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Morishige looked down.
Leaning over the railing of the hotel balcony, Morishige looked out at the scenery below, analyzing the tree, the buildings, and the headlights of cars as they drove past. A sense of deja vu washed over him as he stood so close to the ledge, thinking back on his time in Heavenly Host, back to when he had contemplated hurling himself out of that fateful window and taking his own life.
At times, he regretted not going through with it.
If he had died at that moment, perhaps the repercussions he had faced wouldn’t have been so harsh – yes, they were harsher than death itself. While he and Mayu had remained friends after surviving the entire debacle, the damage had been done. The inseparability they once beheld was gone, with Mayu slowly distancing herself from his life after she moved. At this point, he could barely consider her a friend, nor did any of his previous classmates from Kisaragi want anything to do with him. And now…
He didn’t ask Kizami where he got the money from for such an expensive hotel, much less why the hell he had brought Morishige here in the first place. Years ago, after the events of Heavenly Host, they had – conveniently enough – both looked the other up online, seemingly enthralled with the depravity that the other had shown during their short time together. They had arranged to meet up in person and discuss the strange circumstances surrounding their initial introduction; just once, and that would be all.
But once turned into twice, and twice turned into dozens of times. Now, Morishige was standing on this balcony like a sitting duck, lying in wait for his eventual demise.
He didn’t believe he trusted Kizami, although he wanted to. Yet, Morishige was more than aware of what the man was capable of, leaving him constantly on guard whenever the two were alone. He had once fronted to Kizami that they were nothing alike, that Kizami was so far out of his mind that it extended to realms that Morishige couldn’t even reach, but his resolve had broken overtime. Kizami knew that, just as he understood Morishige would keep returning to his every beck and call; they may not have once been on the same playing field of obscenity, but he was the only one who could entertain Morishige’s darker impulses, the ones which he couldn’t wholly contain. At this point, they were truly interchangeable from one another.
Morishige could feel Kizami’s presence. It was as though a chip had been embedded in his brain, constantly going off whenever Kizami got too close for comfort.
“Are you just going to stand out here the entire time?” Kizami’s gruff voice emerged, “don’t tell me you’re thinking about jumping off.”
“To get away from you?” Morishige replied, “perhaps I should consider it.”
“Must you always be so pessimistic?”
Turning himself around, Morishige locked eyes with Kizami. He was leaned up against the doorway that led back into the hotel room, two bottles of sake in his hands. He held one of the bottles out to Morishige.
Wordlessly, he stepped forward and took the bottle from Kizami’s grasp. “Don’t say–”
Grinning, Kizami cut him off. “Look at you breaking the rules.”
“Ugh…”
In the years that had passed, Kizami had retained his general persona: still tall, still tan and muscular, still an asshole. Tonight, he was dressed in a far-less put-together state, clad in black sweatpants and a matching long-sleeved nightshirt, almost as if Kizami trusted Morishige in his own twisted way. Still, Morishige could feel the little power he himself once held slipping away the longer that the other man stared at him. After all, the biggest thing Kizami had retained was his intimidating nature; he knew it wasn’t necessary to mask around Morishige, so he didn’t bother.
The two stood out on the balcony, drinking together in silence for several minutes. Morishige’s eyes wandered back to the scenery around them, while Kizami continued standing at his place in the doorway.
Ever since the two had established a bond within the realms of the real world, their relationship had escalated to what could be perceived by outsiders as a romance. Morishige, on the other hand, wasn’t sure what he would describe it as, much less how Kizami viewed their dynamic. Their intimacy was violence, but it was a non-sexual violence; in fact, they completely abstained from sexual interactions, discovering there was much more excitement to be found through their alternative avenues of closeness. Though the lack of sexuality may have made them different from other couples, the activities they got up to already did most of that work for them.
Eventually, Morishige spoke up.
“...Why did you invite me here?”
Turning away from the balcony as he spoke, he and Kizami locked eyes.
Kizami stared at Morishige in silence. He pressed his bottle of sake to his lips, downing more of the alcohol before stepping back through the doorway. He signaled for Morishige to follow him inside.
Knowing better than to ask questions about things he wouldn’t get an immediate answer to, Morishige silently followed. Kizami set his bottle of sake down on a nearby table, with Morishige following suit. Silently, Kizami gestured over to the bed, signaling for him to sit, which Morishige did without question. He watched as Kizami reached over to a briefcase that he had set near the door when they had first entered the hotel room, something Morishige knew was wise to refrain from asking about.
Morishige sat in silence as Kizami popped the briefcase open. The bastard intentionally angled it away to keep Morishige from stealing a glance inside, leaving Morishige to wonder what could possibly be up Kizami’s sleeve. He liked it like that – he liked keeping Morishige guessing, always and eventually knocking him off balance so he could hone in for the final kill. It was raw and animalistic, but so was their relationship, gored and festering like an exposed wound.
As if on cue, Kizami extracted a scalpel from the black box of doom. Morishige felt his heart skip a beat, the organ leaping all the way to his throat whilst it pounded wildly.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
“Relax, Morishige,” Kizami said, turning over the surgical tool in his hand, “you panic over the littlest things.”
“I’m sorry for being alarmed over you wielding a weapon while we’re in a remote location. I’ll just passively accept my death next time.”
Kizami lifted a rag, a towel, and a bottle of antiseptic from the suitcase with his other hand. He swiveled his body away from the mysterious box and began to approach Morishige, still seated on the bed.
Morishige raised his brows as he began to scramble backwards atop the mattress. “Stop it. This isn’t funny, Kizami.”
Kizami knelt down by the left side of the bed, setting the items down around him on the floor. “How long has it been since we first met, Morishige?”
Morishige watched his every movement. “Three years…” he answered nervously, “...correct?”
Kizami reached forward, gently lifting Morishige’s right arm by the wrist. Morishige watched in silence as his arm was flipped palm-upward, forearm pointed at the ceiling. Kizami’s touch was gentle, not out of love or care, but from a cold, disconnected perspective; his behavior was akin to a surgeon rather than the touch of a lover.
However, Morishige quickly pulled his arm away as Kizami began sliding up the sleeve of his black button-down. “You need to explain to me what you’re trying to do.”
“Do you remember that charm?” Kizami answered quickly, eyes darkened underneath the shadow of his black bangs, “the one responsible for our…relationship? Sachiko Ever After?”
“Of course I remember,” Morishige spat defensively, “how could I ever forget?”
“I want us to do something similar,” he began, “something for just the two of us.”
Morishige squinted suspiciously. “...What do you mean by that?”
“Do you value our bond?”
That felt like a loaded question. In all reality, Morishige had so many mixed feelings about Kizami that slid between complete neutrality to obsessive clinginess, with Kizami being the sole person who could comfort him. In that moment, he felt more akin to the latter.
“I would like to believe so.”
Pulling away from Morishige, Kizami rolled up his own sleeve, exposing his rough, tanned skin underneath. Faded, white, self-inflicted scars lined the top of his arm, but upon flipping it over, his forearm was barren.
“I never want the fun we’ve made together to end. Thus, I want us to make a blood pact,” Kizami said, “...and I want you to be the one to cut me.”
Time stopped for a moment. Morishige froze.
“Are you insane?!” he practically yelled after a moment of silence.
Kizami smirked. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Morishige shook his head emphatically. “But what if we get sick? Or an infection?!”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“How?!”
Kizami lifted his brows, a sudden softness painting over his expression. “Don’t you trust me…Sakutaro?”
The two locked eyes.
Morishige knew how this game went. Kizami often appealed to Morishige’s empathy, something he knew would get him to cave in and do whatever the other man wanted. But more than that, he wanted to prove his dominion over Morishige: he wanted to show him that he was under Kizami’s control.
And though Morishige understood this, he knew he would always give in. He needed Kizami’s company. He needed his understanding. He needed what he symbolized. He needed him.
“I know that you’re considering it.”
Snapping out of his daze, Morishige watched as Kizami folded the towel out atop the bed, setting the cloth and the antiseptic to the side. Kizami understood just as much as the other: Morishige wouldn’t – and couldn’t – possibly say no.
“...Okay. I’ll do it,” Morishige spat out, “I…I don’t want you to think I don’t value…this.”
Kizami smiled, leaning down to pick up the scalpel before handing it over. “As I said, you can do the honors.”
Morishige took the scalpel from in-between Kizami’s fingers, watching as the other man lifted the bottle of antiseptic. He poured some of the antiseptic out onto the rag, passing that to Morishige as well. He grabbed it silently, gently gliding the rag up-and-down along the scalpel’s blade before bringing the rag to Kizami’s arm.
“Do you think you’ll really be able to do this?” Kizami asked.
“Why do you have such little faith in me? I already said I could do it. Consent and such.”
Kizami smiled a suspiciously close lipped smile. “Just checking. You don’t sound very enthusiastic, after all.”
Morishige looked down, realizing at that moment that his hands were shaking wildly. Fuck. No wonder Kizami had such little faith in him.
“I’m ready whenever you are.”
Kizami’s arm was resting atop the towel on the mattress, veins somewhat jutting out from beneath the muscles of his forearm. Carefully, Morishige set the rag aside after he had wiped the arm down. He then grasped Kizami’s wrist with his free hand, hovering the scalpel blade inches above his skin.
It was a completely different feeling to Morishige when he was the one behind the blade. His time at Heavenly Host had made him grow up much faster than he was ready to, and it forced him to face aspects of himself he would’ve preferred to stay buried forever. That had been the reason Mayu and his classmates never looked at him the same. He wanted to get back on track, to receive their respect once more, to be just like anyone else.
But now, he was here. Alone in a hotel room with the man he once insisted he was nothing like, about to cut his arm open, about to hurt him, about to love him, about to make a pact.
Gently, Morishige pressed the blade against Kizami’s skin. He hesitated for a moment, before carefully slicing the scalpel down his forearm. He gagged as he felt the sensation of skin ripping reverberating up through the tool’s handle, taking a deep breath as he turned his head away.
“Relax, Sakutaro. Breathe,” Kizami spoke calmly, code-switching to Morishige’s given name. It was the only thing that could settle him down when he was stressed, “we both know you’ve seen worse.”
“Y-Yeah, but,” Morishige choked out, chest rising and falling as he breathed, “it’s different when you’re the one doing it.”
“Have your morality meltdown later,” he replied, “I’m telling you I want to do this, if that puts you at ease.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Morishige whispered under his breath, forcing himself to turn back to Kizami’s arm.
Blood had already begun to pool from the partial slit Morishige had made, a deep red trickling down the sides of Kizami’s arm. The coppery scent of blood began wafting through the air, causing Morishige to salivate; feelings of guilt, confusion, and fixation swam through him all at once. Slowly, he continued cutting.
Dark liquid oozed out of the gash in Kizami’s arm. Morishige took a deep breath, brows raised as he gazed upon the display playing out in front of him. He could practically feel the muscles under Kizami’s skin tense and loosen, akin to the pulsating nature of the wound in front of him. Morishige’s shoulders and chest rose and fell, his breathing shallow and quick as he felt the world around him slowly dissolve. However, he was quickly brought back to reality; Kizami’s other hand gently ceased the movement of the scalpel Morishige was dragging.
“You can stop now,” Kizami said. Morishige looked up to lock eyes with him, an amused expression on his face, “I should’ve figured you would get like that.”
Clearing his throat, he struggled to keep his eyes away from the gash in Kizami’s arm. “Get like what?”
“You get so…fixated. You always react like it’s your first time seeing such a sight. If you weren’t so concerned about being perceived as a good person, I wouldn’t be shocked if you eventually turned out to be some sort of serial killer.”
Giving in, Morishige allowed his gaze to fall, eyes settling on the cleanly-cut gash once more. “My apologies…but I can’t help it.”
“Well…maybe you could be a serial killer,” Kizami reconsidered aloud, “you would just be one of those panicky ones that gets tripped up by the police for something stupid.”
Morishge gently lifted Kizami’s arm, blood dripping and leaking over onto his nails, droplets spreading to his much paler skin and onto the towel below. Peeking within the gash, Morishige could see small, bean-shaped pockets of blood and flesh inside; it reminded him of a bowl of chili, beans swimming around and soaking within the darkened broth. The walls of the wound appeared gummy and sinewy, and if he looked close enough, he could imagine the muscles gently throbbing with every beat of Kizami’s heart.
“It’s just so fascinating,” Morishige exhaled breathlessly, “every individual’s personality is different, but almost all bodies react in the same way to trauma. The way they move, the appearances within, it’s everything I expect it to be…but at the same time, the human reactions to the horror are completely different. I just can’t get over it.”
Kizami gave him a quizzical expression. “When you put it so academically, you make it sound stupid.”
Morishige continued staring at the wound, his gaze delayed as he lifted his eyes to Kizami’s face. “What?”
“Nothing,” Kizami shook his head, reaching for the antiseptic with the hand of his non-gored arm, “it’s your turn anyways.”
Morishige took the antiseptic from Kizami, not thinking much about what was said as he cleaned the blood from the scalpel. Slowly, however, the words registered, and he looked up at Kizami with a vacant expression.
“Don’t back out on me now,” Kizami spoke softly, chest pressed against the side of the mattress, “I let you cut my arm open and everything. It’s only natural that I return the favor.”
“...Does it hurt?” Morishige asked warily.
“Only if you think about it too much,” he said bluntly, “just try and turn off those obsessive thoughts of yours.”
Morishige’s hands began to tremble once more, guilt suddenly welling up in him as the reality of what he was doing – and what he had already done – began to set in. He turned back to Kizami’s wound, the emotional compound of excitement and fascination now gone. He gagged again, turning away in horror.
“I can’t believe I just did that to you. I can’t believe I said all that,” he rambled, “oh, god, I’m a horrible person…”
After taking the scalpel from him, Kizami grasped tightly – though not painfully – onto Morishige’s wrist, pressing his arm against the same blood-stained towel Kizami’s had once rested upon. “It’ll be fine, Sakutaro,” he spoke calmly: emotionally disconnected, yet still making an attempt to calm Morishige. He slowly rolled up his sleeve, “it’s what I want. It’s what you want. You can’t let your guilt control you, not when we’re almost there.”
“You promise you’ll take care of it, right?” Morishige sputtered. He turned his head back to face the other man, warning signs bouncing amongst all corners of his brain, “please don’t let it get infected, Yuuya…”
Kizami paused for a moment, gaze faltering at the sound of Morishige calling him by his given name. Still, he persisted. “I won’t.”
Morishige wasn’t sure that Kizami could care about people in the same way that he did. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he himself truly cared about Kizami, or if they simply used each other as an emotional outlet for their darkest impulses. Whatever it was – as Morishige watched Kizami clean his arm in preparation for the cutting – he felt most at ease when Kizami at least made the attempt to relax him. It felt as though he truly cared for Morishige, albeit in his own way.
“I’m going to start cutting now,” Kizami said matter-of-factly, “perhaps you should lie down.”
Taking Kizami’s advice, he awkwardly shifted himself as he laid down on his back, head perched up thanks to the nearby pillow. Kizami looked at Morishige, the two sharing a glance before turning back to Morishige’s arm.
“This might hurt.”
Morishige sharply gasped as Kizami pressed the scalpel into his skin, slowly starting to cut downwards.
“AGH– FUCK!”
“Breathe,” Kizami said roughly, ceasing the cutting just for a moment, “just breathe. Don’t move like that again. You could get seriously hurt.”
“Oh my god,” Morishige wheezed, punching his other fist repeatedly against the mattress, “fuck, I’ve never cut this deep before,” he rambled, hot flashes running throughout his whole body, “sorry. Okay, okay, keep going…”
Kizami silently watched Morishige’s movements. Slowly, he let go of his wrist, gently pulling himself up onto the mattress to rest his hand on Morishige’s free fist. He cradled it wordlessly in his palm, an odd expression painted on his face before turning back to Morishige’s arm.
Morishige felt his shoulders let go of their tension, keeping watch of Kizami’s focused expression; there was something comforting, almost familiar about it, filling him with nostalgia and putting him somewhat at ease. He had almost forgotten about the throbbing pain in his right arm before Kizami began to drag the scalpel across it again.
This time, with his free hand, Kizami cradled Morishige’s opposite hand. He wrapped his fingers over his clenched fist, attempting to massage the stress away. Morishige felt a brief sense of calm wash over him before stealing a glance at his other arm. All he saw was exposed flesh and oozing blood before whipping his head away, gagging once more and expelling vomit onto the mattress next to his head.
Immediately stopping, Kizami set the scalpel down. He stared at the other man for a second before reaching down and running a hand through Morishige’s sweaty hair. “Jesus, I didn’t think you’d handle it this poorly. Are you alright?”
“I-I’m sorry,” Morishige choked out, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He felt shame and sickness settle at the back of his throat as he spoke in short gasps, “I just– I can deal with the gore on other people, but not on me.”
“I’m almost done, okay?” Kizami spoke in a hushed tone. Morishige turned to face him, allowing Kizami to continue running his hand through his hair. If he pretended like they weren’t just cutting each other up moments ago, the gesture almost made him feel like they were a normal couple. But he wasn’t delusional. He was aware they were far from that.
“Make it quick, Yuuya. Please.”
Kizami sat up, retracting his hand from Morishige’s hair. This time, he lifted Morishige along with him, allowing him to rest his forehead against Kizami’s shoulder. Morishige squeezed his eyes shut, gripping tightly onto Kizami’s bicep as he felt the remaining flesh rip away. He took in another sharp breath before the scalpel was eventually thrown to the side. Kizami lifted Morishige’s arm up and between the two, forcing Morishige to pull away from his shoulder.
Without saying anything, Kizami pressed his mouth against the cut, tongue lapping at the blood oozing from Morishige’s arm. Chills immediately covered his entire body, leaving him shivering intensely at the unexpected behavior; Kizami hated being intimate, much less…whatever this was supposed to be.
Lifting his head from Morishige’s exposed wound, blood dripping from his lips (which Morishige’s eyes suddenly found to be the most interesting thing in the world), Kizami pressed his own wound against Morishige’s. He gripped his hand tightly around Morishige’s elbow, further mixing the blood into the other’s bloodstream. Then, leaning forward, the two abruptly locked lips.
The tangy taste of copper danced along Morishige’s taste buds as they shared a kiss, with Morishige forcefully pressing into it. He did his best to ignore the tingling sensation in his arm, feeling as the blood oozed into the wound of the other, flesh sliding against exposed flesh. Morishige’s head felt light, almost dizzy as he pulled away, blood-laced saliva dribbling down his chin. He was breathless.
Meanwhile, Kizami’s face was unreadable; Morishige’s blurred vision obscured a clear shot of his expression. Instead, the world around him became fuzzier and fuzzier until it was only darkness. Kizami narrowly caught his body before it could tumble from the bed and onto the floor.
. . .
Morishige awoke – presumably – hours later.
Through bleary vision, he scanned the room around him: he was still in the hotel, wrapped underneath fresh new sheets – save for his cut-up arm, which was now wrapped in white gauze and resting across his stomach. The lights had been dimmed, and he could feel fingers loosely running through his hair. Against his ear, the faint thump of a heartbeat resonated, one that didn’t belong to him.
“You’re awake.”
He swiveled his head to face Kizami, locking eyes with the man laying in bed next to him. He removed his hand from Morishige’s tousled hair. “I figured I would let you sleep. I think seeing all that blood took a toll on you.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated once more, grogginess lining his words, “you know I’m not…usually queasy. I don’t believe the alcohol helped much in the stress aspect.”
Kizami nodded with a shocking amount of understanding. “I made you something.”
“Oh?”
Shifting from his relaxed position in bed, Kizami leaned over to the nearby bedside table. He lifted an item from its surface before turning back to Morishige. “Come here.”
Morishige moved closer, feeling Kizami’s hot breath against his neck as he suddenly leaned closer to him. “I don’t believe I explained my motives for the pact as much as I would’ve liked,” Kizami began, “so I hope this reflects my intentions more accurately.”
After wrapping something around Morishige’s neck, the other man pulled back. Looking down, Morishige caught sight of a golden chained necklace: a small, matching gold vial filled with a red liquid dangled on the end. He lifted his hand, gently cradling the vial with his fingers.
“I have one of my own,” Kizami said, clasping his own necklace around his neck.
“...Yuuya,” he began, “this is–”
“–unlike me?”
Morishige looked up at him. “It’s…thoughtful. Romantic, even.”
“So, again…unlike me.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Kizami leaned back, gently reaching out to take hold of the other man, pulling him closer. Before he could begin to explain his intentions further, Morishige interrupted him.
“Do you believe this is what love is, Yuuya?”
Kizami smiled.
“When did I ever say I loved you?”
Morishige paused as Kizami proceeded to speak. “I don’t think I will ever love you the way others may,” he explained, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t care for you in my own way.”
Kizami wrapped his arms around Morishige, who allowed his head to fall back atop his chest. “I don’t think that there could ever be another person like you,” Morishige felt the words form in Kizami’s chest, gently vibrating against the side of his temple, “and I don’t think that I want there to be. A long time ago, I told you we were cut from the same cloth, and you didn’t believe me–”
“–I believe you now,” Morishige quickly assured him, “I…you’re all I have left.”
Kizami fell silent, slowly running his fingers through Morishige’s hair once more. He seemed to befall into deep thought, contemplating his next words carefully before continuing. “...I wanted us to always be a part of one another. To always be together. Now, you’ll always have a part of me within you.”
The room fell silent as Morishige took in these words. He whispered, “I don’t think there’s any way I would want to love you other than what we have now.”
Kizami squeezed him tightly. “How do you know that I’m not manipulating you?”
Morishige laughed. “Because I can already tell when you try to manipulate others, much less me,” he explained, “but I don’t mind turning a blind eye to it, if we can stay like this for a while.”
“Sakutaro,” Kizami said, ““I’ll take care of you forever.”
“Yes…” Morishige hummed, closing his eyes. “…for forever.”