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Legato bluesummers is an odd person.
Everyone can see it. It's the way he speaks, the syllables rolling off his tongue in a slick way, the constants repeating after one another.
It's the way he carries his shoulders, permanently hunched in an effort to make himself seem smaller.
It's the way he fiddles with his fingers, bites his nails. The scarred cuticles are permently crooked, bleeding and blackened.
It's silly, for a six and several inches tall grown man with spikes and a literal skull on his shoulder to blink so widely when surprised.
It's silly, to pout when the one person you care about ignores you.
It's silly, Legato thinks, staring at his lanky body in the mirror, to be me.
To be legato bluesummers is to be broken like a pot, remade, stitched back together like a doll, and have the process repeated all over again. From his former masters, to his current master, to himself.
It's all he's good for, kintsugi.
But master knives has made the glue repairing his body and mind over and over again into something beautiful, from a muddy concoction to pure gold and decadence.
There's something wrong with legato bluesummers, but the wires he commands could care less.
The wires his pillar of reality. They allow him to feel, see, hear, taste, touch, and smell everything around him. Everything is so dull without the strings holding his body up. The paralysis could take over once more, he could be stuck in a coffin again, but the threads will always grant him what he needs to fufull his purpose through any means necessary.
If the wires are the pillar, then his brain is the foundation. once more he ponders his body. A brand on his neck, a scar on his hamstring. Countless Keloids raised along his thighs, shoulders, all numb, numb, numb.
Legato is glad, though. Glad he's grown into his body. No longer are his knees knobbly, his arms small enough for a grown man to encircle a hand around. No, he's strong. Master likes him like that, and that's all that matters.
It's a common fact his brain is breaking down. Forgetting more and more, twitching twitching twitching twitching all the time, gritting teeth from those cuticles ripping. It's a common fact. It's a common fact, cover it up, he whispers to himself, they whisper to him in his ears. Touching up and down his back, his sides his chest his face his legs his
Little blue, won't you talk to me?