Sometimes, Ritsuka thinks that he'll never be unable to recognize the scent of blood. It washes over him every time he and Soubi share a kiss; a leftover remnant of their first spell battle together.
Smell is the sense most tied to memory, and so, he finds that between the scents and his photographs, he can find slim dreams of remembering his importance, his being, his self—though not his "true" self, that One which his mother most desires. Antiseptic, clean cotton, cigarette smoke, linseed oil, paper, canvas, and printer ink all make up his days now, constantly overshadowed by the tang of blood. Any of these can spark a flash of image vividly ingrained in his head: battles (two, both secret, those of domestic and those of spells), calm days, reading. It's a form of temporary heaven. The haven in his mind is based on these "memories" to run to when he has no where else to go, a place to hide when he has been brought into plain sight: shelter from the storm always sharply retrieved through some minor (not so minor?) hurt.
Even in his fortress he cannot delude himself. He's always been the one who reeks most strongly and most often of blood. When uninjured, he feels himself to be drenched in the stuff. These days, he usually awakens to find Memories dashed upon the ground; photos with corners bent and colors smeared.
Picking up the pieces in time to go to therapy. It's another chance to pass by, reaching, grasping for but never quite managing to catch; another night to rebuild the fortress. Cyclical problems bearing down on life; the World Snake swallows its own tail, choking and gasping but too much consumed to ever release itself