#1mperium

My priest garb makes everything I ad lib a footnote in Your book. But, heh, too often, my foot is closer to my mouth than You are. We aren’t in church. I wish I were wearing blue jeans.

“You are very pessimistic.” I don’t say it as an accusation. I am bright in tone. It sounds like a compliment rather than an observation. Same as your eyes are so blue. I look at Giulio’s (I am already looking, but now I see the color). Well, this feels ironic and redundant: his eyes are so black. As dark and layered as my thumbprint after Mass on the first day of Lent. From dust we came, and to dust we shall return. Genesis 3:19. In his sheen eyes, that black is icily preserved.

My eyebrows pinch together.

“Do you know that?”

I don’t know if Giulio does; I’m asking, I’m prodding. I think he’s already denying himself pleasure. Pessimism. It’s onomatopoetic, it’s poetic how the word hisses like a snake. I don’t mean that snake. That meaning Yours. Your crafty garden serpent. Okay, maybe. Yeah.

@1mperium's eyes are cold and dark, but vincent finds he has no desire to run or divert his gaze. he has never been easily intimidated, even in life, even when confronted with the worst of humanity during his mission. vincent doesn't look like much of a priest now; he is not wearing his cassock or his collar and his rosary is safely tucked underneath the sleeve of his simple blue shirt, wrapped around his wrist and forearm. but maybe the knowledge is enough. he wonders if it can be smelled on him, even from the other side of a small tea house in beirut.

he makes sure to thank the man who brings him tea, arabic coming to his lips naturally. he knows he cannot drink it, yet the smell of cardamom is a very human comfort vincent still clings to. with a pang of sadness, he realizes the sweet man has also brought a plate with some sfouf and knafeh. he almost rushes to his feet to have him bring it back, not wishing to offend him with his refusal to eat, instead he inclines his head toward giulio. the vampire is not sitting at the same table, preferring to keep a comfortable and detached distance, perhaps, but vincent has no need to raise his voice to be heard clearly.

always accepting.

“Beeswax with bells on.*” He pivots well for a man holding two buckets, quickly meeting their vague shape in the shadow. No need for this game of darknessparting. Giulio and Elfgar are the last men on Earth that need new introductions.