Humans are mortal, with their fragile veins and flesh, surface that vary in pigments and shades—yet their differences do not change how he dissects them, visceral fat slit beneath the will of a blade, held in Tanaka's very own hand, godly; immaculate.
Humans are warm, with veins that pulse in gentle currents, a temperature that lulls on in to rest within their chest cavity. How warm they are, a particular atmosphere that lures the gods in, curious and entranced with what human mortals possess. He is fascinated at the human condition, the malleability of humanity and mortality, the fragility and the determination, instincts that are both physical and mental.
Humans are specimen, in the end, and he pulls the most interesting ones from the pit and observe them, prying at them, interest in their blood, mind, worth.
His attention was drawn by the words to pass the firstborn messiah, and how he cursed his all knowing thoughts that he might be caught by someone who was so human, existing as the single image of Man that Tanaka could not emulate. He was a human, and Tanaka was not - godly, and only capable of studying the shape of him. He was drawn to the capabilities of Hajime, and how he was separate from the rest—he is mortal, and does not even walk among the elite. What flame had he to harbour?
Warmth melts ice, yet no kindness would break the rime that encased his heart—merely reflecting the humanity that might exist within, the frostbitten heart that pulsates only black tar through his veins. No gold could cover the septic sludge in his being, incapable of concealing the bile that he calls blood within him. No matter how the Imperial youth extends his arm, his trying reach for that humanity no mortal could offer him otherwise—how far it was, his subconscious vying for that compassion and that purity, what he could not possess. Never could he own what Hajime possessed.
His hands are warm, yet void of callouses—in his torpid movements, turning his palms over and bending his fingers, the Emperor lifts this rival prophet's right hand to his level and presses thin lips to his knuckles, his lips alike to a corpse in their cold touch and blue shade. He is frozen from within, semblance of warmth only evident in his apocalyptic fury; a nuclear reactor made dormant until a violent awakening.
How he tries to light a flame in his tundra he calls a body, a heretical, mortal thought not yet purged, trying to seek the humanity he could achieve, an attempt to stop the end of the world before it begins.
He shifts from palms to mouth, a cadaver brought to life to express haunting adoration—it's but fixation, no matter the movements within, his corrupt fixation on someone he's attempting to meld into a saviour of the people, thrusting expectations upon his person—and demonstrating it with what mortals speak of as a kiss, stiff expression of love with how those corpse blue lips brush warm ones, flesh upon flesh in a concoction of anxiety and brevity.
Tanaka shifts, as does Hinata; parting, leaving a weight between their bodies. Hajime thinks Tanaka is hollow - if he could peer inside him, he would see nothing but darkness, nothing but the void, a night sky without stars or a pit with no bottom.
Endless.
He wasn't sure if what he had felt for him was love. Love is a construct - be it pure or corrupt, manic distortion of an emotion known only to mortals. He might define his adoration as but a simple fixation, another construct made in the name of his corruption of childhood fantasy. Hinata offered him life in the end, and Tanaka fled; they hadn't a chance, not in this life, but perhaps one elsewhere where an emperor did not plan for the death of a commoner.