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There's blood on his hands.
He can't say that. It would be a lie because no blood got on his hands. Or on his clothes. He walked away from the fight without a single drop of blood on him.
But he feels it. His hands feel dirty, blemished by the act of swinging his sword. Strange. He's done it thousands of times, and it's never felt like this before. He never feels guilty when his blade slashes through a Hitotsuki.
It's different. His sword won't kill a Hitotsuki. Because they're human, his attacks won't harm them even if it was his intention. He cuts the monster out of the host to save the human. But Sonoi isn't human. Wasn't human.
Is or was, even that he's not sure about. He struck down his enemy, but couldn't bear to stick around and check if the Noto was really, truly dead. Knowing ruins everything. He can't lie, not even to himself, but he can choose not to know something. He can choose to look the other way, to leave the body on the ground and let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he didn't ruin his only shot at joy.
It's not fair.
He didn't want this. He doesn't enjoy inflicting pain. He wants to bring joy to people, and he does that by giving people what they want. What they tell him that they want. He doesn't understand joy, so the only thing he can do is do what they tell him.
But people lie. He knows this. That knowledge has followed him his whole life. The rules of regular humans aren't his rules. People say that something will bring them joy, but when they're given what they "want," they become cold, disappointed, and, when he's unlucky, aggressive.
Sonoi said he wanted a fight. That was what he wanted more than anything. So he said. Was it a lie? Did Sonoi want something else? Was this another mistake that Taro missed because for the first time in his life he thought he found someone who understood him?
He tried to stop it. He avoided the fight for as long as he could and Sonoi hunted him down. The Noto helped him at work because it would hasten the fight. Even after they fought together side by side, Sonoi turned around and asked to fight again.
Taro looks down at his hands and sees blood. It's not real, he knows it's not, but it feels real. He feels the thick, viscous fluid dripping down his wrist and crusting under his nails. He feels blood on his hands as surely as he feels his clothes against his skin.
It's late, the rest of the team must be worried, but he can't go back to report what happened. If he walks into the café, he's sure everyone will see the blood dripping from his fingertips, and they'll know.
Even if they don't see it, they'll ask. And he'll tell them. He'll tell them everything.
He tastes copper. There's blood in his mouth too. His heart feels like it's crawling up his windpipe in desperation to heave itself out of his body. He clutches his chest and his eyes catch the blue on his forearm, and he unties the cloth wrapped around his injury. His own blood stains the silky blue fabric. He runs the fabric between his fingers, exploring the sensation. It's not the first time he's touched it, but he's never had the time to sit and explore the sensation. It's not made of any earthly material. Silk is the closest comparison, but it's thicker and heavier. Made from fiber from a different world, it's alien and somehow familiar.
Raising the cloth to his face, he brushes it again his cheek. It's soft and warm. His heart feels like it's in his mouth, the blood threatening to spill out his lips as the organ tries to escape.
A contest, a contest, people always want a fucking contest. Except they don't. They never do. They want to win, want to beat him. Whether it's to take him down a peg or to reinforce their own superiority, it doesn't matter. They aren't happy with a contest, only with a victory. So they're never happy with a fair fight. Never happy to discover they’re second. Not interested in advice to improve because the contest was only useful to prove their own worth.
Sonoi hadn't wanted a contest. At least, Taro doesn't think that's what he'd wanted. He doesn't know. He can tell himself that what Sonoi wanted was truly a test of strength, and it won't be a lie because Sonoi can't contradict him. He can say that Sonoi wanted to fight him as a representative of his world. They were opposing forces and his victory is proof of the strength of the Donbrothers. That won't be a lie either.
But it's not the truth.
Sonoi wanted something else. Taro saw it in the man’s face whenever they spoke. Saw it in his hands and in his jaw and his shoulders and his beautiful blue eyes…
Taro takes a deep breath to calm himself and is assaulted by a familiar sweet smell. He noticed it before when he sat close Sonoi, a subtle floral scent. But up close it hangs on Sonoi’s clothes, sharp and heavy.
Tears sting Taro's eyes and he feels blood pouring out of his mouth and dripping down to his chin. It’s not real, he reminds himself again and again, but it feels just as real as the sensation of his sword slicing through Sonoi.
Defeat me.
Contests. How he hates them. How he hates being challenged again and again with no change, no competition. If he were human, he would throw every one just to make people leave him alone.
Defeat me.
Maybe he should. It would be lying. Trying would start with stress, then irritation, then burning pain followed by darkness. Maybe it would be worth it if no one ever challenged him to a contest again.
“Defeat me.”
The words tear his throat and he coughs. Something unlodges from his throat and drops into his hand. It's red and wet. A bloody chunk of meat that pulses in his hand. It's real. The blood is real.
“Defeat me.”
The words fall out of his mouth along with more blood. His chest is hollow, the bloody beating mess in his hand is his heart.
“Defeat me. Defeat me. Defeat me.”
Blood is everywhere. It covers him, shifting and hardening. His body warps as rage and despair take over. His heart warps in his hand, stretching, hardening, sharpening until it's recognizable as a sword. The hilt still pulses against his palm as blood drips down the blade.
"Defeat me," he screams, "Defeat me and end this pain."