The worst part of it is that he can feel it, spurting hot and thick deep into his body. It's more than what he's used to, at least coming from one person -- but Irvin isn't a person. Irvin's an animal.

"No, no, no," he whines, barely able to carry both Irvin's and his own weight. His arms and legs are unsteady, muscle twitches showing just how worn out he is. Head hanging low in defeat, he involuntarily makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. He's hard and Irvin's moving just enough to keep it that way without bringing any relief.

And yet Shinjirou does nothing more than mourn quietly. No demands, no pleas. His frustration may be obvious, but if he's learned anything over the past days, it's that he needs to become more patient and docile.