More curves, more blood. His knife floats like poetry, from one slicing verse to the next. It's all rhythm and weight. It's the most beautiful thing Tseng has ever see.

He bows his head to lap the blood from his skin in long, lavishing licks. The taste of it is heady, potent, powerful. His whole mouth tingles in the aftermath. He feels drunk on it.

He hears his name, and his gaze drifts back to Rufus. Little droplets of red have clung to his lashes like dew, obscuring his vision. His entire face is painted with it. It gives him the strength to try something he's never done before.

"Rufus," he says, in a low whisper. The volume builds as he cuts deeper. "Rufus," becomes a chant, loving and condemning, despairing and deep within the throes of this twisted ecstasy. A sliver of flesh slides loose, hanging off the edge of his blade; he places it upon his tongue like a pill and leans over Rufus, thrusting it into his mouth.