figure my heart out / joining

[Luca]

[div style="margin: 0 auto; border-width:0; width: 70%; text-align: justify; line-height: 1.5; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"]Perhaps at one point, Luca may have been considered a captive as well. More like a mouse than a bird; small and timid, picked off the dirty industrial streets by the teeth of something much larger than himself. There was no steel to cage him, nor were there any collars or chains, but he was still a captive in his own right. If he were to leave, surely he would die. He was told that enough times for it to settle firmly into his mind. He would never survive alone on the streets, living among the sinful and the desperate. It was much better in the factory, where he was only hurt if he slacked off or disobeyed. The coal dust that accumulated in his lungs and the scars that appeared one by one along his spine were only a small price to pay. Anything was better than dying cold and alone.

After time, though, he began to doubt that philosophy. Sometimes the beatings were too much, and he would lay there on the cold stone ground and think so hard about pulling himself up and running. But then the prophet would come in and hold him close to his chest. He'd tell him that he was clean now, and he'd brush his paws gently over the thick fur of Luca's back. 'Maybe this isn't so bad,' he would think as he drifted off into an exhausted slumber, and by the time he woke up he would have forgotten all about his desire to run away and live among the homeless. It was too cold to run in the Winter snow anyway. Next Spring. Next Spring. Next Spring.

But next Spring became next Summer, and the cycle repeated. He always had an excuse, something he told himself in an attempt to hide from the fact that he was afraid. 'My legs are too hurt', 'my cough is worse today', 'the Prophet was so nice to me earlier'. Anything except admitting his cowardice. He didn't want to die, not really, and he didn't want his only father figure to be mad at him either. Thing were always so much worse when the Prophet was angry. Besides, there was a beauty in the way things worked around the factory. Over time he came to appreciate the efficiency, the praise, the red.

Ruby flakes cling to his claws now as he makes his way towards the gates, although he doesn't seem to pay them much mind. Left over from a meal perhaps, or maybe something a tad more malicious. It's hard for him to remember, sometimes. He'd found the entrance to the Typhoon rather boring when he had joined himself, although now there seems to be something happening there to draw everyone's attention. His thick tail drags behind him in the sand as he walks, coming up beside Goldie at a leisurely pace. He doesn't give Skeleton Key anything more than a sideways glance. Their first encounter was all it took to dispel any predatory interest Luca had taken in the hybrid. Too rotten, already dead. He only chases after fresh prey.

Fresh, like the new face he can spy in the sand before him. Luca's eyes fall on those of the beaten angel, and for a moment he isn't all too sure how to react. His hackles show the faintest hint of rising, pupils dilating for a reason he can't place his paw on. Those tear-filled eyes captivate him, and for a moment they almost seem to stop him from fixating on those gruesome wounds. But almost isn't quite good enough, and Luca soon finds his eyes drawn to the blood blooming beneath the angel's skin, decorating it in delicate shades of purple and magenta. The scars, the way he holds himself, the smell of fear. All of it is almost too familiar, and his head and heart ache in unison as he struggles to place the identity of this perfect sight. Perhaps he stares for a bit too long, observing the connection of feathers to flesh, tracing every line of this pretty dove's body. He knows he's indulging too much when his mouth begins to water.

He coughs a little, smoke freeing itself from the insides of his lungs, and straightens his back. Junji, he hears Goldenluxury say, and somehow that name feels just right. "Jun... ji," he murmurs as he glances as the bengal next to him, tasting the word on his heavy tongue. It's sweet, clashing with the sour ash that clings to his teeth. He bites his lip and a muffled grunt catches in the back of his throat. Angels were always alluring, but there's something decidedly different about this one. "I'm Luca," He says as he returns his sight to the one before him. His voice is quiet as he speaks, although it catches a bit on the rough edges of his maw, exiting as more serrated than he intends. A single thought hammers in his head like a painful heartbeat, clouding his vision with a haze and causing his lips to fall apart for a shaky exhale.

I need you to be mine.