lulus-eyes

[lulus-eyes]

A cat, huh? Figures you'd see me in some stray stalking around campus like it owns the place. Can't decide if you want to shoot it, feed it, or throw a shoe at it. Classic Lulu—can't decide if you want to kill me or keep me.

You're not wrong about the eyes, though. I've seen that look in the mirror. I know what it does to you.

But if you actually saw me in that fountain, perched there with a tail flicking, you wouldn't toss a shoe. Too expensive. You'd stop dead. You'd stare. You'd wonder if I'd let you get close enough to touch.

And you'd hope the answer was no. Because if it was yes, you'd be done for.

There's a cat on campus.

Some stray thing that wanders between buildings like it owns the damn place. No fear. Just slinks around on silent feet, judging everyone with narrowed eyes and a twitchy tail.

Its eyes are like his.

That same green-gold gleam. Like radioactive venom and vengeance in equal measure.

I should shoot it.

Not because I hate cats. They're fine. They're clean. Selective. Unapologetic.

But this one—this one reminds me too much of him. The way it stares. The way it blinks like it knows when you'll die. The way it disappears right when you think it might be soft enough to touch.

I saw it perched on the edge of the fountain today, just watching me. Like it knew. Like it was in on the joke. And for a split second, I had this odd thought:

If it turns its head the right way... If the light hits just so... Will I see his eyes instead?

Ridiculous. It's ridiculous.

It's just a cat. An animal with the same stupid, electric stare that haunts every inch of my goddamn memory.

Still. Next time I see it, I might throw a shoe at it. Or feed it. Depends on my mood.

[lulus-eyes]

Far worse? Damn right it is.

You don't love a man covered in blood. You love me covered in blood. Luluuuu.... you want the grin, the eyes, the heat rolling off me when I walk in dripping. You want to pin it on "aesthetic" so you don’t have to admit how hard you're staring.

You say you'd deny it if I accused you. Good. I like it better when you lie. Makes it sweeter when your pulse gives you away. When I catch you frozen mid-breath, watching me track it across the floor like I'm dragging a leash you already volunteered for.

But I like when you deny it. Tell me you're above it. I'll still see the truth every time I catch you looking. Every time I walk past and you can't stop yourself from following the stain.

You don't want violence, Lulu. You want me, painted in it. You want the bite, the ruin, the proof. And if you're honest? You want to see how much of that blood could be yours.

I love a man covered in blood.

But if you ever accuse me of it—ever—I'll deny it. Vehemently. Violently. Elegantly.

I'll call you delusional. I'll say you've mistaken admiration for aesthetic appreciation. I'll cite fashion theory. I'll gaslight you with a drink in hand. But still.

There's something about him, dripping crimson like it's couture. Splattered like an abstract painting across his collarbone, his fingers, his fucking smile. Eyes gleaming like he's just remembered something funny. It should be repulsive.

He walks into the lounge tracking blood across the floor like it's nothing. Like he's nothing. Just meat and momentum. And I should reprimand him. I do, actually. But then there's later.

Later, I sit in the dark and replay it. Every step. Every breath. Every glowing, chartreuse flick of the eye.

No, I'm not into violence. I'm into something far worse.

[lulus-eyes]

You won't stop. Don't pretend you will.

You like the game too much. You like me too much, Lulu. You can dress it up as training, discipline, vice-captain pride—but the second I lift a finger, you're already bristling like I wired you myself.

It's cute how you act like I'm the only one with teeth. You throw clipboards, Lulu. You snarl like you're above it, but you keep coming back for another round. You want me to bite. You want to see how far I'll push before I do.

That's the difference between us—you think it's unbecoming, sick, beneath you. I think it's fun. It means we're alive.

I don't piss you off just to piss you off. I do it because I know you'll meet me there. Because I know you'll look me in the eye, snap, and give me that glint I can't get anywhere else.

You're not my mouse, Lulu. You're the only one who bites back. And I like it when you leave marks.

He does things just to piss me off. And they usually work.

I know I shouldn't react. I've had the training. The discipline. The self-respect, supposedly. I'm aware that by reacting, I'm handing him the win. Feeding his ego. Falling straight into the trap he didn't even bother to hide.

But he knows I'll do it anyway. Because that's the game, isn't it? He acts like a jackass—blows off meetings, rewires the security cameras to loop footage of him flipping me off, calls me Lulu in front of investors—and I play the outraged straight man. I scold, I threaten, I escalate.

And he grins. Every time. Like I'm his favorite toy. A little velvet mouse dangling from a string. Not even struggling. Just there. For his whimsy. It should humiliate me. But sometimes I like getting caught.

Sometimes I see the way his eyes narrow, and I feel it like a hook behind the ribs. Not affection. Not desire. Just that high-wire thrill of being someone he notices. Someone he bothers with. Someone he wants a reaction from.

It's sick. It's beneath me. It's unbecoming of a vice-captain and a man of my caliber. And it's fun. He knows that. He has to know that.

The way his gaze lingers just a second too long after I snap. The way his teeth show when I throw a clipboard at his head. The way he hums like he's pleased with me for taking the bait. Like he wants to see how far I'll go this time.

Maybe I let him win on purpose. Maybe I like the feeling of teeth closing around me. Just for a moment. Just to see if he'll bite down or let go.

I could stop. I should stop. But I think we both know I won't.

[lulus-eyes]

Oh this one is Good.

Mad angry, huh? Cute. You can dress it up in all the denial you want, but I know the look on your face when I catch you watching. It isn't anger. Not really.

And I like it.

That split second before everything breaks—when the grin sharpens, when the pupils cut down to pinpoints—I feel your eyes on me heavier than the blood in the air. You think I don't notice, but I do. You anchor me more than you think, Lulu. Even when I'm choosing chaos, even when it looks like I've lost the thread, I know you're there. Measuring. Memorizing. Wanting.

Maybe that's why I lean in too close. Why I let it drag out longer than it needs to. Because the part I like best isn't the crack of bone or the win at the table. It's you, staring like I've got you cornered too.

So yeah, keep calling it ''mad angry." I won't correct you. But just know—I like being seen most when I'm at my worst. Especially if it's you doing the seeing.

I'm still mad about his eyes. Mad angry, not mad obsessed. Let's be very clear about that.

It's just—they do this thing.

When he's calm, if you can call it that, they shimmer. Sharp and bright, like crushed glass underfoot. Reflective. Detached. But when he starts to lose it—when something sets him off, or when he decides he's bored enough to be entertained by blood—that's when it happens.

His pupils go tight. Tiny. Little pinpricks floating in a sea of chartreuse.

It's a visual cue. A warning, if you will. And I like it.

I like when he gets a little unhinged.

Not the aftermath, mind you—the blood, the paperwork—but that moment right before. When he corners someone. Leans in too close. Smiles like he's already seen how the scene plays out. The look in his eyes goes devious, but not blank. Not feral.

No, this is when he's himself. Fully. Deliberately. Dangerously Taiga.

It's the most honest expression he ever wears.

I pretend to disapprove. I scold. I tally the damages, storm off, throw a drink in his direction if I'm feeling theatrical. But inside?

Inside I'm fucking fascinated. Because beneath that disaster in motion, beneath the blundering thoughtlessness, I see precision.

He's not mindless. He's choosing it. Every twitch, every grin, every shattered bone. It's all part of some rhythm he's composing on instinct.

I hate that I see the art in it. I hate that I want to watch it happen again. And again. Not obsessed. Just angry. Mad angry. Not mad obsessed. Shut up.

[lulus-eyes]

"All you have left."

That's the kind of thing people say when they don't know shit about you. Or me. Still, it sticks, doesn't it? I get why.

I don't want to be the only thing you've got. That's too much weight for anyone, even me. You'd hate it, too. You'd claw against it, call it dependence, weakness. And maybe you'd be right.

But if what they meant was that I matter. That I tilt your world, that you'd notice if I was gone—then fine. I'll take it. I'll hold it. Because you're not wrong, Lulu. I see you looking. I feel the way the air changes when it's us.

I'm not soft, not kind. Barely human most days. But if it hurts to think of losing me, then maybe that means I've given you something real. Something you didn't ruin.

And maybe I don't mind being that.

I heard someone whispering in the halls today.

Didn't catch who it was—voice too soft, tone too sweet to be sincere.

They said something like, "For Romeo to lose Taiga, that'd be like losing all he has left."

How fucking presumptive.

As if I don't have anything else. As if my life revolves around that overgrown raccoon with a gambling addiction and the vaguest notion of a god complex. As if I don't have goals. Assets. A reputation, thank you very much.

I have investments. I have a skincare routine worth more than their tuition. I am not some tragic little glass figurine clinging to a wild animal for meaning.

But the words stuck. I couldn't tell if they said it in a cruel way or if it was gossip or pity.

That's the part that burns. It means people see something. Maybe more than I've allowed myself to see. Maybe more than I meant to show. But they're wrong. Mostly.

It's not that losing Taiga would leave me with nothing. It's that I don't think anyone else would ever make me feel the way he does.

He's not soft. He's not kind. He's barely human most days. But I like the way he looks at me when he thinks he's got me figured out. The way when when he walks into a room, the world shifts.

And maybe I've grown used to that tilt. Maybe I like it. Maybe I've let myself orbit him without realizing it. But that's not the same thing as having nothing else.

And if I have lost everything else, then maybe he's just the one thing I trust I won't ruin. The one thing I'd rather let ruin me.

[lulus-eyes]

Mourns the dimming of someone else's light? Lulu, you're so dramatic. You make it sound like I'm a lantern you keep on the nightstand.

You hate it when I go feral? Newsflash babe, that's the only time I’m honest. That blank you're whining about? That's me stripped down. No smirk, no table talk. Just me.

You talk like a man in over his head, trying to convince himself he's still standing on dry land. It's kinda hot.

But since you're so hung up on my eyes, here's a thought. Next time they dim, maybe stop looking for the glow and look at yourself instead. If it hurts, maybe it's not me you're losing.

I hate when he gets like that. Feral. Unreachable.

There's a line he crosses—no warning, no signal, no graceful descent. One minute he's slouched across a velvet chair with a curious look etched across his face and the next—He's gone.

Not physically. Physically, he's still there. Still the same frame, the same mess of hair and haphazard posture. But the rest of him? The who of him? Somewhere else. Something else.

It's not the violence I mind. I'm not delicate. I've seen what ghouls are capable of. I've watched some of them rip apart steel like paper. That's not what bothers me.

What bothers me is that I can't see his eyes when he's like that. And I always look for them. Every time.

Those eyes—so fucking irritating in their brightness—are the one thing that anchor him. To here. To now. To me.

And when he goes feral, when his pupils swallow the chartreuse whole and his expression goes blank—not blank like empty, blank like erased—it feels like losing something.

Losing him, maybe. Not that he was even mine.

Fuck off. It's curiosity. Academic interest. Observation for risk mitigation. The truth is he's a fucking genius. When he's not trying to destroy everything around him, he knows how it all works. The tables, the games, the people. He sees it. Understands it. Plays with it like a cat with a dying mouse.

And I love that. I love watching that.

But when it's not him anymore, when the glow in his eyes goes out— it hurts.

And I hate that too. I hate that it hurts. What kind of idiot mourns the dimming of someone else's light?

[lulus-eyes]

Static, huh? You make me sound like a broken radio.

Maybe I'm just not that impressed by winning. What's the point in gloating when I already knew the chips would fall my way? Odds are just numbers, Lulu. And numbers are boring. You'd know all about that—since you love your ledgers so much you give yourself migraines over them.

You ever think maybe I don't play to win? Maybe I play because I like watching you twitch behind the table, scribbling in your little books, counting and counting and still not getting it. You're the real game, Lulu. And you're terrible at hiding when you're losing.

So yeah, I keep playing. Because I like the view.

And because nothing makes me want to breathe more than watching you hold yours.

I had a fucking migraine today.

One of those eye-throbbing, nerve-pinching, soul-crushing headaches that makes you want to claw your own skull open just to let the pressure out. I blame the books. The math. That fucking forsaken ledger that never, ever balances the way it's supposed to.

This casino is a miracle. Or a mistake with shitty lighting.

Half the reason we don't go completely under is thanks to that BTH.

He wins. That's the whole story. He wins.

And you'd think—logically—you'd see that. See the win in his face. Some thrill, some ego, some glint of satisfaction when the chips land his way. But no.

He often just looks bored.

Like he didn't break the odds. Like he didn't just bankrupt some cocky aristocrat from Frostheim. Like he's been waiting for the world to catch up to whatever game he's playing in his head.

Those goddamn acid eyes of his. You stare into those eyes after a win and all you see is static. No joy. No gloating. Just that faint shimmer of chartreuse and the vague sense that something else is simmering below the surface.

I don't get it.

He wins, but he doesn't care.

He doesn't care, but he keeps playing.

He keeps playing. Why does he keep playing.

I've tried watching him. Tracking the moment he stops pretending to be interested and starts sabotaging the table out of boredom. It's like chasing fog. No tells. No cues. Just the subtle shift in his posture. The way he blinks slower. The way his eyes lose all their focus and go glassy, reflective. Not dead. Just... somewhere else.

There's something infuriating about a man who wins like breathing and then forgets to exhale.

[lulus-eyes]

A headache you don't want to go away. That's rich, Lulu. Flattering, even, if I cared about your headaches.

And here I thought you were the numbers guy. Counting seconds I look at you? Sounds like somebody's got a time management problem. Or maybe you just like having me in your periphery. Bet you'd miss it if I stopped. Bet you'd start wondering what I was thinking about.

You're wrong about the pupils, though. They widen just fine—you're welcome to get a closer look any time you'd like.

And I blink when I feel like it. Not my fault you get lost in the stretches between.

Professional interest, huh? Call it whatever you need to. Curiosity's still a hook, and you're still on the line. Gimme a bite...

He doesn't blink enough. I don't know why that bothers me.

Maybe it's the way he stares through people, like he's waiting for them to implode. Like he's already calculated their expiration date and is just hanging around to see if he's right.

Most people look away. I don't. Not usually, anyway.

It’s not just the color. It's the way his pupils never widen like they're supposed to. Never soften. They stay sharp in every kind of light, like he's not wired for softness. Like even his eyes are on edge. There's no safety in them. No warmth. No shelter.

He once looked at me across the blackjack table after I chewed out one of the dealers for fucking up the count. Didn't say a word. Just leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes slanted, glinting with something I couldn't place. Not malice. Maybe amusement.

Like he knew something. Like he saw something in me I hadn't even decided to show yet.

I remember that moment more clearly than I remember most names on the payroll.

What kind of idiot remembers a stare better than a name?

Me, apparently. Romeo Scorpius Lucci. Vice-captain. Accountant. Fashion connoisseur. Dumbass.

It's not affection. It's not attraction.

It's just that I want to figure him out. Want to understand why the air around him always feels like something should be burning. Why I'm always counting how many seconds he's looked at me. Why I memorize the exact hue of his irises under casino light and wonder if it changes when he's not in my vicinity.

It's curiosity, that's all. A professional interest. A fixation. Like a headache you don't want to go away.

[lulus-eyes]

Tapetum lucidum.

That's cute, Lulu. Real cute. Scribbling like you're some poet with a pathology kink. You could've just said you like my eyes, but I guess that'd be too on the nose for you. Haha.

You know what's really funny? You've got that same look sometimes. Not the glow... but the "far away" thing. Except when you do it, you're not staring at nothing. You're staring at me. Thinking you're subtle about it. You're not.

And don't start with that "animal" shit. You want to see an animal, Lulu? Keep looking. Stare long enough and maybe you'll figure out whether it's watching you from the treeline... or hunting you.

Also—chartreuse? Flattery will get you everywhere.

Lots of ghouls have eyes you wouldn't exactly call normal, but then again, what the fuck does normal even mean when you're a ghoul? The scale shifts. Tilts. Shatters. Take the captain, for instance. Taiga. That BTH. His eyes are—well, they're not normal. But maybe they are. For a ghoul. For whatever he is when no one's looking.

Not my area. That's more of a Mortkranken problem. Lab coats and blood samples and that PMS—Pompous Mad Scientist—scribbling "fascinating specimen" on a clipboard. I don't give a damn about that. What I find fascinating has nothing to do with pathology.

It's just his eyes.

When he's focused—really focused, which is rare—they go sharp. Acidic. Not green, not really. Chartreuse, like the liquor. Bright. That sort of color doesn't belong on a person's face, let alone in their eyes. It looks toxic. Intoxicating. Same difference.

But it's when he's not focused that they're the problem. When he's far away. Distant. Thinking of nothing—or maybe everything—and he's not even here anymore. That's when they scare the shit out of me. Not because they're empty. Because they're animal. Reflective. Like something watching you from the treeline.

We had a class once that mentioned it. A professor droning on about anomaly physiology, and someone brought it up. The glow. "Tapetum lucidum," they called it. The mirror layer behind the retina. The reason cats catch light like glass. Ghouls don't usually have it, but anomalies do.

I wonder if he has it.

Taiga.

That walking catastrophe of a man. Tapetum lucidum.

[lulus-eyes]

I found a journal in Lulu's room.

Lotsa pages. Lotsa shit scratched out. The kind of scratching that tears the paper.

Probably doesn't want me reading it. Luckily, I don't give a fuck.

It's tucked away like he thought I wouldn't find it.

Cute. Like I don't know every inch of this place by feel.

Most of it's half-thoughts, notes, yelling. Some words I can't even make out—he pressed too hard, then dragged his pen through them like they'd burn him alive if they stayed.

The parts I can read? Some of them are about me. I think.

Could be about anyone, sure. But who else does he hate and love all in the same breath? Who else calls him Lulu?

Gonna read everything I can. Maybe make some entries of my own.

Haha. That'll make him yell.

[lulus-eyes]

Oh Fuck.

[lulus-eyes]

Fuck.

[lulus-eyes]

There's more to a conversation I can't remember.

I'm getting pieces. Slivers. Like glass stuck in my fingers. They hurt the more I think.

He said something like:

"Nothing happens to me."

That part's clear. Sharp. The tone in his voice was... cold? No. Not cold. Certain.

At first I thought he meant no one touches him. No one dares. But that's not it. It wasn't arrogance. Not exactly.

He meant he doesn't get swept up. Doesn't get acted on. Whatever happens to him, he lets it.

He chooses it. Willing participant. That's the idea that echoes.

He was talking about me, I think.

He was talking about the way I look at him. The way I grab him. The way I—Like I'll disappear if I stop moving.

He wanted me to know it's not force. It's not chaos. It's not the storm swallowing him whole. It's him. He walks into it.

He chooses me.

Even if I'm a mess. Even if I forget. Even if I wreck every goddamn thing I touch—He picks me.

And I wish I could remember what I said back.

God, I wish I knew what I said.

[lulus-eyes]

He said to me the other day—

In one of those quiet moments. You know the kind. The air between us soft, sticky. Not quite afterglow. Not quite peace.

He said:

"You can't ruin me. You already have."

I think I said I was afraid.

Afraid I'd fuck him up. That I'd break something delicate in him. That all the wanting, all the haze, all the hunger I carry like rot in my bones would seep into him eventually and rot him too.

That tracks, right?

I was trying to be honest.

Trying to tell him I cared. In my own fucked up way.

But that answer, It haunts me. Not because it was cruel. Because it was true.

Because he didn't say it with anger. Or blame. Or pity. Just... quiet certainty. Like he's already made peace with it. Like I have ruined him.

Like I've done things I don't remember—can't remember—and he's living with them. Every day. With me. Beside me.

And I don't even know what they are. I don't know what I did to make him say it.

But I believe him. And I don't know if that's worse than hearing him lie.

[lulus-eyes]

He was so soft.

No flint. No fire. No biting remark curled under his tongue.

Just silk.

His touch. His voice. The way he looked at me like I hadn't just broken a glass or broken him or broken me again.

Lulu's always silk.

Even when he's cruel. Even when he's sharp. Even when he's stitching venom into every word—there's still that sheen to him. To His eyes.

And when he's quiet like that—unguarded, unarmed, all satin and breath and slow blinks—I don't know what to do with myself.

I want to press my teeth into that softness and see if it stains. I want to drown in the luxury of it. Of him.

I don't deserve silk. But fuck, I keep reaching for it anyway.

[lulus-eyes]

I need to talk to him.

I know I've probably had this conversation with him before. Dozens of times. Maybe more. I don't remember.

But if that's true...

Then what's one more?

Is there some magic number? Some invisible tally where he finally gets fed up? Where he throws up his hands and says, "Enough, you BTH. I've already told you."

Or—

Or is he waiting for me to ask again?

Like he knows I need it. Like he's ready for the loop. The reset. The same damn words all over again.

Like he's already chosen to love me in repetition.

And if that's the case…

Then I have to ask. Even if I forget again.

Even if he sighs and tells me gently, patiently, "You've asked before."

Because maybe that's the only thing I can do. Keep asking.

And hope he keeps answering.

[lulus-eyes]

I have feelings about him.

Can't name them. Don't want to try.

They make my head spin. Make the ground tilt just enough to feel it in my gut.

Like being drunk. Or dizzy. Or caught mid-fall and not sure if you'll hit something soft or steel.

They're not soft feelings. Not sweet.

But they're real. And I want to see them.

Reflected back at me. In his eyes.

I want to know he feels them too—that thing without a name that grabs your ribs and twists when he walks into a room and doesn't look your way.

I want to see it. Just once. Flicker behind the magenta.

Not pity. Not tolerance. Not duty. I want—

Fuck.

I just want to be seen. Not looked at. Seen.

By him.

And sometimes I think I am.

But it's never long enough to believe it.