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Kenji’s always been some sort of holy feast.
His tears were champagne. Eyes as almonds dotting across a platter of skin. Bones as cutlery. Delicate muscle as luscious fruits, his blood as the sweet juices from the berries nestling within him like encrusted gems in a crown.
The first time Oikawa saw the boy, he had known that. This boy was spectacularly fantastic, a specimen of enchantment. Sleeping Beauty, unpricked on the needle yet. All ornate with a petal face. Spring garden in bloom. Ambrosia and nectar, rich hair from the heavens. Translucent skin on dried lips, tongue slipping out like an infuriated curse and moisturizing the papery mouth. Oikawa drooled whenever Kenji did it.
He was splendid, magnificent. A gift, surely. From who was a vague answer; probably the devil, Oikawa would never get a chance to meet some celestial messenger.
A feast was a feast. Oikawa could’ve, and should’ve hosted a drunken party. Crowds would ooh and ahh, flock like sheep, speculate the boy in awe, drink his tears like gallons of alcohol, snatch the delicacies off him, rip the jewels from his throat, all in a hurried frenzy because all of it was first come, first serve.
But Oikawa didn’t want to invite anyone to join him in his dining. He wanted to be the only one to see Kenji, to hear Kenji, to touch Kenji, to feel Kenji, he wanted to be the only one to drain the boy’s blood, the only one to treasure him, the only one to admire his beauty.
He wouldn’t mind, no, he would prefer to have a candle-lit dinner across a long clothed table with plates for each seat, knives and forks per chair, and yet be the only one present. He would prop Kenji against the chair opposite and stare at the carcass all day and night long dreamily while stirring his cold starter soup with his gleaming unused spoon.
Snip.
Oikawa cuts the oaken locks which gleam under the dim candlelight he works in. He takes the stray strand, twirling it in his fingers, and he brings it closer to the glowing stub of wax.
The strands sizzle and fizz as they burn.
Creak.
He slowly stands up, scissors in hand as he strolled over to the flower vase on the windowsill, and runs his hand along with the petals, blooming pinks and lilacs, luscious blue and deep garnet, marmalade-orange crowned with forest green leaves. It’s a lavish cluster, unfit for the worn curtains and dirty glass. Oikawa watches the moonlight tap its way through the glass to cloak the flowering vase.
He sees a brilliant red bloom clustered within a few stalks of green, and he reaches out, fluttering over the vermillion petals.
He smiles.
Perfect.
He brings up his scissors and places the stem between the argent blades. They snarl in the moonlight, harsh.
Snip.
The flower falls down with a thud. The stem droops.
He cups the flower in his hands, treasuring beauty, and reverently brings it to his chest as he walks back to the table. He stands at the edge of the table, staring down at the figure lying on the wood.
Light flickers and illuminates the porcelain of skin on carved marble face, smooth and unblemished, innocent. Lips are dressed with stark red, smeared on the thin skin which covered his mouth. Hazel eyes with spidery lashes reside on the face, unblinking, blank. He’s dressed in a white nightgown, coral ribbons tied around the cuffs and the neckline, lace trimming the hem. Delicate calves and ankles peek from underneath the white cloth. The fingernails and toenails are coated with a pretty shade of fuschia, bits of sparkles and glitter on each fingertip.
He’s drained, drained of blood, drained of life, but Kenji still has that everlasting beauty that allures Oikawa always, no matter what.
Oikawa moves the flower about, debating whether to place the little gem on the ribbon ornating his chest or to place it in his caramel locks. Eventually, he gently slips the blossom in his hair and tucks it behind his ear, tracing the earlobe gently and unnecessarily slow.
He steps back to admire his masterpiece.
He tuts, half in sorrow and pity, half in absolute delight.
“Pretty as always.”
Then he turns, taking the container filled with drained blood, and blows the candle out. He walks out of the door, leaving his new creation lying on the cold, cold table.