#// satoru vc: bruh could you close the fridge I pay the power bill

[b0kksu]

   The beauty of luscious green that he once tended to with nimble hands, warmth that exhibits itself in long digits, he loved the way each vine would grow. In these halls, his figure would move with a feline-like elegance, the eternal boy that burned with a purity all too lost in this cruel world, he would laugh && call it home. The song remains the same, encapsulated in times, a reputation that forced his hands to move in the same rhythm, just like before, one, two, three - dance. All that is missing was sunlight, the absence that grows thick over time && somewhere, in the void of darkness he wondered if his heart became lost too. Satoru could not weep, crying was an unthinkable act, he was to be higher than a regular ghoul, a dream that no human could conjure up in their wildest of fantasies.

    Why was he here? In mid air, his fingers stop && eerie nature the all perfection in pristine white appears confused. I live here, he wants to retort, I have lived here long before && even when you were gone. In another life, the bench would be occupied by them both, there would never be an empty seat in the audience. “My house is near, the train station isn’t too far, don’t you remember?” luxurious neighbors with their pristine French deco homes, obscene wealth && fancy cars, he walked their streets - none were the wiser. Satoru, Satoru, Satoru they sang his name in saccharine coos, interviews, glossy magazine sheets with his image upon them, would they butcher their idol if they knew the reality? Without hesitation.  His eyes roll, behind the designer brand glasses that sit on the bridge of his nose - this time, the wire frame is switched for red glossy cherry, jelly like, absurdly carefree.

  “It’s fine, I bought it yesterday, it won’t spoil” he doesn’t elaborate any deeper, there was no need, those who could not hunt had the option of meat via butchers - the irony made him want to laugh. There’s a low hiss, guttural && irritated, he loved that song. Precious, like a prayer he selfishly made when everything told him to become an altar, the fabled one eyed god who must give, even when his corpse was licked clean, his bones would never be his own. “Stop, I’m not arguing with you anymore” exasperated he sounds nostalgic, the phantom-like mimicry of their collective story, Suguru always worries even when he had no obligation. Hunger is another word for yearning, in a world where might && strength triumphed over all, he had no qualms cackling in the midst of a battle high; then, why must it be so difficult to protest when they were together? “You’re not supposed to be here” neither is he.

      The single bed that nudges sweetly against the window, he wants to curl into the soft fabric && wait till morning, let the light kiss his cool cheeks, feed the absence of a love that has paused once used to. Immaculate nails curl into his palms, leaving behind crescent indents, the eye weeps && red always remained to be his color. It’s low, a desperate chitter that entwines itself in the casualty of their shared dialect, a lilt that rivals the melody he plays spoken sweetly && heart wrenching.

     “You’re just as starved as I, don’t you see it? A couple of pastries can’t fill our bellies. Not even a fresh kill, it’s why we can’t leave this place, the fridge could be filled with the most sweetest of cuts && we’d still starve to death” his pale grasp reaches upwards, coiling around the other’s wrist && there is a hesitation in his touch as he taunts. “My mate used to feed me from his palms, he knew each cut, there are times I ponder - does he remember or has he willfully forgotten?”   

The small gods of the sacred places Geto Suguru penetrates in his forbidden return knew the truth: his whole existence was a violation. It's in the creaking of the wooden floors and the low humming of the refrigerator kept well-stocked and running ( no one's turned off the electricity here; someone's still paying the bills and leaving foot prints on the carpet, so the spores never have a chance to settle even if the still air grows stale and bitter with time — but no one lives here anymore; they just come and go, shake the dust and breathe in mothballs like imperfect guests in the wake of perfect residents laid to rest with one last goodbye that spans the length of his whole life and follows him like the corpse of his errors and the spirit in his ear that asks: is the house haunted or is it him? look at you, Suguru, always making ghosts for yourself but you can't stay dead / you can't stay gone / why'd you even leave? ), and how the apartment sighs when inhabited by bodies that have never left. Not really, anyway.

( He closes his eyes and he's sixteen again, with his whole life ahead of him, and this place is home and not a hiding place: a place he hides in his heart, a place that stays hidden, a place he wishes he could hide. He feels like a stranger in this place. )

“Why are you here?” He addresses the wraith sat on the piano bench, but it's only a delusion to think Satoru remains untouched by time even if he plays the same song. It's missing violin accompaniment: a companion ( and whose fault is that? ). He stops to listen to the melody of the past as Satoru talks about modern things with a thin voice. It's the fault of humans. “Don't tell me you're hiding from Doves and starving yourself. Waiting for a sale?” There's no point in waiting for the perfect moment. “You should take what you need from them. I'll check the meat.” ( In this way, he makes himself useful. ) “If it's gone bad, we're going hunting. The Family Mart's open 24/7.” Everyone needs to make ends meet. He thinks they needed it more than them. He thinks they have never really been hungry enough if they call places of nourishment convenience stores. All humans cared about was their own convenience. That's all the more reason Suguru, a ghoul whose existence was inconvenient, needed to take from them. They've taken something from him; among their history of taking, they've committed a theft most unforgivable. They've stolen something they should never have touched as long as he was alive. “Satoru.”

He closes the lid to the piano and hides the monochrome keys that divide the song in black and white. “You're coming with me. I can tell you're hungry.”