Kiku sat within Mr. Kirkland's lap, eyes dead and sullen and the other's full of great pleasure.

"Ah…Kiku….You're a fast learner."

There was not a response from that quiet party and no words between those beautiful lips.

"…Did you like that?"

"Certainly, Mr. Kirkland." In their love making, Kiku's member had hardly become firm.

The Englishman made brief regard in between those legs, and witnessed that very truth; that nothing had been stirred. Potent disappointment came and those pale lips nuzzled into that silky flesh, a hand collapsing against a smooth collarbone, and the owner of that wonderland was taken into an embrace.

"What's wrong Kiku?"

Again, nothing.

"…You can tell me."

"There is nothing to tell." Kiku pulled away and took a place within that welcoming bed, allowing himself the privilege of another possession in Arthur's museum of strange wonders. He lied beneath those deep covers as if he was a man committed to drowning, letting that ocean cover him in all its froth.

Two arms held that chest, looping beneath his shoulders, and his backside was pulled nearer to the demon's never full stomach, his insatiable hunger nearly leaking onto Kiku's blackened flesh.

"Are you going to sleep?" The awful man's words were warm inside his ear.

"Yes…I am."

"Good…I am as well. Stay with me."

"I had no intention of leaving."

Slow kisses were planted upon the nape of Kiku's neck and Arthur forced him closer, placing a leg over his hip as his mouth began to draw upon that pretty skin, emeralds lidded behind great blankets laced by blond lashes. "You're so lovely…"

"Thank you, Mr. Kirkland."

It was obvious Kiku was not himself. Everything caught within those pupils was a representation of busy thought, placed upon a visage writhing in quiet dejection. He did not allow those bright colors to affect his limbs any longer, and it almost seemed as though ten years had came and slipped away in the matter of minutes, everyone left with deep confusion, all accept the one who had taken those seasons and eaten them alive. No one held that sought after knowledge of Kiku's true feelings. Most times those dull eyes were construed to be the burn of lost adoration and longing.

Yao had not pried. He understood the loss one had collected after someone so beloved was ripped from the bearer's fingers, their hands left to bruises of that quick fight, and blood-perhaps not even theirs- upon once innocent fingers. And Yao could not numerate all the times he held those sad magenta badges and unwanted wine, only required to clean either as his heart dove into the acid churning against the walls of his stomach; no one understood so very well.

That once sweet child would simply be taken into a deep embrace while those popular crimson lips adhering gently to that cheek, knowing no words could remove the sickness welding his stomach into something foreign, and no syllable could clean those hands of their residue. It was all something one had to remedy themselves.

So Kiku lied in his place, lost within a maze of his own contemplation. He no longer felt guilt for them. Yes. He wanted that man wrapped so permanently around him to loss his soul in painful means. Yes. He wanted to take what Yao had and display it upon his own fingers, and yes, he did not feel shame as all those words pooled around his brow. Yes, he was indeed scheming so all his wishes would be well accomplished.

He would not murder Mr. Kirkland, although he wanted that earthly life to be gone. Perhaps the Englishman would drink a heaping glass of poison, disguised as the finest of liquor, or perhaps take a great fall from a burly edifice, with Kiku's hands somehow set behind him, or that knife plunging right through his heart. He would pull it from those quiet robes and drive it directly home.

But Kiku would not kill, although those desires for his master's death did not fail to occur within that mind, starving for something as retribution.

As for Yao, he did not want Ivan Braginski, but for Yao to experience loneliness evoked by that handsome Russian's absence; for Yao to devour emptiness, having took so frequently from that weighty bowl of generosity Kiku once carried upon his breaking spine.

Inside that disturbed vision, it was either of them to be subjected to the embers of blame, yet neither of them at all. The world could be held beneath Fault's heavy thumb, and that ache could be contributed to haphazard chance. Kiku no longer knew who he should set blame upon. His hatred had tied a thick cloth around those lovely eyes and placed a heavy blade within that once kindly palm. He wore an odd sort of grin upon his face and held a stomach empty of revenge.

It was almost as though each day cut a small amount from his mind.

In his dreams, Mr. Kirkland gently attached his mouth to that savory flesh, and Kiku laid waking, continuing his long string of darkened thoughts, continuing to chop away fragments of his sanity and burying them in all different corners of that cruel universe.

And in a moment of misplaced serenity brought on by the desire of dreams, Kiku filled his deteriorating mind with Alfred, his sunny face…all his smiles.

That American was the gold inside a pile steep in soot, and the moment that whore was tempted by that shimmering stone, it was stolen directly from that fettered pile, Arthur the culprit that snatched that small amount of beauty for his own well being, and the founder of that happy instance finding his numerals blackened by the attempt he had made, and his stomach ready to burst of earned rage.

And as Arthur kissed softly, Kiku cried, angry with every last circumstance tripping him as unsightly boulders placed against that once hopeful path. There was ferocity regarding his childhood, his wasted youth, and it made every last section of him boil, yet those kicking limbs were controlled by heavy stone devouring them.

Kiku wondered where his letters were.

That shining deity had promised them.

Kiku did not wake that morning. He could not. He had not slept.