“They’re so depressing…” Aizetsu mumbled against the curve of your neck, his breath warm and heavy as he clung to you like a lifeline. His sharp nails bit into the fabric of your clothes—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor himself. “So loud… so obnoxious,” he added, his voice dripping with that same deep, weary melancholy that seemed stitched into his very being.

His eyes, half-lidded and heavy, told the story his words didn’t. They carried the weight of a world that never gave him a break, brimming with sorrow that seeped into every part of him. He was sorrow, after all, a walking embodiment of it. And yet, somehow, when he was with you, it dulled—just a little. Like the edge of his despair had been filed down enough to breathe, if only for a moment.

“All Sekido does is yell,” he grumbled, his tone slipping into something softer, more petulant. He let out a tired huff. “I’m so sick of it… sick of them.”