ivory.
The phone continues to vibrate, shaking violently, Satoru ignored the scolding of his manager, any public events or promises of an upcoming tour, show, collaborations with some of the nation’s top upcoming musicians - oh, Satoru, you’re upsetting the humans. Weeping, the scarlet eye no longer can be hidden as he curls tighter into the softness of the futon, the distant noises vibrate in his mind, squeaking hinges as the feline meows in confusion. A familiar scent that sends his brain into overdrive, let this be a nightmare, he could handle it instead of the reality that stands before him. “Trespasser” venomous, it seethes in a thick dialect, unknowing to that of the Metropolitan, the strange anomaly within this ward, outsider it labeled him as. He was in no position to fight, it was crass anyhow, to argue or bring violence into a place that was once a happy sanctuary. When the long arduous days tired his bones, each one weighing heavily as the hymn of both worlds moved in between, it was a place to escape. We’re mates, the childish vibrations of hopeful promises, they never knew what it meant, we’re the strongest, idealistic youth with greater dreams - the fall from grace penetrated deep into the heart.
A knife that was wedged between, where the blade had missed an artery just by an inch, every feeble prayer wishing it had done so. Defiant, pale && unblemished he tried to push away, shrieking until there was nothing left, that was all he desired but not an inch of strength could be conjured. Yearning for an embrace so tight it would knock the very air from his lungs, yearning to react in violence only then could it grant him solace, a cathartic act that never comes only regret for the past && the imprint that was left upon his kagune. “Damn, can you believe I die like this? What do you think the headlines will paint it as? Or do you even bother with such nonsense anymore? Starvation! This sucks” he always spoke too much when anxiety kicked in, nonsensical words that went on for hours, anything to fill the silence. It fills his mouth, sweet similar to that of licorice with a deep smoke, though he recognized it by instinct. Ichor gained from the purest of forms, blood that was filled in tea cups, he could remember the attendants of the household urging for another drink.
A special boy with a robust appetite, squeamish && thus, his father assured such eyes would never have to cry when fed, it’s a sign of love && nurture - not of violence. Spatting the remains onto the floor, a deep breath follows, the first bit of air that circulates && no longer is he drowning. Why must be continuous this dance with one another? A ghoul’s insanity is based on the warrant of desire, all of the heart’s dreams that wither from the existence that shuns our very nature, why deny me the greatest joy of mania? Then I could be drunk on the embers of my humanity. Briefly, his eyes close to recollect each thought, though the frigid temperature has yet to break, ice that was unbreaking.
The back of his hand that reaches to touch, strawberry kissed knuckles && chipped polish - glittery, tooth decaying adorable. “You’ll spirit me away if I do that, then what if I don’t come back? Life continued after you left, each seed we tried to grow withered && decayed, by now you know the answer to such a question” and still, his hand eased into the comfort of familiarity, a grasp so tight he did not care if each bone shattered. Listless his laughter pours, if only to keep back the tears, he loathed such an act - a sign of weakness that was unbecoming.
“Our palms still fit like they were meant to be, even now, nothing changes between us”
