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“Humans are disgusting,” Eito says. It’s the first line in a play Takumi’s seen a million times before, but something in the stage direction has changed – compulsion turned careful, vitriol lulled into something quiet. Eito’s lashes are low; moonlight bathes him in blue. He looks at the ceiling like he sees nothing at all.
He continues: “Vile, cruel, thoughtless – and most of all, disloyal. Humans take everything but responsibility. They’ve forgotten how.”
Takumi rolls onto his stomach to look at him properly. Earlier today he peeled an orange, put two slices on a plate and slid it across the table to where Eito was reading. (“Your hands are disgusting, ugly Takumi.” “You looked hungry.”) He can still smell the sweet. “And…?”
Eito keeps eyeing the ceiling. There’s a grain to it, and Takumi wonders if he’s looking for something after all, constellations or fractals or angels with a thousand eyes. “You mustn’t forget, Takumi-kun,” he says. Then, after a moment, “You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed.”
He closes his eyes. Takumi feels a weight sow itself into his heart, and knows at once that it will never go away.
Something touches his arm. Eito initiates physical contact so rarely that it takes Takumi a moment to realize it’s him – that the closed eyes must have been a barrier against disgust. Clumsily, their fingers tangle together. Eito trembles with what he assumes is revulsion. Takumi squeezes all the same.