the empire of the senses
Tsuzuki doesn't burn; he shimmers, half out of focus, like the dust on the wings of butterflies, as fragile, as beautiful. If Tatsumi tries to catch him between his hands, Tsuzuki quivers and looks at him with huge amethyst eyes, dark as wet violets, and flushes, his ivory skin crimson with shame.
There but not quite there, caught but not quite caught, never fully perceived; as if he were words in a language that Tatsumi had forgotten long ago, words for love and beauty lost thousands of years ago, when lightning struck and towers fell and the world was changed.
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