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He couldn’t understand it at all.
Morishige, blood-soaked, exhausted from the peak of his excitement, lay with his head against Kizami’s thigh. There were so many things about him that Kizami could not grasp, and yet, he seemed to want to know them.
The metal of his glasses dug faintly into Kizami’s flesh. He had seen, with those two eyes, that Kizami was capable of butchering someone that had loved him before. Why then, was Morishige’s lovesickness still strong enough to blind him? Perhaps it was all about the feeding of his desire; he was desperate for something Kizami could provide. It was a transaction. Yet somehow, he didn’t feel that way; feeling something was rare enough, but feeling as if Morishige was not trying to cheat him, like the brightness in his eyes was real, was even more scarce.
Affording to trust was not something Kizami could make room for. He could keep this boy around for as long as he could control him with bloodlust. Any longer than that, and he could lose.
The gentle jab was beginning to irk him; he slid Morishige’s glasses off his face, and put them in his own breast pocket. It was a product of losing his mind, of course. that lustful flush in his cheeks, the glint in his eye that seemed to awaken Kizami more, they were all because this place was getting to him.
Nonetheless, it was beautiful.
Kizami’s fingers curled into his hair, as gentle as he could manage. His head was warm, the strands were smooth; perhaps he was the type to groom himself. Morishige sighed and shifted, and Kizami snatched his hand away as if he had been burned. It was a reminder that his vulnerability would be punished sooner or later.
If that was the case, then it left him no option: being vulnerable before him would get someone killed. Still, he was allowing Morishige to lie with his head in his lap, breathing gently, sound asleep. Perhaps they weren’t so similar after all. He had watched how despairing and how delirious he had become at the death of his beloved, but no such emotion had gripped him when Kurosaki has met his sticky end.
He hadn’t enough feelings for others. Morishige had too many. They balanced one another out, in an odd way.
That cloying desperation that he so reeked of was more than just simple excitement, and Kizami knew it. It made utterly fascinated disgust twist inside of him - becoming aroused by death was something else altogether. For how long had he hidden such a thing? Or was he never conscious of it? He cast his eyes down to him again; exhaustion must have truly gripped him to enable him to sleep in such a place as this.