abandoned

                      ❝  YOU’RE REALLY PUTTING THE PRESS on me aren’t you?” Sliske starts, melodic voice amused at the sheer impatience and readiness to just SPRING into action. “I wasn’t assuming today but — I suppose I can clear my calendar for today. HOWEVER, I doubt I can go as is, you know, this, I’ve had enough trysts with tiny furniture and stooping to fit in doorways. I’ll have to slip into a little more snug of skin. Doesn’t hurt, only a few are really AWARE of my double life,” without any real explanation to his RAMBLING, Sliske easily yawns stretches out his arms above his head as if leisuring on a vacation, a low grunt, and pinched eyes accompanying his carefree movement. After his feline display of teeth, an innate ability almost as simple as breathing lets loose a quick illusion, the shining akin to a hot air off the asphalt DWARFING himself into a human glamour. Two-toned hair, dusky skin, the same VIBRANT eyes, and wrinkle of nose remain despite the factor that he otherwise looks so utterly normal. Well, other than the factor that men don’t wear makeup or preen to the degree he has.

                               “I made it myself,” Sliske says in the same way a proud child would. “It does well when I need it. — Anyways, I can walk NOW without being an eight-foot terror, covered head to toe, and having to state ‘I’m an athlete hiding from the paparazzi’, or at least that’s what James and I came up with,” he chuckles.

Expectant and the more he spoke, the longer he dragged this out did little to help wane her avidity. He could spare some of the words, in her correct opinion, because even though he had agreed and they’d their terms stated, he wasn’t helping. Had a feeling he already knew that. 

To her, his transformation akin to a snake shedding its skin, and shock is followed by something somewhere been confusion and an unease. She doesn’t like it, this look. Or is she simply not adjusted to it? That voice shouldn’t come out of that mouth, and the best he’s done is distracted her from the previous matter. She has to sort through this, arms crossed over her chest and near narrowed eyes, she could almost feel bad, he seems proud and she’s put off. Perhaps it’s the fact she’ll no longer have to speak like she’s yelling up at the sky. Perhaps it’s the knowing that there’s missed opportunities for him to smack his forehead into door frames, disappointing. Perhaps she’ll get over it by the time they reach the restaurant. —That’s what they were doing. 

A litany of ‘I’m fine’s chased his help, and while they’d gotten passed her outright rejecting him, gratitude was far from her features. She’d come across exasperated if lightheadedness hadn’t hit her the moment she was on her feet. The smallest bit cross internally, it’s exaggerated in furrowed brows and pressed lips, she’d still his other arm for balance. The second she felt certain enough in her footing, she’d push herself away.

Half expecting some reprimand for what was blatant carelessness, she’d set herself on the defensive, eyes narrowed a moments away from a glare and then he’s tilted her head up. ---She hates the way he wears his worry. Even if her gaze does soften, she spites it. His words worse, concerns that ring in her ears. She hates that he cares, hates it because it makes her care. Yet by now he knows better to give her a chance to complain and if he knew her even better, he’d hold her by the back of her neck. 

LEVITY  ABOUT  THE    ‘ WHAT-IFS ’   IS   BITTERSWEET,  as  grin  cracks  over  the  blunt  edges  of  his  face. The  spitfire  youth  he  had  been  and  still  is,  steel  weapon  of  his  own  design  in  hand  to  strike  first.   A  constant  thought:  maybe  he  would’ve  at  least  tried  to  give  her  a  chance  to  get  out  of  the  city  before  the  order’s  masses  stuck  their  noses  on  her  trail.   Verin  the  only  one  outside  of  Kyrie  and  Credo  in  this  damn  city  he’d  given  two  shits  about.  He  raises  his  left  hand  in  dismissive  wave,  before  digits  curl  towards  his  palm  and  dig  tight  into  his  skin. 

 ❝  Right,  ❞   a  begrudging  reply,  expression  smoothing  over,   ❝  sure  I  wouldn’t  have  made  a  few  cinders  outta  you  instead.  ❞  

Nose  seems  to  flair  at  the  latter  statement,  a  detail  forgotten  suddenly  an  anchor  to  the  pit  of  his  heart;  once  all  nods  now  shies  to  hesitation.   ❝  We  can  stop  and  get  your  fix,  yeah.  I’ll  give  Nico  the  heads-up  to  empty  out  her  crap  in  the  fridge  to  make  room  for  yours. ❞   Absence  grows,  sown  by  preoccupation  in  his  passing  sigh.  ❝  Ever  told  a  girl  you’re  going  down  to  hell  before?  Don’t  think  she’ll  stop  me  but   —  ❞  Down  to  recesses  of  the  demon  world,  crossing  through  the  cesspit  of  demons  and  devils  he’s  never  once  ventured.   ❝ —- Trust  me,  we’re  gonna  need  that  day.  ❞

“You can’t now, and you couldn’t then, you’d be wrong to think you ever could.” They could bicker back and forth all they wanted; the truth was, that unless their camaraderie was not only shattered into pieces, but grinded down into a fine dust as well, they would never know who would win in a fight. Even then would it be unlikely for them because she’d see herself leaving, disappearing into the world to avoid vindication from either side. ---She could and would most definitely win in hypotheticals.

“Don’t make me sound like some addict, I don’t make you out to be one every time you down a glass of water.” Short in her tone, he’s more right than wrong, and she’s to wonder if that’s how he copes with the idea she’s downing blood. Had to be more than grateful he’d never tried to steal any of her drinks in the past, that would have been difficult to explain away, though now would it be anything besides hilarious?

“From prior experience, I’ll say she’ll probably be shocked, enough to doubt the reality of it.” A much different situation than the one he was going to walk into and if he was looking for any advice or support, he’d need to search elsewhere. Her own experience a matter of answering the question ‘where are you going?’ with ‘to hell, where I belong’ and things were hardly comparable. 

“You took my fucking codeine? I meant you could have some fucking advil, or maybe a naproxen or two, not my fucking codeine.” Consider her vexed but there was little she could do now, too late to take back her ‘help yourself’ when the other asked of painkillers it was too late to try and strangle the pills from her throat.

Rounding the couch, she’d refrain from the violence in her own throat and grab her phone off the coffee table as she passed. An exasperated huff and she’d have to get another prescription forged. Better to handle it now than forget, there were only a few left the last time she checked and while she doubted the other had off’ed them, she was less than a few now. 

“It’s fucking broken, an ice pack isn’t going to fix that.” Her words came in a snap, sharp and scolding, and yet she couldn’t help but grimace when he dared to move. A singular strain of empathy; he’s not her problem, he’s not on her payroll, better for her to leave, leave him on his own than help him along. But that single strain is a virus, tucked into the corner of her cheek between her lips. She’s still not going to drag him to a hospital or even cover the costs, best she can do is give him some options. Worst come to worst, she could broker a deal.

It’s in the ceiling, pressed in tight between the wavers of the wood, partitioned where brick and mortar meet; and it feels as if she’s never owned her own... anything. At least, nothing substantial. But this? This was real, mortar, brick, wood, and nails real. A building at least nine times her age. And yet it’d still need a few things before it was to be hers; an interior designer, a some landscaping, and a visit to several book stores to fill out the empty bookshelves in the drawing room on the first floor. 

Ha! Got her. He’s insufferable, whittling at her patience as he is, but does there wear any pity on him? In that smile? Or what of that doting gaze, half cackle and bewilderingly sly? Majima laughs. It rumbles and tumbles and pitches low, low, ocean-low, and she’ll feel it down to the marrow of her – right there, right where their ribs come to slot together, dredging up something animal like dread or love. It’s easily both with him. Majima palms her closer. The pace of his heart pitters away, all tip-tappy dreamlike, and his air screams nastily of troublesome alleyway cat. The googly-eye dampens the effect a bit – but, hey, only by a sliver. He takes her wrists. “Yup,” the word pops. “Ain’t the type of handful where you oughta be complainin’ about either, toots, and wouldn’t ya have it? It’s all yours.” Oh. Ohhh. He’s settled her palms near his little rump, chin settling on the pretty jut of her collarbones. What an ass, for sure! His wit demands recompense for that. “‘nough to constitute two handfuls.”