2.39 a.m. and the door opens with a dramatic click.

This world is pure with deceit and treachery; irony on its very own. It really drains you out, the days are tiring.

His eyes are burning, they are red, but the red is flickering. It feels a bit like acid, like hydrochloric acid, the darn stomach grumbling at this hour of all times. The fierce rumble of the digestive tract which ceases to satiate; the mouth savours no more. Life is rather boring. Delicacies are as tasteless as the world.

But she cooks and the mere sight endears him whole. The sheer effort needed to support a whole family, strangers or not.

He's been on the brink these days, his winks deliver no flirtatious impact with dark eye circles weary. Despite the fierce exhaustion, the affliction of power and fire, he can't get to sleep and the bastard doesn't even know why. Maybe he's sick of the way his improper blood flows.

Or maybe he does. He doesn't know if he does. His problems haunt him day and night but he pays them no mind. He's grown accustomed to dreaming about the things that they could be, in a parallel universe never to intersect theirs.

Days are tiring in this world of endless time and tangled loops.

So no one can hear the click, or so he thinks. Everyone must be sleeping.

The door clicks close dramatically and no one is there to watch.

Or so he thinks, until suddenly he feels a warmth from behind, and arms at his waist. He forgets, sometimes, that he's not the only with strange powers and weird eyes.

It's not a wonder how he doesn't jump at the sudden intrusion; the series of happenings in recent days or years or centuries make cliche horror scenarios seem like quite the understatement, almost an embrace of comfort of sorts.

"Kido? What are you doing at this hour?"

Silence.

After a five good minutes of silent hugging he beckons her to go to bed. It's late, he claims.

But her eyes brim with tears and the red eyes flicker, almost a mirror of his, he doesn't have the heart to chase her away without drying them.

"What's the matter, Tsubomi?"

"What's the matter? The matter's not with me, Shuuya. What's the matter with you? Seto's been trying hard but he can see through you all at once. He does not want to dig any further."

"It's nothing, really. Haha."

"Nothing? Shuuya, we've known each other for centuries. We are not blind. You don't have to do everything on your own...no one said you should shoulder all the responsibility. The snake is not a force to be reckoned with, and we all know he can swallow you in a go. You know he can. You don't have to partake in your dealings with him alone. We care for you, Shuuya."

Silence.

"You know? Seto is worried. We all are worried...I am worried."

The red of their eyes burn and the mask melts off bit by bit; his white sleeves stain red from all the truths he's said; all the scars he's had. The pierrot chuckles a bit; he can run no further.

"...so, tell me, what do you want to hear?"

He decides he's got no shame; no one is to blame. He's giving all his secrets away.

This time, it's no made-up story.

They sit in his room and talk for three hours on end. On the listening end she cries, and he cries a bit, too.

If someone as soft-hearted can embrace him in full acceptance, he must realise that he isn't as unpleasant as he thinks. She will wake him from his reverie; she will not allow him to drown in the manifestation of his fears and self-disgust. It isn't easy, but they will try. It's probably the only way out of this tiring world of tangled loops and endless time.

He's much more refreshed out in the open, artificial smirk wiped clean and never to appear again. In the moonlight his face is much more sensible and fetching with brine-stained scars exposed.

He knows any amount of praying hard and dreaming of the world that they could be is hardly useful, but at least he's not alone on this journey; he's got the whole team, he's got Seto. He's got her.

Their combined strength is ample to ignite a miracle.

Thanks for reading. Happy Birthday, Good Man.