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Keigo does not want this.
He doesn't want this.
Where was the warmth he always adored? The kind that engulfed him with caressing hands and sweet murmurs against his lips?
He doesn't want this.
The crimson feathered blade stoked with sins beneath barbaric barbs.
He doesn't want this.
He wants skin to skin, that crooked smile with genuine laughter loaded with euphoria.
He wants it when that hand cups his cheek, a tilt with a gaze so gentle and a beauty of its own.
He wants those silver gleams adorned across his various limb to limb, marked with pieces of his haunting pain.
Keigo doesn't like this.
The screaming and the shrieking echoing beyond his eardrums.
The tears and the bloodied lips that drips down his chin.
Knees down, hands outstretched with a gaze pleading for mercy.
Keigo doesn't like this.
His feather strikes without a thought, body obedient amongst the strings that tug and tug at his will.
His boots crunch and crunch against meaty flesh, feathers tingling and prickling.
His mind is a blank wall, paintbrush in his guilty guilty hands that clench and fretting to make use of talon roots, ripped and teared at.
Wings beated and trembled, body moving without his wishes to bestow mercy upon his self-hatred and guilt.
Flowers flowers blooming beneath him, the dead and the deceased mourned and mourned.
A sulky gulp of ash and smoke, once soft and familiar now enraged with embers burning hellish graves.
Obey and fulfill, a law and a motto of his staged identity he pranced on.
Twist and pull, a delicate flick of his wrist to pose and to execute.
Keigo watched the withering man fade to a dulled hue.
A man he's known and knew, a friend or a foe.
He knows his death will be grieved and mourned by a girl far too young for this world.
His stomach churns with uneasiness and grief, feelings he tucks away like any other inconvenient annoyances.
He hates this.
Keigo looks up to see the man he loves and oh, loves so much.
Keigo wants to run into his arms, arms tightening in that comforting embrace he desires to seek morning and night.
But the twisted self of his mirror shouts and points a lethal weapon at his disposal.
Hands come and go, fleeting and different.
He seeks the gentleness that strokes through his hair, hands that preen so tenderly on his sensitive feathers,
hands that jerk with startling speed, a stark unfamiliar contrast to the ones that held comforting warmth.
And Keigo screams.
Teary sobs silenced beneath agonizing shrieks that writhes unpleasantly in his constricted throat.
Keigo wants nothing but to take everything back into his aching heart, undo every sin he's committed and muttered on his pretty lying lips.
He wants to flee, flee into his cowardly mind and disappear.
He wants to cry, let go of his bird instincts he's hidden so long to be free, to be selfish for once.
But the world whispers devoted lies and promises and he's forced to keep going.
Hawks scrambles for relief, away from the burning blue flames that no longer serves as his sanctuary and he catches a glimpse of those lover's eyes so filled with hatred and rage.
Flames crackle and slither along the dirtied floors, greedily consuming oxygen that never seems to fill in the ragged gasping the hero uncontrollably controls.
The world seemed so small, so unfair, so cruel.
Keigo ponders,
what's a life without the very being that's made him feel so...
real?
And Keigo knows.
And he's done the deed.
Now all that's left of him is a facade the public seems to yearn so much from him.
Ripped apart at the seams, messy and careless, Keigo cries.
Not present, not physically, not those wet tears that spill from his eyes.
Just a grieving bird with tattered wings too useless.
A flightless bird, stripped of his world.