Chapter Text
O’tabekkurrh has been wandering the planes for some time now. That sounds dramatic. What this really means is that O’tabekkurrh has been alive and consuming for very nearly three hundred years. He is barely an adult by eldritch standards. The entirety of his tentacles have still yet to drop. This is something that the other gods love to remind him of. Often. And loudly.
He is very consistently reminded of several assorted details about himself.
First: He is small for his species. Granted, there truly is no such thing as a small eldritch god, and O’tabekkurrh is roughly as horrific as they come. His granting names him as such. And yet, he remains something of a runt in his family. But what he lacks in size, he more than makes up for in productivity. His prowess in consumption is second to none, and he wields his current tentacles with effortless grace. He would very much like to see that bastard As’zhul consume souls at the same rate, what with his gigantic pincers always getting in the way.
Second: He is currently the youngest in his family. The Empress is with child again, a younger sibling to be born unto them at a moment of her choosing, but it is well known that she prefers to take her time with gestation. O’tabekkurrh’s own ripening took well over seventy years, and even then, the Empress felt he had been released too soon. Still, O’tabekkurrh cannot help but feel his hackles rise each time an elder god reminds him of his youth. He hopes the Empress does not choose a long gestation for her latest child.
Third: He has yet to locate his spark, or even receive his first warming. His elders take great joy in reminding him that they each had felt their own, located their spark, and produced multiple offspring long before they had ever reached their third century. It takes great effort for O’tabekkurrh to remind himself that, by all standards, he is still extremely young. For a species that tends to live for multiple millenia, he still has plenty of time. He is still but a babe, all things considered.
Sparks remain something of a mystery to him. Although he’s had centuries to unravel the meaning of such an assignment, he still finds himself stumped. It seems odd to him that any sort of god should be fated to search for their missing piece until their soul can be satisfied and return from whence it came. What he knows for certain, however, is that one particular human is, always has been, and will forever be his fate. He feels this simple fact deep in his soul. Well, deep in the place where his soul might reside. That exact location is up for debate, but O’tabekkurrh is hard-pressed to discern who, exactly, might debate the coordinates.
O’tabekkurrh is not a proud sort of eldritch god. He knows his place among the fabric of time. He has risen, wandered, and will pass just as any other creature is destined to do. Still, the instinct for resentment is strong within him when he considers the emptiness that has thus far haunted his path as he waits for the day he receives his warming. He has not suffered more than any other creature in existence. In fact, he has lived a fortunate life, all things considered. Still, each time a new decade passes him by, he cannot help but feel the fatigue of another flash of life lived without true satisfaction. He reaps, he haunts, he claims, and yet he is never complete. It is a tiring way to exist, if he were to be totally honest.
His first vision of his intended spark was passed to him in the womb, as is so often the case. As he floated in his mother Empress’s birthing sac, warm and content, developing tentacles wrapping his tiny body in a cocoon of suckers and amniotic fluid, he saw clearly the image of the man who would one day carry him home. The Empress is a mysterious creature. While she may choose to send all of her children a vision of their future, she is quick to deny them of any details. Otabek was gifted the visage, but nothing more than that. The Empress may give, but she is fickle with her assistance. As with all of her offspring, the Empress doomed him upon his warming to search the worlds until he found his missing piece, his spark. Only then could he return to his home plane and claim a land with his soul’s true match at his side.
Over the years of his youth, O’tabekkurrh was given flashes, brief glimpses into the world of his destined one. Right alongside the fulfillment of his unheavenly duties sat the dedication to a single person. A wiry human boy, full of fire and grit, studious and stern with a hint of mischief. A beautiful man, all glossy gold locks and sharp elbows. An athlete of some sort, perhaps. He had sussed that out from a vision of the boy flinging himself around in intricate patterns of some variety. Human hobbies were strange to O’tabekkurrh, so he chose not to waste too much time on the details. Something about balls of multiple varieties appeals to them greatly, he noted. He understands in a way. Throwing skulls is a common schoolyard game amongst the young of their world.
The important part, the vital part — the part that determines O’tabekkurrh’s ultimate fate — is the warming. The warming comes when a god nears puberty. It is the Empress’ signal to them that they should be turned away from all that they know until they fulfill their mission. They shall be locked out of their home plane, the only key permitting re-entry being that of the soul of their spark settled at their side.
Once the warming takes root, time runs short. Each god is granted a mere year to claim their spark. Should they fail, they are doomed to wander whatever plane they land upon until they eventually fade from existence, never to be seen or thought of again. It is a miserable way to die.
O’tabekkurrh does not wish to die this way.
The warming comes early one morning as O’tabekkurrh tends to his garden of Turvinian budslips. It bursts forth in his chest, right between his three hearts, and spreads out along his tentacles and fangs. The connection to his spark calls to him from somewhere beyond his plane, and that is when he knows for certain that he must go. The stretch of the calling pulls him away from his world and toward that of the Terran.
And so, on the eve of his three-hundredth birthing anniversary, O’tabekkurrh sets out to find his fate.
+++
The first stop O’tabekkurrh decides to make is in the service of a singular purpose: finding an identity that will not give him away to mortals.
Although his spark will eventually learn of his true nature, it would be most unwise to reveal himself to an entire host of humans. From what he understands, they are unpredictable and their ire is easily drawn. He must not reveal himself or his kind to more than is absolutely necessary.
This proves most difficult for him, so tied to his identity as he is. O’tabekkurrh, he of the undying sight. Much like every other eldritch entity, O’tabekkurrh is named for his physical appearance. He of many eyes, born in the darkness. He of unending reach, tentacles outstretched to receive his tithings. He of gaping maw and razored fangs, jaws cracked wide to devour souls. The name of O’tabekkurrh encompasses him fully. And yet, O’tabekkurrh knows he cannot be himself among the living.
And so, armed with this knowledge, he pays a visit to his dearest friend.
Leroie’y cannot technically be classified as an eldritch god, although he was born from the Empress the same as the rest. Instead, he was granted the glorious task to be a Grand Marquis of Hell. Rumors that he commands thirty legions of demons regularly fly through every channel of gossip, as they so often do when an Empress’s child rises to their true greatness. In truth, Leroie’y is more than content with the ten legions he commands, thank you very much. He has never needed much to sew discord and dispute, and so a smaller retinue has always been his preference.
Although Leroie’y is nearly a century O’tabekkurrh’s junior, he has already found his spark among the mortal realm. Isabella is her birth name, and the irony of it drives O’tabekkurrh to laughter each time he considers it. Devoted to God. That aside, she is beautiful and bright with an unspoken strength about her. She has proven more than a fitting match for Leroie’y, and together, they have already produced multiple offspring to populate their kingdom. Admittedly, they are all very cute offspring. Fresh from the womb, their talons were imposing, their beaks sharp and bright. Even their eyes, with their yellow slit pupils, shone brightly in the dark of the birthing chamber from which they were extracted. O’tabekkurrh has to force himself to fight back the urge to ruffle their feathers each time he sees them playing amongst the sludge of one of Leroie’y’s many winding rivers.
All of this to say, Leroie’y knew what he was doing when it came to approaching the realms beyond — and one’s fated within them. On Earth, he went by Jean-Jacques Leroy. It was a nod to his given name, and a fitting title as he took the disguise of a Canadian playboy. In no time at all (and with very little effort), Leroie’y crafted himself a perfect personality with which to meet his spark. His expertise would be much-needed. O’tabekkurrh has always been a terrible liar. It was not a gift the Empress saw fit to bestow upon him.
This is how he’s found himself in Leroie’y’s study, crammed at a solid mahogany table next to his queen, as they lay out the plans for his spark retrieval. It takes barely a day, all things considered, to create O’tabekkurrh anew:
Should anyone find themselves curious about him, he is to present himself as Otabek Altin, a businessman from Kazakhstan assigned to his corporation’s newest branch office in New York City, New York.
Otabek finds it rather self-serving to name a city after the larger area it is located in, but again, humans are a strange sort. Even so, he cannot help but feel a small thrill at the prospect of seeing a true, Earthen city for the first time. He’s heard many things about Terra’s occupants. Firstly, they are apparently a loud bunch, although how anyone could be much louder than the unending screams of the void above, O’tabekkurrh cannot quite imagine. Secondly, they are something of a slovenly crowd. Everywhere they trail, mess and pollution follow. They build skyscrapers to honor themselves and remove trees to honor none. A strange sort, indeed. Thirdly — and this is something he still has trouble with, even if he’s been blessed with multiple glimpses of the human form already — they only have four appendages.
Four.
Appendages.
Two arms, two legs, no beaks, no suckers, no pincers, no tails, blunt teeth, one heart.
Their Empress must have a sense of humor. Still, as...streamlined as these humans are, O’tabekkurrh cannot deny the absolute thrall he feels each time he is granted a glimpse of his spark. One day, he will touch an arm. He will touch a leg. He will run his dactyli through human hair and finally know what the silk-thin strands feel like. Leroie’y says they feel like the softest down imaginable, which is already a feat because O’tabekkurrh has never felt down, either. Perhaps on Earth he will cradle a duck and finally know.
From his new identity, O’tabekkurrh (now Otabek, he must remember) crafts himself an existence. His power charges high with his new mission, and as he raises his arm to tear a hole through the fabric of time itself, he swears he can feel his very atoms excite with passion. Just before stepping through his fresh rift, he disguises himself. Two arms. Two legs. The maximum regular amount of human appendages needed to convince the regular human world that he is, in fact, a regular human man with regular human body parts. He grows his own hair, or at least, his best approximation of it. It is thick and coarse, much like the fur of Fenrir. He had felt it once, when his mother had the rug freshly crafted. She never could let go of her pets completely.
Upon completion of his regular, adult, human man body, he turns to Leroie’y for final inspection.
Leroie’y eyes him with penetrating scrutiny before declaring him fit for his mission, although he advises Otabek to wear clothes.
“Humans tend to be terribly skittish around their own reproductive organs. It’s a wonder they ever produce offspring at all.” The words ring with an experienced sort of amusement, and even though he finds himself extremely curious at that, Otabek thinks it best not to inquire. With a snap of Leroie’y’s claws, Otabek is bound in stifling fabric and thread. “This is called a track suit. They wear it for recreation. I don’t understand it much myself.”
“The skin of a—”
“Of a Chiron would suffice? I agree.”
“Well, wish me luck.”
“May the Empress smile upon your journey and grant you glory and fulfillment,” Leroie’y wishes with a wry smile.
“Whatever that means,” Otabek mumbles to himself, his oral tentacles flopping around the words just before he swaps them for a regular, human mouth with wide, blunt teeth.
“Whatever that means,” Leroie’y agrees, raising a fist in encouragement.
With a tentative smile, Otabek plunges through his rift and lands suddenly in a realm of smoke and ashes. The smile he cautiously bore drops completely from his face. This is not the correct realm. Granted, it is a beautiful realm. Yet still, he knows it is not the place destined for him to meet his spark. The problem with following the bond is that there is no exact science to it all. It is somewhat more of an art. Bond magic is mysterious, and in order to prove yourself worthy, you must also show that you can answer the calling and heed your bond’s directive. This often calls for a great deal of searching throughout several assorted realms. Naturally, since these realms are innumerable, it can prove most difficult.
Still, it has been some time since Otabek was sent away from home and left to his own devices. The land deserves some exploration. So explore he does, wandering the corners of the bleak universe, memorizing the strange placement of the stars, noting the absolute lack of any living soul. After a day, he approaches the end of the realm and his heartstrings tug, alerting him to a new direction.
He makes haste to tear open a fresh rift and sets off, stepping forward into a bright new world of lightning and thunder. Otabek finds himself atop a mountain, great scaled beasts circling its peak. Dragons, he realizes, eyes widening with surprise. He had thought dragons extinct, a relic of an ancient past. By the time he was birthed, it had been widely regarded that dragons were no more, hunted to extinction for their scales. Yet here he stands, watching them dip and fly in dazzling displays. Unable to stay, but slightly unwilling to leave, Otabek tears a new portal and retreats with one final glance tossed over his shoulder. Perhaps he can return to this realm and bring a young dragon home to please his spark. A mighty steed for his true love’s amusement.
Each new realm follows this pattern, a new uncharted land of mystery and wonder, and yet, never the land he seeks. His hearts grow weary with the searching, as each time the bond thrums, his answer to the call is never quite correct. His time runs ever shorter in the worlds that pass, and it sends him skittish and afraid.
Until one day the call grows louder. It grows insistent. It grows deafening, and he knows. His spark is calling and he must go.
He lands in a park. At least, he is fairly certain it is. Human parks look quite different from the parks of the eldritch. For one, there are no corpses or blue fires. There are no imposing obelisks to which nightmares can be transferred in exchange for ancient relics. Otabek very much prefers his own familiar fire parks with their great monuments and skin-flaying winds. No matter, parks are not what he came in search of.
Now that he finds himself in the human world, Otabek must figure out how to exist as one. He may have many powers at his disposal, but unfortunately, immediate knowledge of all things is not one of them. It does not take him long to locate a library and pore over the important bits of human history. Of course, over the course of his work in reaping and consuming souls as commanded by his calling, he has learned bits and pieces about the human realm. Still, Otabek could never have prepared himself for the full breadth of human history as it presents itself to him through book and newspaper article alike. For instance, he learns that his language is terribly out of date. The version of speech he is used to has long since died away, replaced by faster verbiage and shorter statements. This, he will have to remember.
Throughout the entirety of his research, however, he finds it most difficult to ignore the calling of his three hearts’ missing piece. His spark is closer than ever in this realm, and it pulls at him insistently, the need to go find him beating at his skull with every excited squeeze of his fifteen chambers.
But patience is a virtue, as they say. Whoever they are.
Otabek must take his time.
A task of utmost importance, he needs to charm himself a new living space to serve as his home. Hopefully he won’t require the full year to acquire his spark, but he is nothing if not a creature of preparation. The landlord — a short, squat man with hair growing lengthy from his ears — is easy enough to sway, succumbing quickly to Otabek’s influence. He even promises to fix the elevator in the building, something of an unusual event, if Otabek is to understand correctly.
A wave of the hand fills Otabek’s apartment with the sort of decorations and furniture he assumes to be average and normal for adult human men to have in their home, although there are far fewer bones than he finds reasonably comfortable. A final tour of the apartment to lay glamours and protections is all that remains, and with that, Otabek is ready to locate his spark.
+++
It’s a beautiful morning, he can admit, when Otabek sets out on his search. Humans refer to the current season as Fall, after the way the leaves drop from the trees, which seems a bit on the nose to him. Lazy naming aside, he can easily see why so many prefer the time of year. The air is comfortable, with a slight breeze shifting the leaves of the many plants he passes. The streets are bustling as he strolls them, led on by the tug of his instincts. He follows absently, drifting away from his consciousness as he allows his body to take over command.
Soon enough, Otabek approaches the very library he had visited just days before in pursuit of knowledge about his sparks’ realm. The tug in his chest strengthens to an uncomfortable degree, threatening to tear his spine from his body. Well, the spine he would have were he an actual human, anyway. His body thrums, feeling uncomfortable and itchy beneath his false skin, dragging him forward through the heavy double doors of the old building.
At home, libraries do not exist in such a fashion as they do on Earth. Yes, they hold knowledge to be parsed over and sorted in a relatively safe space, but that is where the comparison ends. The knowledge contained within the libraries Otabek is used to is infernal at best. Weathered tomes full of ledgers of souls collected, spells long faded from use, ancient creatures that only the most powerful can bring to heel. And the librarians. Ugh, the librarians.
It’s somewhat of a vacation to step foot into these harmless, mortal halls of stories.
Otabek follows the burn in his chest as he climbs the staircase to the second floor of the library. It concentrates and roars as he creeps along aisles of books, past tables full of young humans hunched over texts of learning, and around large, overstuffed couches. Another thing Otabek has noted about humans is that they love reclining in all forms. He supposes it makes sense, since as of yet, he has not noted any ability for them to float unless suspended in water.
The thought distracts him for a moment until he rounds a corner and sees him.
His spark. His beautiful, blessed, hand-crafted spark, shining around the edges with the telltale ethereal glow Otabek has heard so many stories about.
He’s softer than he appeared in Otabek’s visions, more delicate up-close. His yellow, human hair falls long in a soft curtain around his shoulders as he kneels down, eyes scrunched up in search of a particular tome on a lower shelf. The elbows and knees that seemed so sharp in his mind’s eye simply look fragile now. His skin is pale as the stars above, but his cheeks are rosy with life. His torso is long, his legs longer, and suddenly Otabek realizes he may have miscalculated the boy’s size.
His spark finds the book he was searching for and snaps it up in a plain, fleshy hand, standing to regard the cover. And he’s tall. He’s so very, very tall. Otabek realizes quickly that to look directly into his eyes, he’ll need to crane his human neck to look upward at him. Something about that is extremely attractive. Otabek is sure there must be a term for this, but that will have to wait to be examined until a later time. A noise from behind Otabek startles his spark, the boy turning his way to search for the source.
Otabek feels suddenly shy.
In the split-second it takes for his spark to face his direction, Otabek takes himself invisible. The boy looks right through him, and Otabek’s center heart cracks wide open. The clearest, bluest, most ethereal eyes in all of creation lance through the space between them, and Otabek tries his best to remain still with the shock of it. The sound does not come again, and after many excruciating seconds of furrowed-brow staring, his spark shrugs to himself, turning back to the shelf to locate another book. Not a single librarian shows up to stop him or scream ancient incantations into his neck. It’s unsettling.
For the rest of the afternoon, Otabek remains invisible, simply observing as his spark studies the books he pulls from the shelves with care, taking notes in several assorted notebooks of his own. He must be a student, Otabek thinks, which would make him a young adult much like himself. This is fortunate. He has heard tell of other gods tracking down their own spark, only to find that they are still mere infants or very nearly dead. That is a fate almost worse than never finding your spark to begin with. For, although the eldritch have the ability to suspend time for their fated, certain rewards can feel rather more like punishment for those sparks living them.
The light of day fades through the windows as Otabek spends hours observing his spark study quietly alone. Eventually, the sky turns over to darkness and a buzzing emits from the boy’s pocket. He extracts a rectangle of glass, a box in which he has seemingly trapped light itself. He glances down at it and makes a face at whatever it is he finds. He pokes determinedly at the light and then taps a button on the side of the rectangle, sending it into darkness again. This happens a few more times until, finally, he gathers his belongings and stands with a sigh.
Otabek remains silent and disguised as he trails behind, following his spark as the boy returns to what he assumes is his own home. It’s a small and cramped apartment, much smaller than the one Otabek had charmed his way into. The furniture is sparse and well-worn, obviously used often and with gusto. It’s a positive sign — this means his spark is full of life and energy. Perhaps he is unnaturally strong, judging by the wear of the belongings.
Otabek wonders what his muscles feel like.
With any luck, he will learn.
+++
Three days pass, during which Otabek contents himself to remain concealed, simply trailing after his spark. The pull in his chest is indescribable, a buzzing that peaks and howls the closer he draws to the human. The gaping in his chest grows and blackens the further away he is from him, so he tries his best to be as close as possible at all times.
During the course of his observation, he learns that the human’s name is Yuri. The light of God. It suits him, with his brightness and gold. The human doesn’t speak often, but when he does, his words are punctuated and full of intent. His personality is strong, and determination radiates from his entire being. If he wasn’t convinced prior to his observations, Otabek finds himself more than convinced now that Yuri is his perfect match.
The issue, of course, is how to find a natural way to make an introduction.
This proves difficult, as there are very few natural ways to introduce yourself to your intended fate without sounding just a little off center. Otabek considers getting in line behind Yuri at a coffee shop the human frequents, but once he manages that, what would be the best way of greeting the other? He thinks that spilling coffee on him may not be well received, and he knows that humans often do not like being approached when they are accomplishing menial tasks.
He cannot approach him on the campus of his school, as his established identity would make it nonsensical to be there. Perhaps if he were to pretend to be interested in granting the school with a generous donation? That may be excessive.
At a loss for what to do, and feeling more alone with each passing day, Otabek resigns himself to simply float along, following his spark invisibly as he goes about his life.
Yuri is a busy man. Each day he rises early, goes to school, goes to the library to study, goes to work, then goes home and does it all again in the morning. It’s an exhausting sort of existence, Otabek thinks. Still, one of his favorite things about Yuri’s ritual is the occasional time the human spends dancing alone in a polished room.
The chamber he uses is crafted out of shining mirror and wood, empty save for a single chair and upright piano sat alone in a corner. Otabek enjoys sitting in the chair and silently watching as Yuri throws himself around the waxed floors in graceful movements. Each perfectly executed jump draws Otabek in, wrapping him in warmth at the thought of how accomplished his spark is, how beautiful and graceful and strong. He will make an excellent mate some day, Otabek is sure of it.
Weeks pass in this way, Yuri living and Otabek observing, until finally he can stand it no longer. His time is quickly slipping by and every receding moment tears hooks into his chest, deeper than the last. He must formally meet his spark.
Yuri has friends, although he likes to pretend that they annoy him more than they do. One evening, they gather at Yuri’s apartment, chattering and squawking. A female, one named Mila, with flaming red hair and mischief in her eyes, drags Yuri into his bathroom and sets to lecturing him about the state of his hair and skin. His voice is unamused when he parries each of her sentences with reasoning and excuses.
Otabek is curious as he listens in. This preening ritual is foreign to him, and he wonders as to why humans would need such an extended time to prepare for leaving their home. Would it not be easier to simply shift forms and be done with it?
He receives his answer in short service as the door is flung open and Yuri emerges, scrubbed clean and shiny. His hair is woven in intricate patterns, braids of all types piled stylishly atop his head like a crown. His lips are plump and shiny, his eyelashes darkened and curled impossibly long. Even his clothes are different, sleek and form-fitting.
Otabek’s hearts stop beating, and he has to slam a fist into his chest to get them to restart.
This is it, he knows. This is the evening he formally meets his spark. He can bear it no longer.
Otabek follows them as they take a cab to a bar in the heart of the city. He hasn’t yet been to a bar in this realm. He wonders what their suspension cages are filled with. His stomachs churn, mouth watering at the thought of enjoying a pickled harpy liver, the type that only a good watering hole can offer.
As the laughing mob of friends push their way through the front door, however, Otabek finds himself disappointed. There are no entertainment cages suspended from the rafters. In fact, there are no entertainment cages at all. He finds nary a single jar of pickled anything behind the bar, and all of the drinks just seem to be composed of varying multi-colored liquids. There isn’t even the customary infernal jackal wandering the floor to ensure no fighting occurs.
Instead, Otabek finds himself in a wide open room crammed to bursting with writhing bodies, walls reverberating with pounding music and shouted conversation. It’s a sweaty sort of place, thick with young pheromones drowned in perfumes of all kinds. It’s hardly the sort of place to meet your future consort.
Eldritch gods make do.
Otabek steps into the filthy restroom (finally, something familiar), and sets to work making himself presentable. He returns to full visibility, settling into the human form he agreed upon with Leroie’y. Remembering that humans prefer modesty, Otabek flips back through his mind over all of the outfits he’d seen the patrons of this club wearing. None of them seem particularly fantastic to him, so instead, he drapes himself in a look he remembers seeing on a billboard and finding aesthetically pleasing.
As Otabek steps out of the restroom in his new clothing, several heads turn in his direction, reminding him of his newly visible status. It’s discomforting to find that humans have no issue with looking upon his form in this way. His true self would strike them all down, cutting the room to its knees. He longs for that comfort.
As it is, he is on a mission that he cannot turn from. He must be successful in this, or he can never return home. That alone spurs him to move forward, struggling through the thick crowd of intoxicated humans. He lets his chest guide him, following the pull of his spark through the building. It’s a struggle without making use of flight or the power to compel, but eventually he makes it through to the other side of the room.
There, at a private table in the corner, surrounded by jackets and bags and looking extremely bored, sits Yuri. As if by some providence of the Empress herself, a single ceiling light shines down upon him, alighting him in a blue glow that renders his visage ethereal. He’s beautiful and angular beneath it, a regal creature sent to Earth for Otabek to find.
His fists flex at his sides as he approaches, and for some reason, all nerves fade away as Otabek makes his approach. This is right, what’s about to happen. It’s real and true, and he knows his spark will feel it, too. Something deep inside of him tells him so.
Yuri scrolls through his light rectangle (a cell phone, Otabek learned upon a return trip to the library) with his chin resting in one palm. He barely blinks as he does so, sighing softly to himself as he occasionally looks up and around the room, presumably searching for his friends. It makes no sense that someone as glorious as he should not be surrounded by admirers. In a sense, it makes Otabek outraged on his behalf, although a far more selfish part of himself takes joy in the fact that he will go unchallenged. Perhaps those of the mortal realm know not to bother a god’s spark, lest they be consumed without mercy.
Either way, as Otabek seats himself directly across the table from his beautiful, blessed, perfect spark, he cannot prepare himself for what he hears. Yuri turns big, beautiful blue eyes upon him and speaks the first words to connect their souls.
“So, you finally decided to stop creeping around, huh? And what’s with the leather, James Dean?”