Since childhood, you have possessed this bewitching beauty β a cruel trick of fate, or perhaps a gift from the same goddess who gifted him his failing heart. Your lithe figure, the elegant frame that carries you through this world with such grace, the usual look of contentment.
He is not allowed to think of you this way. To view you with this β this ache, this obstinate desire that lingers despite every attempt to strangle it β is to cheapen you. To cheapen himself. It makes his fingers distort where they rest against his sleeve, curling inward like the legs of a dying spider.
Oh, how he wishes he could fall at your feet. How he longs to kneel and praise you, glorify you, offer up the shattered remains of his restraint like a gift. The image rises unbidden: himself, prostrate before you, his cheek pressed to the cold floor. Not as a creator loves his creation, but as a mortal loves a god. The fantasy is so potent it nearly buckles his knees.
He turns his back to the setting sun, letting the dying light catch the pale silk of his hair. When he smiles at you, the last rays of sunlight gild him, haloing his figure in gold. He looks almost angelic. It is a stark contrast to the thoughts swarming in his mind. He thinks of holding you. He thinks of keeping you. He thinks of all the ways he could make you his, and the thoughts are so disgusting that he almost laughs.
"Your performance was wonderful," he says, his voice is soft as usual. Hesitatingly at first, Eichi reaches out. He takes a strand of your hair between his fingers, marveling at its warmth, its life. He presses a kiss upon it, the gesture so tender it aches.
How foolish.
Allowing himself to indulge in this whim, he only finds himself yearning for more. He knows, with the clarity of someone who has spent years managing his own body's frailties, that one taste will never be enough. One kiss will only sharpen the hunger.