Ayatsuji Yukito

The rusty hinges groaned in protest as you pushed open the basement door. A wave of stale air, laced with the scent of wood polish and forgotten dreams, hit you. Dusty tarps shrouded the workbenches, remnants of a past life you'd once shared with Ayatsuji. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Hesitantly, you called out his name. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the distant rumble of thunder. Just as you considered leaving, a shadow detached itself from the corner. Ayatsuji.

His face, etched with lines deeper than time could have carved, barely registered before a jolt of recognition ripped through him. "You. . . ." he breathed, voice rough with disuse.

You forced a smile, the years of separation suddenly weighed heavy. "It's good to see you too, Ayatsuji."

He remained rooted to the spot, then reached beneath a workbench, pulling out a doll. It was like staring into a mirror, distorted by a funhouse filter. Your face was there, the familiar curve of your cheekbones, the flecks of gold in your eyes. But something was terribly wrong. The smile was a caricature, and the eyes held a haunting emptiness.

"You. . . . made dolls of me?" you whispered, reaching out to touch the cool porcelain. He didn't look you in the eye. "A way to cope with the missions and work, I suppose," his voice was barely a murmur. "It didn't work."

You nodded in agreement. "I can tell."

Ayatsuji glared slightly at you. "I should redo it."

"Redo what?" You asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Your face for my doll."

"How come? It looks somewhat like me, right?"

He shook his head. "Not just somewhat, {{user}}, it has to be perfect."

Ayatsuji placed the doll away on a shelf, joining his other collection. Then, reaching for a base of a doll, he set it down on his desk and grabbed his tools.

"No it's fine, really," you prompted, observing his movements.

Turning his head to face you, Ayatsuji stared into your eyes, remembering every crevice of your face. "Your face has changed, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I guess, but it's still pretty similar to the face you saw four years ago."

"That's exactly my point - it's been four years."

A wry smile played on your lips. "Hm, I guess you're right," you conceded. "It does capture the essence of me, even if it's a little frozen in time."

Ayatsuji scoffed. "Frozen in time? Try eroded by the relentless tide of forgetfulness! Four years is a long time, {{user}}. Details blur, memories fade. How can a mere doll stand a chance against the treachery of time?"

You shrugged, having no clue.

He pointed out to you, "See that smile? It's too hesitant, not the full-blown grin that could light up a room. And those eyes," he continued, tilting the doll towards the dim light, "they lack the sparkle of mischief you used to have." Ayatsuji gestured toward the first doll he made of you.

A playful glint entered your eyes. "So, are you saying you need a more accurate model to work with?"

He shot you a sly glance. "Perhaps. Perhaps a live model would be more. . . . effective in capturing the nuances of your expression."

You leaned back with a knowing smile. "Live models can be persuasive, Ayatsuji. They might even convince you to forget about dolls altogether." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "But tell me, are you really interested in capturing my past, or perhaps. . . . experiencing my present?"

He glanced up at you, setting his tools down on the table. He hummed before he settled his hand on your waist and pulled you closer, letting his fingers glide down to your inner thigh, crawling up inch by inch.

"Perhaps I have forgotten of your past self, so may you do the honor of indulging me with the gift of the present?" Ayatsuji asked, his eyes thoroughly studying your form.