[Arm held over an empty glass, he slides the blade across his skin and watches the blood slowly pour, looking up to arch his brows and announce,] It's ten bucks a drop.
[Sotiro looks......... very startled about this suggestion, his frown bewildered. He hasn't cared about anyone outside the school in a long time. Worried about someone other than a suicidal teenage girl?]
No.
[It's himself he's worried about, has always been worried about. He just happens to share the gift of blood with this one.]
Good. 'Cause people around here are gonna take advantage of that.
[A fair warning. Anyone can play a beggar with a dagger hidden behind their back.]
Tell you what, [He starts to patch up the wound, setting the glass and blade by his side,] I'll give you a free sample. Do whatever you want with it, no strings attached.
[His palm is pressed firmly against the wound. He shuts his eyes for a couple of seconds, then lets it go. What had been a slice of fresh blood is now little more than a fading memory of the abuse.]
[Sotiro's head tilts. His... powers don't work on himself. He can't help himself. He can save anyone else... but not himself. He inhales through his nose. He's never felt so much for anyone but Coral, but the same feelings rise: hate, fascination. In this case, the sense of closeness is unwarranted. The swirl of it drives him somewhere he swore he would never go.]
[He draws some tissues from his pocket, methodically wiping the blood from the edge of the blade. It's folded and ready to go as he speaks, shoulders swaying lazily with the gesture, neither entirely curious nor quite amused. The other man can take it if he wants. It's just as good as what he's got in the glass.]
[A shrug. That's a question he's never asked. He's watched up close what Coral does with her youth.]
Whatever you want.
[He takes his jacket off carefully, giving a neat fold before he sets it aside and begins to roll up shirt sleeves. One of his wrists is freshly purple, it takes him nothing to rip it back into a wet and weeping state.]
[He wouldn't know what to do with himself, given that kind of freedom.]
[Sotiro cleans out a glass silently, then letting his wrist drip into it. One year out of the finite amount he had to give. It wasn't that his blood wouldn't replenish, it's that his body would eventually run out of life to give.]
[Well. That might not strictly be true, but it wasn't that kind of high. The sense of invigoration lasted, because it was physical. Cells rejuvenating. A one of a kind thrill, really.]
[Sotiro takes a handkerchief out of his pocket. He ties it around his wrist like he's done it one-handed before. Then he puts his jacket back on, straightening out his collar.]
[There are two cups of blood, and he leaves them both there with the stranger.]
[He gives Sotiro a look - the kind that wants to ask a question, but believes the answer won't be found anywhere. Eyes silently follow his movements before they return to the cups, sitting neatly next to his own. Would a witch be able to tell them apart? Would the promise of life taste any better than the prospect of Hyperion's ecstasy?]
[he scratches his chin, idly. The tattoo on his hand is one of two wings, and half of an hourglass. (Freedom that he lost, time that was taken from him.) The remaining marks on his arm are shortcuts to spells, given to him by Kaena and her sisters. He is not thankful for them, but he wouldn't try to rid himself of their power. Maybe there's some addiction in their ink, too.]
[He wouldn't be the first man with a tragic childhood. Vicious stories follow those who have crossed paths with Hyperion, whether they're willing to share them or not.]
[He can't help but smile, small and... empathetic, perhaps. He doesn't feel sorry for the other man, even though he should. It's a different sentiment, one he doesn't quite care enough to identify.]
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Disgusting.
[ It's not generally in Sotiro's nature to voice such opinions, but... he's disgusted. Down to the bones. ]
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It's still ten bucks.
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[And your
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[He looks up at the unhappy customer.]
Never had a problem with that before.
[There's always more where that came from. He wouldn't have his art without it.]
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[Pay ten dollars for a drop, or pay nothing for all of it.]
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Worried about me?
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No.
[It's himself he's worried about, has always been worried about. He just happens to share the gift of blood with this one.]
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[A fair warning. Anyone can play a beggar with a dagger hidden behind their back.]
Tell you what, [He starts to patch up the wound, setting the glass and blade by his side,] I'll give you a free sample. Do whatever you want with it, no strings attached.
[Supernatural or otherwise.]
Interested?
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Why would I be.
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[Everyone's a little curious. No exceptions.]
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[He hides his hands in his pockets, his bitten wrists.]
Novelty is no reason.
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[His palm is pressed firmly against the wound. He shuts his eyes for a couple of seconds, then lets it go. What had been a slice of fresh blood is now little more than a fading memory of the abuse.]
Nobody has to know.
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Would you like a gift.
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What are you offering?
[Some magic trick of his own?]
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[Free? Chained to a favor?]
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Whatever you want.
[He takes his jacket off carefully, giving a neat fold before he sets it aside and begins to roll up shirt sleeves. One of his wrists is freshly purple, it takes him nothing to rip it back into a wet and weeping state.]
[Does that make it obvious what's going on here?]
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[He wouldn't know what to do with himself, given that kind of freedom.]
[Sotiro cleans out a glass silently, then letting his wrist drip into it. One year out of the finite amount he had to give. It wasn't that his blood wouldn't replenish, it's that his body would eventually run out of life to give.]
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[He's just saying. You're sure this is a fair trade?]
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[Well. That might not strictly be true, but it wasn't that kind of high. The sense of invigoration lasted, because it was physical. Cells rejuvenating. A one of a kind thrill, really.]
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[And that's pretty much it, unless Sotiro needs some fuel for a magic spell.]
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[Sotiro takes a handkerchief out of his pocket. He ties it around his wrist like he's done it one-handed before. Then he puts his jacket back on, straightening out his collar.]
[There are two cups of blood, and he leaves them both there with the stranger.]
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Be careful with that.
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You are the only human who will ever have tasted it.
[The only person it has ever been offered to willingly. It isn't a secret that Sotiro shares. With anyone.]
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He picks up a cup, places the blood right in front of his eyes, as if looking for something spiraling within.]
So how do you know it'll work?
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My mother.
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But people have different meanings for the word human, don't they. To consider Kaena anything resembling humane was fatally generous.]
Witch?
[He sounds uncertain, one step away from sympathetic.]
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[And witch is not the word he would use to describe the one who did it.]
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Sorry to hear it.
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[But it was a warning. A meaningless one, Sotiro was captive to the same creature that drank her dry, but a warning nonetheless.]
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...Ten, maybe.
[Almost twenty years ago.]
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All of my memories are of watching her die. It was slow. A little more each time.
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Is that why you do this?
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[He was going to die the same way as his mother. He wasn't protecting himself. He wasn't really protecting anyone else either.]
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No.
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I'll take good care of these.
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[He tugs at his jacket nervously.]
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Hyperion. That's my name.
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...Sotiro.
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