Red Royal Flush

XV. Olive branch

*Spotify playlist for the chapter, brought to you by @_anasta: Red Royal Flush on Spotify

In the chilly night of summer, Zenitsu walked back to the dormitory, his head hanging low. 

Above, the sky wasn't as dazzling as it had been a few minutes before. It was dark, looming, and cloudy, drinking the bright moonbeam to mold monsters from shadows, forging nightmares in the juvenile mind and tales in the writer's hands. Building back the world as it once was: fragments of unknown floating in the Milky Way. 

Zenitsu's curious nature was drowned in its one world; he was too busy contemplating his situation to care about his surroundings. 

How am I even supposed to kill the prince now that I'm stuck in this dormitory? The thought had been dwindling back and forth in his mind. Should I just go back to him? He stopped in his tracks momentarily and considered the option. He shook his head. It would be suspicious. I need something more discreet. More rational.

He kept thinking about it. Again and again, as his body grew dangerously close to his destination. But the answer didn't come; if there was anything out there that he could use, in this infinite nature where mystical creatures resided, it was not rationality. It was either his instincts or his heart, for his mind would be useless.

But Zenitsu found comfort in neither of them. 

Soon, the curved eaves situated atop the dormitory came in sight. They were symbols of traditional Japanese architecture, protecting windows from rainy days. For Zenitsu, they were wings, and those wings could elevate anyone to a higher social class. He remembered the shady ramshackle he lived in as a kid. It didn't have wings, that was certain.

Moments later, Zenitsu walked past the training area and onto the path leading to the entry. The overpowering smell of pine tree filling his nostrils grew fainter, subdued by a thick scent of mahogany wood. He gazed at the walls of the dormitory and noticed the familiar material from which they were made. 

His heart ached. 

I have to stop thinking about him. His thoughts were a thing, but the discussion he had just shared with Masahi begged to differ. And he knew it. 

"Where the hell have you been?!"

Zenitsu froze in place. He was at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the dormitory's door— a place for orphans, exiles, and poor people, where this melodious voice had no right to be. Weeks ago, he would have trusted his perfect hearing in an instant. Now, he didn't know if he wanted to trust it anymore. 

"Zenitsu?" 

The latter felt his throat tighten at the mention of his name, his first name. It felt hard to breathe and to prevent his nails from digging into his clammy palms. Above all, it felt hard to deny the presence of this chimeric entity when he could hear it coming close to him.

"Is everything alright?" 

Stop worrying, Zenitsu thought. His teeth sank into his tongue until the metallic taste of blood flooded his senses again. He needed it — the reminiscence of Masahi's punch granted him the power to shove his feelings into a chest at the back of his mind, and lock them all down in their cell.  

"Stay away," he ordered. And the footsteps stopped. 

"Zenitsu, I'm worried, I—."

"Shut up." His voice was nowhere as calm and toneless as Masahi's. It was brittle, strangled, and quavering, snippets of emotions still lingering in his throat.

"I'm not going to shut up," the other boy scoffed. Worry laced each of his words, becoming weapons attempting to break the shield Zenitsu had built up. "Please, look at me." His voice was softer this time, almost pleading.