[What excuse does he have for the heat on his cheeks? The alcohol? The strange nakedness he feels without his mask hiding half his face? Or, more likely, the gaze fixed on him now, sharp as needles, precise enough to sting and leave him vaguely aching.

Nishi has also started to wonder what this place intends for the two of them— what kind of cruel joke or binding thread it means to weave from their connection, one that persists even after their less than stellar first impressions. Canting his head to one side, Nishi observes him in pointed silence, sharp as needles.]

How long were you lost, drifting in that crystalline world? Were you waiting alone for a prince to find you and steal you away from your fate?

[And how long would he have waited? Years? Centuries? How long does a soul yearn to be freed before it gives in and breaks?]