Under the Moonlight

Delicate. Slender. Fragile. Very different from Seishirou-kun, but just as charming. My verdict? I like.

He approaches me, his elegant silhouette outlined by moonlight. Today, he's wearing a black outfit, which, as plain as it is, adds to his melancholic dignity. Surrounded by the aura of blood, he walks closer. Closer.

He doesn't stop to admire the myriads of tiny pink petals dancing in the wind. It is his duty to give more and more strength to the flowers, to make them bloom gloriously, and that he does, but the ethereal blood-colored hurricane – so similar to his own soul – does not seem to impress him. Unlike Seishirou-kun, he never greets the flowers with a smile.

Gentle Seishirou-kun. Was his smile stolen by you?

Even so, seeing him is always a pleasure. I delight in his exquisite features as he continues his work, and I know that he's not going to leave me alone – never. Seishirou-kun's choice was perfect. Seishirou-kun taught him to love the night, to long for a kind embrace of velvet darkness. He spends every night by my side, playing absent-mindedly with the dead branches and leaves, gazing at the starry sky, listening to the voices of the park attentively, as if there's one single voice that can be heard when the entire city is asleep.

It cannot, and he knows that, but he still doesn't want to leave too early, to get rid of his broken, lifeless dreams and hopes – and I enjoy his company.

It is Seishirou-kun's fault that there's no love for the flowers in his heart, but it was also Seishirou-kun who made this empty shell of a man so breathtakingly beautiful. The bitter green, almost absinth-like, color of his eyes, his unnaturally white skin, his cold pale lips – all of these are, in a sense, Seishirou-kun's creations. They say that tears make one's eyelashes longer – they say it as a joke, but in his case, it might be true.

I must thank you again, Seishirou-kun. You were responsible enough to find an ideal new guardian.

More so, you were a true artist.

…He touches me with his small – almost feminine – ivory hands: his gestures remind me of someone I used to know. The shy moon hides behind a cloud, and the blood on his fingers becomes black.

The ritual is over.

"Are you satisfied?" he asks in his usual quiet, monotone voice.

I am. Very much so.