Great thanks to the people that have decided to favor and follow this. I'm grateful, really, really.

PS: I'll take requests for this, if anyone ever gets interested and I get bored.

-:-
What does Borderline Personality mean, anyhow?
"It's what they call people whose lifestyles bother them."
-Girl, Interrupted.

-:-
-Last time you beat her up, did she dump you?
-He was arrested but never formally charged with assault.
-Okay, fine; after you broke her jaw, did she still want to date you?
-Criminal Minds.

bingo card: 2 a.m.-:-

Astronaut-:-

If Ritsuka bit his tongue hard enough and fast enough, he could prick it deep and to the nerve. This is something that a sane person wouldn't do on purpose, but Ritsuka did something with the blood that could bring about a sane reason.

At least, when he showed the end result to Soubi.

It was an accident, this time, on this day (people were wandering about the streets in huddled groups carrying heavy looking boxes with the cardboard wet from the fresh snow falling, shavings of the brown treading off into the air and onto the ground or clinging to their clothes; or doubles chatting about diamond earrings, sapphire rings, garnet necklaces with high giggling voices while sipping from coffee more expensive than well-preserved, but used books; single people like Ritsuka wondering about their happiness or just in too much of a hurry to do shopping in private) in middle December. A branch overhead while crossing a street had smashed into the boy's (yes, those ears still remained, cold and bent in the wind) face and his tongue was in the wrong position, just between his canines.

"Crap…" he cursed, silent as the snow, continuing pace and grabbing a loose napkin from inside his heavy black coat (a left-over from Soubi spending a night with him and not wanting the clothing back—Ritsuka didn't complain, though; it still smelled like the man) to dab against his tongue. Once, twice, pull away, fold and tuck back into the pocket to forget about until he got to Soubi's apartment, newly bought, very expensive coffee for the both of them (one is too bitter and black and Ritsuka can't understand why Soubi likes it at all; the other is something that Soubi can never remember, with at least seven descriptive words that he screws up whenever he tries to buy it for Ritsuka as a romantic gesture) to enjoy while the elder continues painting in the apartment that will remain in the degrees near thirty until he finished. Ritsuka didn't like to bother Soubi's creativity, but he hated the inspiration that only stayed when Soubi's long fingers on his paintbrushes were numb.

Entering the more warm than expected apartment, the smell of chemicals circling the air and tangling with the scent of their coffee; it made Ritsuka feel choked with heat and he took off his coat to hang it up.

Turning from his painting to greet the boy, Soubi's eyes—sharp and clear, glasses perched so he can take in two different points of view for his new work with greens and browns on canvas—caught the sight of Ritsuka's napkin (open pockets can be hazardous, but he was already inside, so Soubi wouldn't say anything) on the floor.

Spread out on the white of the fabric, seams from folding cresting its middle, was what looked like a butterfly on a blotting used by psychiatrists when they asked new patients, "Can you tell me what this looks like?"

Carry to the Car-:-

There can be very little said between Mei and Mimuro as they left the hospital; her hair and ears hidden in her cap and the shadow of its rim covering her facial features in shade that almost made the blackening of her eye disappear. However, shading couldn't cover up the butterfly bandages and stitches meant to heal the split from just below the bruising of her eye to the edge of her jaw and the crook of her ear. And just tucking both hands into her large jacket couldn't cover up the thin wood case and bindings about her thin left hand that would come off sooner than one that was made of solid white that itched and felt like stone.

Words come flying from the tall boy's mouth the second they leave the taxi cab (he paid, she didn't argue, which was all wrong because she hated when he paid for anything unless she was punishing him and even then she would turn up her nose like some high class bitch that they both made fun of on good days not spent in the company of Akame Nisei) and Mei shirks into herself because he sounds dark and serious and not at all like some days when it seemed he just talked aloud because he obviously loved the sound of his own voice.

"You little, three-inch fool," the insult is a cover; he and she must keep up the appearance of their mutual dislike for the conversation to go anywhere and they both know it, "How could you go out alone in the middle of the night to meet a guy who you've only met twice—without me? How could that shrew's mind of yours come to the conclusion that someone older than myself could give you happiness?"

"I wasn't expecting him to make me happy," Mei defended, right hand trying to scratch at her stitches before Mimuro grabbed her wrist (gentle, soft, restraining himself from pulling the hand closer to himself until he could bring her close enough to hug her little figure and keep her safe like the magic cloaks and shrouds held and kept secret by many, many mythological—and powerful—figures and friends and lovers) and paused before assisting her up the stoop that led to his apartment building; her left leg had a limp and helping her balance made him feel a little better (an act like someone giving a child back an umbrella in the rain after high winds ripped it from their hands,) "I was expecting him to offer up information."

"Information that you asked about Septimal Moon that made him attack you," Mimuro ground out, buzzing them both into his door with a clicker that Mei had applied little green frog stickers to when he wasn't looking, "Because you obviously don't know, despite Nisei saying so, that Bloodless is dangerous."

"I don't like Nisei," Mei knew that her Sacrifice was aware of this, but he never seemed to understand it, "So, I had to figure it out for myself. Now I know… better."

Mimuro's hands held her around her middle and he paid little attention to her insults as he carried her up the three flights of stairs to his doorway; the elevator was broken and he wasn't going to wait for her to wear herself out trying to get up them by herself and her own foolish pride, "Yes, and you will never do this again."

"I will so—"

"That is an order, not a request. Please."

Her body went limp and her mouth shut, but she was far from happy and they, Mimuro knew, would fight about this in the future.

But, for the moment, her only implication for plotting out that future argument was her tail flicking back and forth and then smacking him so hard between the legs that he almost dropped her, but settled for hissing and pretending he didn't notice how red her face went when she realized that she hit something that she hadn't intended to.