In its wake, Mikaela cries.

Perhaps it is from the thirst, or perhaps from the realization of what he has become.

~~you feed on his tears~~

It was a necessary measure, to ensure his survival. Sometimes, when he feeds, he imagines he is you:

your teeth ghosting his throat,
 your breath on his skin,
 slack-jawed from his blood,
 your eyes gone unfocused in the aftermath—(but was that memory yours or his? yours or his?)


He can no longer distinguish.

He falls in love with it. It feels too intimate, too sinful; the communion of blood.

You do not try to deter him.

He feeds from the reserves, of course, but it is difficult to overlook his growing insistence on feeding straight from the source. He tries to coerce you into letting him free (to taste life, to sink into death); preys on the one advantage he has.

”it could help me to understand ~~why i had to become this monster~~,”

You scoff; send him back to Yū. He is weak to temptation. He is excellent at weaponizing it.

He weeps often. In your presence, alone at night, whenever he forgets what he ~~is~~ has become and has to return. He masks his sorrow with curiosity; he feeds in retaliation for being fed upon.

~~he has never truly forgiven you~~

He scrutinizes his hatred for you. He examines it the way others examine wounds. Prodding, reopening, searching for rot. He finds only his own dissatisfaction. He comes to you for comfort in hopes that he can use it against you. He despises you for what he is.

“feed on me,” he beguiles you, smiling weakly: his fangs are wet with someone else’s life, and he clutches onto your clothes tightly (his hands taint you with crimson, what has he attempted?), tugging you down, “please, i need to know how it feels.”