Art
He gaped silently. Every half-formed scream dissolved in his throat, oozing
back down whence it came, like thick syrup tasting of iron. It bubbled out the
corners of his mouth and trailed down his throat, soaking and permeating, until
the creases of his once-crisp blazer grew soggy and dark. Kagami leaned heavily
towards the wall. It tallied every blow in the dripping spatters, and the slippery
floor picked up what it missed.
"This looks like a great work of art," Akabane said approvingly.
He pursed his lips in appreciation, absorbing the aesthetic beauty of the scene:
coat hems dragging blood into wide streaks, dainty red footprints in dramatic
repetition the aimless and random scatter of droplets, the arbitrary and
calculated gashes carved in Kagami's body. "Everyone bleeds when cut,"
he said. "But you, Kyoji-kun when you do it, you make it high art."
He rooted his fingers through Kagami's stained hair and pressed down, forcing
the blonde-turned-redhead to his knees. Jackal descended and hugged him close,
attentively catching every rattle and moan of his victim's laboured breathing.
Blond lashes lifted and a pupil lazed back. The sound of approaching footsteps
from the corridor outside drew Kagami out of his reverie. Akabane's fingers
froze over the tensing muscles, then let the slumped figure drop. Jackal stood
up and tipped his hat. Kagami moaned, but Akabane dismissed the warm, trembling
weight that curled over the tips of his boots.
The figure stood rigid in the doorway. "What are you two doing in
my gallery?"
"Your south wall looked a little bare," explained Akabane courteously.
Nudging Kagami gently off his toes, he strode past Clayman-san and disappeared
into the hallway with a look of smug serenity. His work here was done.