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Yet again, he was caught under an unfamiliar, familiar gaze. Brown eyes that belonged to someone he loved, he reminded himself, even if it felt different when they weren’t his.
The experience brought an old memory to Kinjo's mind; Yamato and Mikako catching bugs, then studying or playing with them in the soft summer haze. He couldn't help but wonder if, from the other's perspective, it wasn't any different from the way Kinjo had watched a ladybug crawling in and out of his palm, simultaneously disgusted and fascinated.
Yamato never killed any of them. Even if he got bitten, he'd laugh and say it was his own fault for holding on too tight. Then, as Mikako shook her head and Kinjo watched on bewildered, he'd go right back to what he was doing, watching each little creature with such interest one wouldn't have been remiss to think he was in the midst of a crucial science experiment or counting lost treasures. Mikako was more cautious than he was, but she still let even the uglier or sharper insects crawl over her arm with quiet concern, waiting for them to leave before moving again, but never swatting them away. His two friends had never killed or hurt any of the frogs or caterpillars they'd picked up. Most of the others would have been the same. (Assuming they allow themselves anywhere near, of course.) Teruya would try to convince the wandering butterflies, moths, and dragonflies to land on his outstretched arm, then take copious pictures for inspiration later. Even Mekaru would get a cup and a piece of paper, instead of smashing any study session intruders beneath her heel.
But Kinjo… Kinjo knew better. He had been taught differently. So the moment that ladybug had crawled onto Tsurugi's palm, it had been doomed. Even now, he could still remember the little crunch the carapace had made against his fingers when he'd killed it, making sure it was a quick death, as he'd learned. The sound had made both siblings’ attention snap towards him unpleasantly. Mikako had been aghast, as though he'd done something terrible, while Yamato had stared at him, puzzling it all out, as though his actions and motives were some great mystery to unravel. Kinjo hadn't understood, of course. Pests were supposed to be killed, weren't they?
Mikako had told him ladybugs weren't pests; that they actually helped crops by hunting down other insects. He'd listened, but only with his head and not his heart. It had been too distracting worrying about himself being wrong to dwell on the possibility of her being right. It had taken a long, long, time before either of their words had begun to truly reach him.
For some reason, that memory was stuck in his mind now, as a familiar umber gaze rested silently over his shoulders.
Was he the insect now? The expression on Utsuro's face now was, as always, hard to read, but there was enough similarity to make him uneasy. He could imagine Utsuro silently watching the innocent insects, or perhaps wretched lost ones, charting a course across each knuckle.
Utsuro could have killed each one, or let them go, or even laid down in the grass and allowed the insects to crawl over his hair and into his clothes; searching for warmth or meaning, or whatever it was anyone ever wanted from anyone else. It seemed like Utsuro didn't ask for anything in return, nor stop them when most chose just to pass through. He'd let them go without a word, acting as though he were just a part of the world around them and not a person to see or know.
In the end, even after everything, he'd let everyone live. Kinjo couldn't understand that. Evil bred more evil, yet Utsuro showed mercy and bent his head. There was only one reason Kinjo had been able to wrap his fragile ideals around that; the other side of the coin. His side of the coin. Yuki, who was only still here because of the heart he'd changed. Yuki, who only existed because Utsuro did too.
He turned away from these thoughts. Utsuro might still look at him like Kinjo was just a dragonfly perched on his knuckles, but he was an ally, and he was part of Yuki, so what else could Kinjo do? He understood why Yuki cared. Did that mean he understood what Utsuro thought, too? He shook his head, already moving on to where he'd rather be.
Yuki… Then, there was Yuki, standing before him, silent and still as he stared back at Kinjo with broken beetle wings hanging down along his back. Supposedly, he was little more than a parasite, though Kinjo had never believed that, and never would.
What kind of parasite could handle him with such care, gently turning a palm to avoid crushing or scaring any poor creature in his hold? What kind of parasite could find a place so deep inside, and not choose to use that opportunity to kill from within?
He would gladly carry a ‘parasite’ like that forever, content to let him stay safe and warm. He was useless at being open or kind, but he could be a home. He could be a shield… couldn't he? It felt right, somehow, keeping him close. Normally, Kinjo would never have allowed such a thing, not even from the few he had grown to care for and trust. Only Yuki was allowed somewhere so close to his vital organs, where a single strike could kill. But Yuki was not a parasite, because he'd never feed on his heart, or turn and take a bite out of his lungs. He never took too much. A parasite couldn't care about the creatures they infested. A parasite wouldn't hold him close, and comfort him after a nightmare, or gently comb through his hair as he cried, showing a face he could not bring out for anyone else.
If Yuki was a parasite, then Kinjo must be too. He'd allowed them all to get close, even if he knew it would hurt them. He'd thrown enough lives away to know he was no innocent host.
Maybe Yuki wasn't so innocent either. But maybe, that's why Kinjo could love him in a way he still half-believed neither of them deserved. If he could, he'd hold on to Yuki always; reassured in the knowledge that Yuki would stay, content to make a home within his putrid core.
It didn't have to be pretty. Kinjo was used to blood, so he could handle this. It was all worth it every time Yuki said he loved him, or that it made him feel real. Yuki might have redecorated in there, or helped him let others in a little deeper than before. Never as far as Kinjo allowed him to go, of course, but closer than he'd allowed anyone in years. Not since Kouhei.
If Yuki was a parasite, Kinjo would still hold him gently in cupped hands. He wasn't used to handling anything with that much care; but he couldn't bear the thought of crushing a single antennae, or bending a single wing. Even if, without gloves, there were times sharp points met his skin, he stayed still and careful, unlike before.
When Yuki asked him if it was okay, he would nod, and hold him closer. It was more than okay. He desperately wanted to keep this one, so he held on so tightly it probably hurt. But even if it did, Yuki simply sighed softly, and rested his chin on Kinjo's shoulder, touching his back to comfort him, and letting them stay close.
Maybe, that's what pierced the deepest. Because even if he couldn't say it out loud, Kinjo desperately needed someone to stay.