[ a dutiful listener, he nods along with affirmative hums, keeping his gaze on the foliage. animals hate being observed by another predator, so Getou watches him through the monstrocities that do as well, meeting Tyki's gaze with one that's a little too sentient, avian head cocked, four great wings shifting and twitching along its back. he tries to imagine a world where the spirits in his possession maintained a modicum of their own will, sometimes obeying him and sometimes acting on their own. ]

[ things would be different, most assuredly. he's enough of an outlier for the fearsomeness of his own technique — and thus his own identity. it strikes a cord in him, a plangent thing that shifts his breathing, suffuses his chest with the dread that's usually at his back, easier to ignore. he's keen to see victimhood beneath the veneer (especially one that calls him special) — how else does one become flippant about falling off of a ledge but to cope? ]

Is it as simple as that? Trusting you to pull, trusting me not to push. [ they pass a cluster of violently yellow flowers spilling over onto the path, and Getou uses a few fingers to pluck one low on the stem. as they continue walking, he clears it of leaves, a loose trail of odds and ends. ] Even if I did, it wouldn't come without sacrifice. If we need both discretion and compromise, the gamble is trust.

[ he smiles. it's wry, his steps growing contemplative as he looks the other man over again, eyes hovering on the — stitches? crosses? — on his forehead. ]

How shall we resolve the matter of trust, then? Raise the stakes until neither of us can refuse? Or is there hope for the inherent goodness of a fellow... [ a beat. ] Whatever we are.

[ not men, surely; not human men. ]