ataraxionlogs | One Thing's Trash...

Entry tags:

crowley,
yoite

One Thing's Trash...

CHARACTERS: Crowley (

maleit)
LOCATION: The communal showers and then other places.
WARNINGS: Trigger warnings for body shame, horror, and humiliation. Will add as they come.
SUMMARY: And the Oxygen Garden thought they were shady.

One thing he can give Tranquility is that life is much simpler aboard the lonely starship. While stress is the key to evolution, it's refreshing to have his concerns rolled down to one pivotal point - himself. Just like the old days, the only thing he has to manage are his own manners while he lives off of the land, so to speak. No more worrying about cleaning up someone else's mess, and at least a little less paranoia regarding who was getting ready to ramrod him as soon as he turned his back. Demons were worse than a pack of dogs when it came to power. Sometimes Crowley just wanted to be irresponsible every once in a while without having to look over his fucking shoulder.

There's an art to making deals, or so Crowley believes. It's not about just speaking well - it's knowing the right things to say. And to know what to say, one needs to know their client, just as a real hunter knows that snaring a rabbit is very different from stalking a lion. It's knowing how to act and adjust, when to push and when to bide. It's knowing how to hurt.

The suicidal want to hate themselves, and everyone wants to be impressed. There is no noise, no footsteps on the tile nor subtle breeze. At one moment, the benches in the towel room are empty. In the next, like the cigarette burn at corner of a film reel, there is a man, or at least the shape of one, sitting upon the closest seat to the hall of shower stalls. Despite the lingering humidity in the communal shower, he is dressed in a full three-piece suit and a dark overcoat. One leg crossed over the other, he waits while the drone of the shower continues on, flickering through the small device that connects the people living within the city-sized tankard.

There is, perhaps, one noticeable difference. For every action, there must be a reaction: the faintest hint of sulphur laces its way through the sweltering atmosphere and lingers.

This business almost seems too easy, really, but while Crowley has his pride, he's also got an eye for opportunity and a healthy sense of reality. Having anything in his pocket aside from a few coins can't be a bad thing at the moment, especially since it's been proven the client in question has at least one skill of use. While he's got power and experience, his situation at the moment is still like trying to work a ball of clay into a fortress. And then there's the fact that he gets to play the game again. One year on Earth and forty in Hell can easily make one miss the trade they'd been mastering for centuries. If you didn't whet a blade every now and then, it didn't remain sharp, and Crowley was nothing if not keen.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Every action, an equal and opposite reaction. It was true. Newton. And it's the moment that Crowley appears, that there's this sudden SHIFT in the air, that the water flow is suddenly cut short, mere seconds after his arrival.

They're showers. They're public showers. And though the idea of more filth building on top of what a disgrace he already is remains a certainly deplorable one, it's only matched by his fear of the showers. It shows in his carefulness. He's quick, he's precise, and it's a benefit to seeing the hearts beating throughout some walls of the ship - he knows when it's empty, and he knows when someone is coming.

This was empty. And now there's someone.

For a long few seconds, his hands linger on the faucet, and there's this flash of panic - could practically hear his heart beat across the room. One towel to keep it all hidden. He can feel a shiver down his spine and a discomfort that makes all his limbs rigid, jerky, fidgeting like never before. The towel around his waist is enough, nothing telling at all. It's embarrassing, and oh, how he cringes - not outwardly, but inwardly, and it's clear in the pain in his eyes just how much - when he steps out of the showers and regards this man, this suited man, so mysterious and nameless.

Blackened marks already char Yoite's skin, dead cells deeply seeded within his skin. One hand grips the (nice, white, clean) towel securely, the other stays clamped over the left side of his neck.

And bright, bright blue eyes stare down the top dog demon that ever was, brows furrowed. He's afraid, but it's not of Crowley. "Why here?"

Crowley doesn't make it a secret - his eyes, dark as the necropsy eating the self-named affliction, slide slowly down exposed and mottled skin. He's not smiling, and yet there is something about the corners of his lips that seems to hint his expression can become one; smug, curious. Yoite is a dalmatian at a show and Crowley is the judge. Placed in the spotlight, his stance is being appraised and being run through an invisible list of requirements. Skinny little thing, isn't he? Tall and graceful; beautiful, really, aside from the patches of plague. Even that, though, has its appeal in the demon's eyes. And the way he clutches at himself now, how tightly he holds onto that little sheaf of cotton - were Crowley a lesser thing, he might have laughed at the brilliance of it all. He might just, but he'd save that for now.

For now, he meets Yoite's gaze, pursing his lips and hiking both brows as if to say 'Well, look at you. Aren't you something?'

What he says, though, with a voice full of smoke and gravel and ease, is, "I wanted to give you every opportunity to convince me of the investment I'm making."

And with that, he tucks the communicator into his jacket pocket and unfolds his legs. The heels of his shiny, shiny shoes dig into the tile, pulling him to the edge of his seat. Perched there, with his coat spilling over the back of the bench behind his legs, he looks exceptionally close to a large, black bird. His head even cocks, as regarding the young man from a slightly different angle.

"Well? Indulge my sense of sympathy, darling. Let's have a look at you."

The freak show, step right up to get your first look. There's a danger about Crowley that's immediately prevalent, palpable, and it reeks underneath his veins just as much as the stink in the air. His senses weren't much to speak of. But his scent was his strongest one. Like rotten eggs. They weren't anywhere near a kitchen.

The brows, the hunch, the angles and the lines. Yoite doesn't move his ground, but he can feel his pulse racing, his heart beating out a staccato and mortified rhythm against his chest. He knows when he's being scrutinized, and it's a situation he's felt before. Look at you, look at you. Aren't you something. You're beautiful, you know. You're so beautiful.

Familiar.

No, too familiar.

He has to raise a hand to point, and if it comes to which embarrassment he's going to hold precedence over, it's the scar on his neck. Carved deep, and curving nearly halfway around it. It's old, it's puckered where it was neatly stitched, but it's solid. A blade. A knife, probably. It's very evident, even against the blackened spots on his skin - more frequent near his hands and feet. His torso is only littered with some dusky signs, his face blemish-free.

Evident, that is, until the pinch - just a small one, at first, the skin of Crowley's vessel around his throat that's beginning to pull taut. He doesn't want to kill him. That would be counter productive, and rude. But it's pressing in tight, almost as if there's a hand against it - fast and furious, there's suddenly no air flow to his trachea, and Yoite holds it for a second, and then five, before he drops his hand, and even dares to take a step forward.

"I'm not a trick pony."

A knife wound, is it? Something shameful - probably not the blemish itself, but perhaps the memory behind it? There's something else, though, isn't there? He's being pointed at, and it's a curious and dramatic gesture to do. While Crowley tilts his chin up expectantly, ready to hear some exclamation of ire or affront, he's not prepared for what happens next. A strand of energy shoots from the other's finger at him, quick as a bullet. It feels like he's been lasso'd about the throat, like someone is pulling the choke collar with a leash. His breath catches in his throat, forcing out the briefest of gags. His lips part and his eyes widen ever so slightly, but it'd be a grand mistake to believe the look in them is fear. When he's released, he sinks back again, drawing in a breath before one pale hand seeks his throat. No mark there. Still, he rubs at it, clearing his throat to test if his meatsuit's windpipe had sustained anything more than a bruise. No? Perfect - he could still speak. If he couldn't, he might have been miffed indeed.

His lip curls a little at the other's statement, then quirks its way into a smirk.

A demonstration for a demonstration, was it?

"I'm willing to bet you've got some animal instinct."

Crowley points too, not because he has to, but because it's his little parody of what he's just witnessed. The towel, damp from the shower and the young man's body, bursts into flame as if it were doused in gasoline instead of water.

Animal indeed. But strictly animal.

He hasn't been raised by wolves, not unless he counts himself as one, and so though manners are a strange new territory for him and always have been, he's not entirely without his humanity. Much as he'd like to be. He had no idea what Crowley was capable of, what sort of powers he harbored. He could have had nothing. But there was an air of confidence, a scary kind of feeling that put Yoite too close to the edge that let him know for a fact that he had something up his sleeves.

Survival. Survival is all that is on his mind, for a moment, and as it is, the action's too delayed. When his senses are dulled as they are, they can't feel the heat. They don't see something so bright out of the corner of his eye, they smell first.

A hint of smoke that's mixed with the sulfur, and he's never liked the word 'impossible'. Impossible is in and of itself impossible. Damp towels bursting into flames are merely improbable, and it's that survival that has him immediately strip the thing off before anything else, animal instinct very instantly overwriting any embarrassment or shame or dysmorphia, no matter how deeply seeded, no matter how early of an age it was instilled and beaten into his mind. You're not a girl. Sora's not a girl. Sora's not a boy, Sora's a thing. That child is a thing.

He hasn't stood naked before someone for some time. But better knowledge overwrites shame and horror and a deep, deep loathing as he merely balls his fists at his side, and makes a point not to blindly grab for the jacket that's on the bench between them, to cover what Crowley has likely already seen. His hands tremble with the effort.

"S -- "

Speaking is hard. Speaking is so very hard, and bless his soul, he's trying with all the might he has left to keep his voice strong and steady as he stands more vulnerable than he has in ages. "So?"

Even though he senses he's not what he usually is, Crowley still has enough power to move and shake things if he wants. But why expend the energy when all it takes is a simple nudge in the right place? Or, in this case, a spark of flame? Humans are all animal deep down, desire and hate and fear. And what the conscious mind might not know, the body certainly will. Some would say he was playing dirty, and they'd be completely right. Some would also say, however, that as the King of Hell, he had a reputation to uphold.

"Oh my."

Soft, quiet... amused. Those brows lift again. Look at you. Aren't you something? Some Thing.

Crowley clicks his tongue quietly. Tut tut tut.

"You're a bit of a mess all around, aren't you? Which one do you piss out of?"

Embarrassment wins out. It's all Yoite can take to breathe past the industrial-sized ball of cotton in his throat, that rising feeling that's thick and heated like magma - and he's had it before and he's been close before, but he will not cry in front of this man, he absolutely refuses --

But he still steps forward, quickly, meaning for the jacket on the bench to cover himself up, even half-heartedly.

This is entirely different from Hattori, he decides. Rather than a feigned fixation, that awe and that encouragement he'd have heard from Satan himself if he needed to hear it - ironic, given the situation. But it's ridicule, it's more like growing up. It's more like Yoite feeling far too small to be here for a moment. "We're not here to discuss -- " Me, that thing, that that that we never discuss. And quite frankly, the question jars him into a kind of ire he's had brewing under him for years and years, the kind he never does truly get to set free.

Honestly, it's all an act. Technically, technically speaking, Crowley is neither male or female himself. His soul was, once, and he's only ever adopted male suits before, but technically speaking his form in this plane is nothing more than a long, smokey line of malicious intent. But insecurity is what brought Yoite to him in the first place, so the name of today's game is humiliation. The suicidal need to hate themselves.

Yoite moves for the jacket and Crowley's hand snaps out in turn, quick as a viper, seeking the addled flesh of the seeking wrist. As he does, he also stand, surging from the bench and taking up the space between them. As he does, there's the lowest chuckle coiling out of his chest. Heat. The air that fills the bare inches between bodies is simmering.

"If you want your wish granted, we'll discuss what I damn well want to, when I want to." And suddenly, there's no laughter anymore, just a raw threat and dark, dark eyes. Heat. "If I want to hear about how mummy and daddy couldn't decide whether or not to put you in a yukata or a kimono, you'll bloody well tell me and thank me for the opportunity, you sorry sod! Do you think I'm selling you a fucking identity change? You're asking me to rewrite history for you because you are too much of a fuck-up to exist without trampling on others' lives. That's it, isn't it? You screwed someone over? Well that's not a fucking flick of the wrist to fix, is it?"

Something shifts, when Crowley grabs Yoite's wrist. It's something dark, twisted and barbed at the edges that he'd sensed an undercurrent of but now it's all around him, it feels like it's in his skin and his cells more than usual. It feels like all the air's gone out and his nose is filled with that strong smell, that stink of sulphur.

His reaction has always been immediate, trained, ever since he escaped all The Evil and things weren't sounder but they were safer. He had turtlenecks in the middle of summer and lemon tea and medicine for his failing heart and it wasn't okay but it functioned, it functioned, and all that's happened is a grab of the wrist. Just fingers, flesh against flesh, and all of Yoite seizes up, as if he's just now suddenly realized what sort of danger he's gotten into.

Crowley's ki churns excitedly at this close a range. It's different from what pumps through his veins, normal, slightly elevated heart rate, human. But then something much more blackened and charred beneath. And Yoite who doesn't hesitate to slap someone's hand away when they try to so much as touch his shoulder doesn't move a muscle when Crowley's metaphorical claws have got him held.

His fingers twist for a moment in the demon's grasp, almost a threat, almost as if he's about to curl them in just slightly, watch his small intestines coil around his neck like a meat noose. Spleen and bladder spent on the floor and nothing but a shell of a carcass. But he doesn't.

He likes cutting into liars, sometimes. Crowley is not a liar.

"Outlines," he breathes suddenly, and despite himself his eyes flash back to those impossibly dark ones, his own wide and blue, blue blue, and, gods, he can't help it, they're terrified. But he doesn't move, doesn't budge, not one step. "I want guidelines, I want -- I need to know what I have to do."

Crowley is a liar, but he doesn't need to lie about this. It's a difficult task that this young... thing is asking him for. He's not entirely sure he can pull it off as it stands, but that's just a loophole. That's something he can overcome.

He notices the way that decaying hand flexes. He's realized that whatever his client is capable of, he seems to channel it through his fingers. There's a moment where the demon licks his lips, as if tasting the air for that fear. His eyes weigh down on the other, too, unblinking in their intensity. He's daring Yoite in a way, and seeing the way whatever pride or standards he's kept crumple beneath Crowley's power and promise. It's the moment when he knows -they both know- that Crowley is completely in charge. Beautiful, always, the way that they finally break. The fear in this one - delicious.

The King of Hell doesn't waver as the human gasps his way through his submission. For a terrible second, it doesn't seem like it matters. But then Crowley is leaning back, lids lowering while his mouth rewards Yoite with a brief, serpentine smile. He releases the other's wrist.

"Put your clothes on. In ten minutes, I want you to be somewhere no one has a chance of walking in on us. We'll speak of terms then."

That said, he steps away from the other, turning toward the door with a dark flick of coat. He doesn't stop - this, too, is part of the image that conveys how the dynamics of their relationship are to be. When Crowley says things are finished, they are. The automatic door slides aside when he approaches it, letting him into the low-lit corridor beyond. It takes only a few seconds more before it shuts, disappearing him as easily as any spell.

It's clear. It's crystal. It's all so devastatingly obvious and it's this prickly, spiky, uncomfortable kind of familiar that he both hates and resigns to. The power plays, the dominance, that one singular moment where Yoite comes to the realization that he's not going to be able to pull one over on this one, not easily.

Yoite watches that shadow leave, hears the door shut, and all at once he finally breathes as though he hadn't the entire conversation, his air forced from his lungs in this strangled kind of choke of a sigh that he didn't know (but was vaguely sure of the fact) that he was holding in. But his movement is immediate, half out of his own sickened embarrassment, half out of the dutiful nature that had spent years being seared into him like a wound. Festering sometimes, maybe, but ever present.

It should worry him more than it does, Crowley should. But the situation's out of hand. Desperate times, beggars can't be, and other such metaphors.

Once he's dressed - and it doesn't take him long, he's had practice from hurrying to after the jumps - he sets off immediately to the one place that he can't imagine a single person showing up in. His hair's still dripping, water sluicing down his neck and under the coat collar that he's buttoned all the way to his chin as per usual. His gloves are on, but he wrings his hat in his hands. Nervous habit. Ten minutes. Somewhere lonely. Nobody would want to visit. No chance of anyone walking in on them.

Yoite goes to his room, where everything is painfully bare, a blanket neatly folded at the end of a bed that looks as though it's never been slept in - probably because it hasn't. He stands with his back to the wall like he can fade backwards into it and just disappear all by himself, and waits the approximate two allotted minutes he has left.

There's a degree of gravity to be held when making negotiations. While he doesn't doubt his world-weary client doubts his integrity, and that he could make an argument for coming in late (he gave YOITE ten minutes, not himself) it is a little important to make it clear he's serious about making this deal. Little things. Plenty of time to play later, once the contract has been signed. Two minutes pass Yoite by in solitude and silence. Then?

There is a brief, quiet sound like the sucking of air, but the young man won't hear it. Suddenly: sulfur, odious and underlying the scent of things meant to shield it. Normally, someone might have to stick their nose into the demons clothes, or be close enough to smell his breath to find anything off, but a nose so sensitive as Yoite's seemed to be doomed to be shocked whenever Crowley decided to cover the distance in an unconventional manner.

"Usually it's polite to ask someone's name before you see their naughty bits," He muses, walking out of the corner of Yoite's eye and out of the shade at the corner of the room. "But I got a bit excited. Has anyone told you that you come on a bit strong?"

His eyes sweep over the room (just the briefest curl of his lip - god, it was hideous) before centering on Yoite.

"I'm going to need it, though, really, before I begin to draw up any papers. Powerful things, names, and sometimes words as well... How do they do agreements where you're from? Oaths of fealty to a lord? The forfeit of collateral? A signature in blood? For you, I might guess half the payment up front, but I'm willing to be surprised. You've been all sorts of surprising today," This last bit, a lower rumble in his throat, terribly close to a purr, and an impish narrowing of his eyes.

Sulfur. He could place it now, he knew why it was so familiar. And it was the first sense to hit, always, never something he'd relied on until there wasn't much else TO rely on, but it's all up in his sinuses, it's all he's breathing in. He feels a bit like he's asphyxiating but he doesn't dare budge from his spot, not even when he finally does see Crowley, with his hands folded carefully in front of him, the hat wrung into a tight rope. His own gaze follows Crowley, eyes sharp and hooked onto his every move.

He's crass. Purposefully crass. But Yoite's long since learned that responding to bait only worsens the situation. As such, he's painfully unresponsive to Crowley's remarks - a flicker of a brow, a tightening of his jaw, nothing much to betray how uncomfortable he is with the situation.

That voice is one that's not okay, and it sends a bead of cold sweat down his spine, or maybe that's just shower water.

"It's Yoite." A lie, and a flutter of his pulse betrays him, a bat of his lashes. "Someone usually gives their word in the Nabari world," is true, however - only answers when the question is direct, fully glazing over the latter half of it. There's a bit of a shake to his voice that betrays him, but he tightens his shoulders, frowns. "It's not a very good system. So I use collateral." It's only then he moves, and the hat unfurls, painfully wrinkled, but he doesn't seem to care too much about his appearance, dirty gloves and wet hair and all.

Curiously - and warily inviting whatever answer this man might give - he finally asks. "How do you do it?"

"Yoite. Hmm," Crowley might have given a little lie himself, so fair is fair. The names don't matter here - the words do. The proceedings of the young man's world don't matter either, but that doesn't mean Crowley isn't curious. The evolution of the honor of men was a fascinating subject, and part of his business, though the ways of making Hell's contracts hadn't changed since the first whisper of easy solutions and promises of grandeur made it into the ears of men.

Crowley had an ear for liars, but he wouldn't bother to address it. Let Yoite believe he had at least that security, for now, while it didn't really matter.

"Interestingly enough, it's much the same, if perhaps a bit more elegant. We negotiate terms -what I'll give you, what you'll give me- and seal it with a symbolic gesture. If either of us fail to meet the terms we've come to, the contract is null and void. Simple, really," It was anything but. "So. Yoite. Foreplay's over - tell me exactly what you'd like me to do for you."

Because Crowley didn't have to adhere to anything that wasn't explicit.

Those dark eyes fell on the pale thing's face, expression politely curious. But he was listening carefully, no doubt of that, hands dipped into the pockets of his dark overcoat. Both of them, almost completely covered in cloth now, and hiding their hands. Old power versus nervous energy.

He accepted the name. Yoite wondered if it was anything crucial. He hadn't asked for a family one, so he assumed not, but the contract --

It sounded easy. That's why it made him wary. Obvious truths were the most dangerous ones, and he already knew well enough in their short time together that Crowley wasn't a man of... honorable means? No. Yoite didn't doubt he'd keep to his terms. And if he didn't anyway, they'd certainly have to see to that later. But Yoite didn't trust him. That wasn't saying much. Yoite didn't trust anybody. But it was his eyes. Unbothered, simple, brown. Hollow. There was nothing behind those eyes, just like that deep and roiling black ki that frothed beneath his human exterior.

"You're going to erase me from existence," Yoite says after a moment's pause, and for once, his voice is very even. He sounds more sure of what he wants here than he does of his own name. "This isn't so simple as a death. I want there to be no more Yoite. I want there to have never been a Yoite. I want there to be no trace of me, throughout history, throughout existence, memories, thoughts. It's like pressing that key on the computer when you've made a mistake. 'Delete'."

He carefully and clinically churns over his words to decide if they're thorough enough, if he's covered all of his bases. Loopholes always exist, and he doesn't want to leave any for Crowley to... take advantage of. "I'm assuming if I die before then, it renders the contract void."

And with an equally careful frown, as thoughtfully sculpted as his words, he stares Crowley down, a bit more heatedly before. "Now you'll tell me what that's worth to you, and also what happens to either of us if a contract is rendered null and void."

It sounded easy, and anyone logical would be wary. Still, Crowley didn't deal to people who were content with their lives, and for good reason. There were times when a whisper here, or a pretty face there, were necessary to bring in the clientele and tempt them into something shady, but no one happy made deals with demons. They were all fragmented in some way, greedy, proud, angry, lustful, envious, gluttonous, or too lazy (or insecure) to make their own way. A successful salesdemon was like a successful predator - they picked the sickly straggler off of the herd. Crowley knew what he had was a near sure thing. Not only had he humiliated Yoite, but the other had allowed him to and invited Crowley into his home afterward. He was just waiting on someone to come and take advantage of him.

And aside from the desperate, there was always those that fancied themselves sly enough to escape paying up, or else thought they could gamble with a demon.

The demon was silent as the ninja named his terms, eyelids lowering subtly with thought.

"Twisting time and changing destiny aren't easy. I've met Fate a few times - she's a real bitch. I can make it work, though. In exchange, you'll spend five years in my employment. You'll do what I tell you and you'll come when you're called, no matter what. After that's up, I'll put you out of your misery and fulfill my end of the bargain," His eyes opened fully again, locking onto the paler pair. The humor faded right out of his face, and he continued, "And your soul will come to me. If you ever fail to follow my command, I am within my right to sever our contract. Nothing will happen from the contract breaking, but your soul will still be forfeit to me whenever you die, and I will no longer have to uphold my end of the bargain. But you'd be interested in what might happen to me, I'm guessing, should I fail to do as I agree," The tiniest quirk of his lips. "Unless I'm killed, I'm bound to meet the terms of the contract, on several different levels. You can choose to end the arrangement or break it by failing fantastically, but once I seal the deal, I'm incapable of backing out of it. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly human. I get rules where you get limitations. And besides, I've got standards and a self-image to uphold. It's very simple in the end - you do right by me, and I'll make sure you're well taken care of."

Well -- well, hang on.

Yoite's eyebrows slowly furrow more and more as Crowley speaks, a lot of this sounding a lot less glamorous than he was hoping for. Had this place bought him the time he needed to get what he needed done? Perhaps. Five years? He'd be in his twenties by the time he was done. Assuming he lived. No, that was the part he was most uncomfortable with. He's clearly perturbed, but he doesn't betray it much more than a minute and jerky shake of his head.

"One year," he tries instead (flatly, pointedly) and even that seems a life time, but it's not five. "What if I die working for you? What happens to my soul, do you still get it? You could just push me out an airlock tomorrow. Or I could die on the job. It's dangerous." You're dangerous.

This wasn't at all like what Hattori had done, how smoothly he'd coerced a scared and scarred little thing out of its hidey hole and twirled it about, made it feel special for a little while and got what he wanted out of something that wasn't necessarily going to happen. He didn't trust Crowley. That would be a mistake. But he did trust that Crowley was going to do what he was supposed to. That much he thought. But Crowley wasn't human. Not fully. So he wouldn't act like a human.

Not fully.

It's something to swallow, that's for sure. But Yoite doesn't question the fact that he has a soul at all, which is interesting in a way. Even though the boy (the thing) saw himself as such a terrible blight upon his timeline, and must have considered himself gruesome (allowing himself to decay, signs of neglect, and the way he covered himself up with fear, not modesty), he still thought he had a soul. Or did he only think so because Crowley said he'd be taking it?

A brow arched at the counter-offer. The demon wasn't surprised, just amused. But it's the question he addresses first.

"Shoving you out of the airlock would benefit you more than me," He points out, "You're more useful to me alive than dead. Believe me - your soul's not really quality condition. But if you do die before time is up, well, you've not fulfilled your end, have you? Your soul comes to me. So try to avoid that, hm? Of course it's dangerous, moron! Picking daisies and baking cookies is hardly a fair trade for altering the bloody universe. You've got to earn this."

And Crowley couldn't technically kill the other while he had the contract on anyway. He could have Yoite set up to be killed (as that recent little snot in his employ had tried to - Crowley sort of missed him; he was a wonderful volunteer for showing what happened to fucking idiots who couldn't be damned to find a loophole in the contract itself), but that wasn't much his style. That wasn't the gamble he was going to make.

"You don't think you're the only one I'll ever make a deal with here, do you? If I were to kill you before your contract ended, that'd be rather bad for business."

One year. Hm.

"I can do three years at the very least. I know you're rearing to go, darling, but let's not be so selfish. I'm not running a charity."

"No," Yoite shoots back, and his voice is very uncharacteristically loud for a moment. It's usually something a bit ethereal, wavering on the edge of a tickle in his throat. It's something weak, quiet, not wanting to be heard, but it carries a bit of an edge, like he doesn't say something unless he means it. He steps forward from his wall fortress, just one step, and his fingers flex at his sides, but nothing more. "It doesn't benefit me. Because I don't want to die. Dying isn't going to help anything."

He hadn't known how long it was going to take to get the kinjutsushos back home. He hadn't known how long it was going to take for Miharu to read them, to understand them, and, at the end of it, if any of it would even work. The Shinrabanshou was such a wild card, but back then he'd only had two months to live. He was erratic, and desperate. He'd have done anything for a chance to get things sealed off tight before he crumbled.

Here he's tested things, and here he's got a bit of a benefit on his hands: Time. It's a whole new and terrifying factor. Crowley is another whole new and terrifying factor. Both are unknown, and both are things he plans to study and use to his advantage as best he can with what he's been given. Which admittedly hasn't been much. "Forty months," he tacks on a bit more to his sentence, cringing violently but only emotionally at the thought, "and I'll hold my own but you'll keep me alive to serve for all of them with me."

But of course he has a soul, a lifeforce. There's a depleted one there, at least, weary, chunks missing. It can't be anything spectacular to look at, but it's a soul. His ki. They were all sort of the same concept, different perspectives. Yoite's fingers flex again, this time more anxiously than agitated. His voice has dipped back down again, into something far more wary and soft than what he'd been employing before. He shifts almost seamlessly between this cold and unflinching exterior to something more like a wounded animal, it's remarkable.

"What do you do with the souls?"

Crowley doesn't even try to stop the bark of laughter that jolts out of him at this new negotiation. Truly, the upswing of Yoite's voice had been bad enough, like a kitten trying to stress a point. This one was feisty, wasn't he?

"So you'd like me to change history and babysit you? I'm finding difficulty seeing where MY benefit in this would be," Crowley took one step forward in kind, toward Yoite, but the motion was much less hesitant. Then he took another. His grin was patronizing, to say the very least. "I need a burden like you need two sets of tits. You'll give me three years and you'll bloody well look after yourself, on top of taking care of whatever I tell you to do. If you don't think you can manage it, well, there's plenty of shoulders you can go cry and wipe your snotty nose on, I'm sure. I was under the impression you wanted a real result, and nothing comes without its price. I thought you might have figured that out when you decided having a special snowflake ability was more important than a little gangrene once in a while. My mistake, I suppose."

He stood still again, a few feet closer to Yoite now and his scent that much stronger.

"Three years. You have to survive and serve three years. If that's too great a risk for you, maybe you ought to consider therapy instead. Or a lobotomy."

He's getting too close again. He's still a pace or two away but Yoite's getting same, uncomfortable feeling like he got in the bathroom, that prickly sensation running up his spine like a rabbit gets before it's about to become something's dinner. Crowley approaches and Yoite doesn't budge, even lifts his chin a little defiantly as he speaks. He's lucky Crowley can't see the line of his throat under that jacket, the small and nervous little swallow around the cotton ball.

It's a steep price, that's palpable. Troubling. Three years. He'd be nineteen. Compared to the four to six months he'd negotiated with Hattori, it was ages. Compared to the fourteen he'd spent in his veritable cage, it was the blink of an eye. But he could do it. Yoite was sure he could do it. And nobody else on the ship had anything to offer but debates and chastising. He was sick of it.

And there was nothing stopping him from keeping an eye out for other methods in the meantime. Erasure. No Yoite, no deal, after all.

His eyes bat again, but his stature slumps in the slightest. Relieved? It's certainly something. "Fine," is all he offers, one word as he lowers his chin a bit.

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