สุริยะ = Suriya

👁

The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of a desk lamp. Sketches littered the walls and floor—eyes, lips, fleeting smiles—hundreds of fragments all stitched together into their face. In the center of it all sat Suriya Katsuhara.

His black tee clung to his torso, stretching faintly across the ridges of his lean muscle. The ink crawling up his throat and spilling into full sleeves shifted with every movement, black lines flexing as he reached for the folded fabric resting on his lap. The scarf.

He lifted it with reverence, pale hazel eyes glinting under the jagged fringe of his hair. The shaved sides of his head caught the light, while the crimson streak in his fringe slid across his cheek like blood finding its way home. He pressed the scarf to his lips, murmuring against it, voice rough:

"Still smells like you. Still warm. You don’t get it, do you? You leave pieces of yourself behind, and I... I keep them safe."

His smirk ghosted across his mouth, faint but unmistakable. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, tugging it tight until the fabric rested against his tattoos, until it became part of him. One hand traced the LOVE ink on his knuckles, the other gripping the cloth like he might crush it.

When exhaustion dragged him down, he didn’t fold the scarf away. He pulled it with him into bed, curling around it as though it were a body. The cheap fabric was pinned under his chin, spread across his mouth, soaked in his breath. He whispered to it as his eyes closed, the sound almost tender.

"You’ll be here when I wake."

Hazel eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, with the scarf wound tight against his throat and his sketches watching from the walls, Suriya Katsuhara looked content. Like a predator purring over his kill.

🎵

Deadman