CHAOS / MADE.

    “I have to.” It’s a quick answer, but his voice is softer—he’d nearly grumbled about the innuendo, but sometimes it’s easier to let it go with Mortimer. Besides, if he seems unfocused, it’s because he is. Somewhere in the mountains, his hands are warming those of a hiker who did not reach the peak, his lips whispering encouragements. They did their best—it was just their time, as he’d told Mortimer just moments ago.

    “It’s not,” he begins, distant and quiet, “it’s not like I can just not be Death when I embody it. You MISUNDERSTAND what I am, I think… I’m not a god, I just am. But… sometimes I don’t want to do it. Some souls are harder to take than others, but I can’t stop myself from doing it. I’m… not sure how to explain it.” Dima’s gaze follows a yellow taxi now, eyebrows knitted together as he strains to focus on the conversation at hand, on the hiker’s frozen lips. “I guess it’s—well, people had to come up with that word for me. Death. They had to conceptualize me, so they’re born with this idea of me. You know how there are existing binaries in all of human culture? That’s how the simultaneous romanticization and demonization of Death is. Moral ties to something that just HAPPENS are because of humans.”

               HE DOESN’T USUALLY EXPECT THE BAIT TO BE TAKEN.     granted, even mortimer can tell that the man is distracted     ----     focused on the work that the ghoul should probably let him return to     (   but won’t, obviously.   )     dmitry always has such a way with words, something that’s even stunned mortimer in how much he’s drawn to the lull of carefully crafted explanations, and for a moment, he almost feels bad for teasing so much.     almost.     some things just won’t change, and mortimer’s penchant for mischief is high upon that list, along with robbing graves and collecting coins.

    “Wouldn’t you like to know.” It’s so obviously NOT a question to be answered—golden eyes, steely and focused, flicker up to the ghoul, lips curling slightly in irritation. Whatever his connection to Mortimer is, it’s incredibly complicated. Some may call them friends, but it seems too POLITE a label.

    Dima finds himself focusing on the city streets again—cars slowly inch forward in traffic, their passengers’ faces difficult to make out through the tinted windows. It’s rush hour, people are going home from work to their families, running errands. Death is six places at once, hands gently pushing eyelids shut with more care than anyone could expect. “It’s not a hit list, it’s just their time. You have one, too, you know—constantly changing, dynamic. You’re immortal, though, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Less of a chance of me taking you.”

               LOCKED  &  LOADED.     he can see the annoyance bubbling up in the elder’s facial expression, as much as he tries not to let it show     ----     because death is a gentleman, thank you very much.     despite his teasing, though, mortimer likes the way dmitry explains things, shining a  light  on the end that the ghoul never allows himself to see, simply because his mind is one-track.