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Summary
In all of his years, Kiyoomi has never once felt that his heart is handled carefully. More often than not, he’s the one cupping his heart into his hands, trying not to let the blood pool over; Kiyoomi’s hands are not careful. Calloused after a lifetime punishing his body through sport. Cracking and dry, jagged skin scratching the velvet surface of the most important muscle in the human body. Hands that send pressurized air bound in leather at eighty-five miles per hour, crumbling every opponent in its way. No, Kiyoomi does not have careful hands, and that fact doesn’t change, even when he’s the one holding his own heart.
A memory surfaces, the last time he had tried to forgo control and allow a helping hand to catch the blood pumping out of his heart, and Kiyoomi is reminded that if his own mother couldn’t carry the weight of Kiyoomi’s soul, that no one else can do so either.
In the closed-off realm of Sakusa Kiyoomi, an olive branch might as well be a bobby-pin trying to pry open a deadbolt, trying to bypass a password.In all of his years, Kiyoomi has never encountered a person capable of succeeding this.