He was not exactly a man knew for his words, let alone giving interpretations of art. But Kaho was not asking for critique and reflection on how he had expressed poetry with his body. He was asking whether he understood the depth of his devotion, which he had just poured out to him till the very last drop.
Which must be why it was so frightening to see him crouching there with wisps of hair obscuring his face, his eyes pleading as though his answer would either grant him life or death. Iwai's heart hammered with even more violence than before. He leaned forward to take hold of Kaho's hands, which were almost hot from exertion and seemed to tremble - unless it was himself who was trembling.
His thumping blood was in the way, but nevertheless, he forced the words out. "When we first met, I was caught by your gracefulness and mysterious allure. You were like a butterfly - beautiful and ethereal. It seemed like you might slip away at any second, even though you had been the one to draw me in. The first part of your dance reminded me of that."
He brushed his thumbs over the back of Kaho's hand. "You are graceful, but you are also fierce... even obsessed. Something drives you to go to whatever lengths possible to reach your goal. You danced like a warrior who had already lost enough that you were willing to lose even your sanity, your life, your soul, to your dream."
Was he talking about Kaho's revenge, or his love? It seemed difficult to see where one started and one began, but why was that? Vulnerability and fear were mirrored as their gazes met. "I think I drive you mad, Kaho. It's as if your devotion will drag us both to hell. Is that presumptuous for me to say?"