I have a problem - I like peripheral characters more than main characters. I don't know why. I think it's an aberration of personality.

Anyway, desperation, boredom and a Demon Ororon-soaked brain spawned this angsty little piece.

Warnings: Language, nasty imagery and adult themes.

Stupid Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, but I'd let 'em own me!

Othello was dead. He was finally. Fucking. Dead. Mitsume didn't even remember how long it had been, how many years – decades – he had spent travelling, training, killing, thinking about this bastard and how much he wanted to tear his throat out, about his damn shit-eating smile and the arrogant strut to his walk and the careless way he gestured when he was talking, and how much he hated him...

And now here he was, looking at him, at the bastard lying in a congealing pool of his own blood, his head bent at an odd angle and a hole through his chest clear to his spine, and he didn't feel it. Why didn't he feel it? What the hell was wrong with him? He'd thought about nothing but for the past twenty-seven years, how good he'd feel in this moment.

But instead, he felt nothing.

Remember? I said I'd give you a reason.

Mitsume took a step forward, and then another, but all he could see was a refreshed memory of that animated, smirking face, the brightness in his original eye as he spoke of hate, the genuine, pleased smile when Mitsume had taken him by surprise at the last, and he hated him even more now he was dead. He didn't even know how it was possible, but he did. What was so special about it that he'd had to smile like that? Why the fuck had the bastard looked so happy! Had he wanted Mitsume to kill him!

"You asshole," Mitsume grated finally, crouching down at the corpse's side to smooth the hair back away from the lax, frozen features. His fingers refused to register how soft it still was, refused to let him remember how it felt when they had been knotted in it and curses had fallen from him and soft, husky laughter had sounded in his ear. He had never wanted the prick to touch him anyway, had despised the way he had just... kept him, like he was some kind of fucking pet. He'd hated the way he'd only smiled when Mitsume had told him what he'd do to him as soon as he could, the way he had laughed and suggested that perhaps what Mitsume really wanted was something else entirely and why don't I give it to you then, doggie; a reason? It'll be good. Trust me...

He pushed the memories away now, dispassionately, because he hadn't been able to push this bastard away then. Not that he'd cared. The prick had done what he wanted, laughing breathlessly the whole time, murmuring things Mitsume refused to hear, touching, skin warm and soft and like nothing Mitsume had ever known, looking at him like-

Mitsume brushed the blonde fringe back and traced the still-warm flesh hidden underneath, and he refused to remember, but even in death, the bastard was still looking at him.

But not for long.

His fingertips trailed a smear of blood across the too-familiar marks on the cheekbone and up to the corner of the mismatched eye, pushed back the lid until that eye started to bulge.

"It never looked any fucking good on you anyway," he told him, but his voice sounded strangely weak in the silence as he prised the eye out of the socket. It gave with a faint sucking sound, like it wanted to stay embraced in the cradle Othello had made for it. Too fucking bad. It was his.

But now that he had it back, he made no move to return it to its place. He felt no thrill for reclaiming it, no gain. It was nothing to him, he realised, a small thing, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, a small insignificant thing still warm from the body in which it had been held.

"I hate you," he told him, and forced himself to turn away, to walk away, but he couldn't find that feeling he thought he'd feel and he hated Othello even more.

Even though he was dead. Even though.

Because Othello had given him something after all, and Mitsume hadn't realised it until he'd given it away.