[ Time passes, too brief for creatures their age, too slow for creatures this hungry for one another; Zephir is at the motel by the morrow, when the sky sheds daylight and the street lights come alive, carrying a backpack on one shoulder and a phone in his pocket. Death will find him in the corridor after a polite knock, shoulder leaning on the door frame, slouched and looking down.
Their eyes meet and the differences are plain to see — the angles on Zephir's face are less defined, eyes a little rounder, a little brighter, smaller shoulders and a thinner waist underneath his same old clothes. People would be hard-pressed to guess he's a day over twenty. The unchanged height makes him uncanny. ]
... My death.
[ Fondness in his voice, words like a sigh of relief. ]
[He echoes, after coming to the same doorway to see his other half reflected through it. Death's been there for an hour or more, chain smoking cigarettes by the window, littering an ashtray with the butts. Champagne (bought elsewhere and thus far too grand for this place) chills in a bucket of ice, next to Death's duffel bag on a bench at the end of the bed.
He looks him over with subtle fascination - the second they touch he knows it'll all begin to reverse. They'll both count back their respective steps, with age flowing out of him and back into Zephir. Sullivan's features are more gaunt, grey in the stubble of his beard and a shrink to his height that would only matter next to someone else. To Zephir, he always looks up.]
If this were a more respectful joint, I might have the front desk side eying me tomorrow.
[ One hand is immediately on Sullivan's cheek, the other on his waist, stepping inside with their bodies and lips painfully close, door shut with his foot. A youthful smile reaches his eyes and brightens the room with warmth, two halves of one infinite being separated for too long, finally close enough to pull together like desperate little magnets. ]
What, are you scared of what they might think now?
[ Thumb brushing over the wrinkles, smoothing them out as he steals from Death so he can give it Life, light blue eyes search his every feature from above, the color and aged texture of his hair, fascinated and thankful. Shoulder lowered, the backpack slips off and thumps on the carpeted floor. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
how often do you think about what i do with this mouth
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
lame
you're making me want to use it right now
no subject
i do have cigarettes on me
no subject
i'm going to put one out on your eye again
no subject
i'm going to lick your ribs
[the bones of them, specifically.]
no subject
you said it now you can't take it back
no subject
motel by the place by the boats
no subject
[ There's no way they managed to get rid of the black and white bloodbath. ]
no subject
i'll make sure there's champagne
no subject
you're still losing an eye
no subject
can't wait to crack your chest
no subject
[ he'll rip this heart out and grow a new one right now he dgaf ]
no subject
still beating
just like i remember it
no subject
no subject
no subject
Their eyes meet and the differences are plain to see — the angles on Zephir's face are less defined, eyes a little rounder, a little brighter, smaller shoulders and a thinner waist underneath his same old clothes. People would be hard-pressed to guess he's a day over twenty. The unchanged height makes him uncanny. ]
... My death.
[ Fondness in his voice, words like a sigh of relief. ]
no subject
[He echoes, after coming to the same doorway to see his other half reflected through it. Death's been there for an hour or more, chain smoking cigarettes by the window, littering an ashtray with the butts. Champagne (bought elsewhere and thus far too grand for this place) chills in a bucket of ice, next to Death's duffel bag on a bench at the end of the bed.
He looks him over with subtle fascination - the second they touch he knows it'll all begin to reverse. They'll both count back their respective steps, with age flowing out of him and back into Zephir. Sullivan's features are more gaunt, grey in the stubble of his beard and a shrink to his height that would only matter next to someone else. To Zephir, he always looks up.]
If this were a more respectful joint, I might have the front desk side eying me tomorrow.
no subject
What, are you scared of what they might think now?
[ Thumb brushing over the wrinkles, smoothing them out as he steals from Death so he can give it Life, light blue eyes search his every feature from above, the color and aged texture of his hair, fascinated and thankful. Shoulder lowered, the backpack slips off and thumps on the carpeted floor. ]
Give me what's mine.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)