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There is an itch in Tokinaga’s eye, and a God in his apartment.
He wonders, absently, if Obikawa’s aware the two are connected.
He stares through the glass of his window, he wills himself to ignore Obikawa’s presence. The grey tinge of the view is less than comforting. Since the first cycle—since Waka’s magic—a bleakness seems to have bled into his everyday and coiled around inside his chest. It’s not sharp though, it seems stiff—like a pillow that smothers an animal, slowly, slowly.
There is an itch in Tokinaga’s throat as his hands lay useless in his lap, tense with a forced immobility. His legs lie just over the side of his bed. He’s calm, casual even.
“There’s a storm brewing, can you see it? Look, to the east! Look, Tokinaga,”
He does not turn, does not react. It itches.
Tokinaga has never quite felt the way he does about—
Tokinaga has never—
He glances towards Him. Obikawa is not smiling. Isn’t it strange? Isn’t it so strange that for most animals the baring of teeth is a threat? Isn’t it strange that He, in this moment, is more threatening hiding His fangs?
Obikawa inclines His head, like a man hung. Rain sloshes against the window. Distantly, he thinks of the colour Waka shone, of how beautiful she was. He thinks of his death having seen his very first God. He thinks how beautiful It was, how cruel It was. He thinks and his teeth itch and he—
Is the institute aware that Obikawa’s eyes flash in the right lights? Tokinaga has never quite the words to describe—
Obikawa starts,
“Are you scared?” Tokinaga thinks of Mr. Baba, of His teeth.
Ever observant, Obikawa’s eyes follow the bob of his throat. There is an itch in Tokinaga’s—
“Are you angry?” Tokinaga thinks of Uguisu and Saeki and Muramach—he thinks of the people Wauke blew up and he—
“I am a God, you know,” Obikawa proclaims and Tokinaga begins to wonder if he is a disciple, and Tokinaga feels an itch in his fingers and—
“I am not Ah-uaz. I am not Alula.” Tokinaga thinks of Nisroca, and he breathes, and he itches, and he wants—
“I really do like you, y’know?” Tokinaga knows, he knows and knows and—
Obikawa scales the room with the thinly veiled arrogance and sluggish confidence of an apex predator, He fills the room with Himself. He sits lazily and with little concern and Tokinaga can’t help but watch. He raises His arm and His fingers are cold and touching Tokinaga’s cheek. He moves across, He moves up and Tokinaga does not move. He wants to, he thinks he must want—
Obikawa's ring finger ought to be touching Tokinaga’s eye socket, right above where it itche—
Tokinaga thinks again. He sits and he does not move and he thinks.
Tokinaga has never quite felt something like this, something so consuming. He has never felt such religious devotion, such selfish wanting, such abhorrent loathing, such narcotic delight. He wants to want Him, he wants to hate Him and be saved and be killed and be held in such an extraordinary being’s grasp. Tokinaga’s tongue, it itches and—
“I know. I know you do, and I—” Tokinaga rasps, “I think that I—