Work Text:
Hiyori.
A beacon of light profusely shining from the depths of Hell, Hiyori.
An eternal flame surrounded by the frigid chill of winter, Hiyori.
The fruit of lust and the embodiment of an incubus, Hiyori.
Whether it be nursing a patient back to health, evaluating an ill child's intentions, or hosting a tutoring session for a friend in need, Hiyori is the very definition of hospitality.
I know from the collection of .txt files that line the digital walls of my library. Each letter of dialogue containing Hiyori's feelings, emotions, thoughts, entertainments, and experiences.
Autobiographies that I did not write.
On the leather chairs of the gallery, I sit. Hiyori's head lies cradled in my lap, staring up at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
Eyes vacant of light.
Eyes vacant of life.
"You got around well," I praise as I stroke his synthetic hair.
I could've asked why he built his life around people who would offer only a fraction of the love I've constantly given him.
But Hiyori is exhausted.
I know from the cloud of never-ending information that fogs my mind.
In a gentle, swift motion, I close his eyes with my palm, and my own soon follow.