His skin is slight, quiet turns of satin and peach. The warmth is unending, the gasps and shied faces of one Ritsuka Aoyagi. These qualities, however, belong solely to Soubi (so said fighter claims).
Some days Ritsuka allows Soubi to lay his equally-tepid cheek against the sacrifice's chest, his alive heart. Moments like this they are nearly one, nearly completed by the other's presence. Nights such as this, Ritsuka doesn't argue. He is Soubi's.
And nothing else in the world could make as much sense as this does right now.