her slow, burning kisses live off his trembling skin. he will fall at her feet, graceless, and at will. and he knows this is madness. this is a disaster. this is the calm — all rolled into quiet, prosaic longings he can't begin to comprehend. this love, it scares him but not enough to run for his life. and he will have every bit of this moment committed to memory. he will bury it inside his ribs, away from the selfish hands of time. he will keep this love in a vial, hidden away beneath his tongue. always — this is his kind of always, and some parts of him will never outgrow being hers.
this is the kind of madness he knows. this is the kind of disaster. this is the kind of calm.
in the dark, he whispers, "tell me, Hatsue, does it scare you? does it scare you enough to run?"