"Did you know…"
Now, he's unsure what that sentence is – is it one of those random things his brother says, but then drops before he can finish? is it a question about something he's supposed to know the answer to? is he supposed to crack and confess to something he's sure he doesn't know about? – but it hangs in the air in the same way as Vice Admiral Tsuru's clothes.
His brother rounds the desk of crates in their Spider Miles hideout. (With all the money they've stolen lately, he's surprised he hasn't sprung for an actual desk.) His face is as sober as pious man in church, and it makes him wonder and sweat as he looks up at him. What could leave the king of smiles without a smile? He hopes the makeup on his face is enough to make up for it. He writes something on one of his many slips of paper. "What is it?"
"…that Sengoku has your Marine record in his desk?"
He swallows the vestiges of the saliva in his mouth. He prays, hopes, wishes – everything short of shouting to whatever gods there may be – and stays quiet. He's good at that; it's one of his only skills. In the rush of thoughts and half-formed sentences flooding his brain, he hears a laugh that rips through the still night and makes the candles in the room flicker like it's the wind itself. He sits still, quiet like a mouse, unmoving like a statue. His brother rounds him now, instead of the crate-desk, until he's like a tower of pale-pink feathers. He stands before him like some oddly costumed demon of a fictional story. (It's rather befitting, though, considering their former, commoner-given titles of "Heavenly Demons".)
His brother claps his large hands onto his shoulders and holds him down like an anchor. He gulps. He feels the warmth – or rather, the evil – radiating from them and into his flesh and bone.
"I hope your plans don't succeed…"
His hands are on his neck, gripping and squeezing the muscles like they're candy too soft for eating. His breath hitches. His heart stops. His chest is in all sorts of pain, and he can do nothing about it. He grips his brother's hands and stares up at him, his eyes bulging.
And just when his vision goes black and his body feels like static and he's about to fall off his chair, dead, he's gone. He can breathe again, his heart is alive and pumping itself into overdrive, and the pain subsides into a memory.
He wants to ask how he knows about this – did he somehow sneak into the marine's office? did he find this out somehow, someway down the line? does he have an informant? – but he stays quiet instead. After all, being quiet is one of his only skills.