#an.swers

          ”Well,”  he starts, the alcohol thrumming through his body making his tongue feel heavy. His ringed fingers toy lightly with the edge of his glass, tracing over the moisture that had collected there. Felix’s eyes rest on it for a moment, before flicking his gaze up to meet the other’s, smoldering through the drug-induced haze.     ”. . .Immortality is a major plus,” he drawls, smirking against the rim of his glass as he raises it to his lips to sip at its bubbly contents. There's a blotchy flush that dots at the crest of his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. It was a rare occasion that Felix drank; his inexperienced showed. After a drink or two, Felix was already blabbing about creating a new companion, the stress that comes from being a reaper, the immortality that accompanies it as  a sort of bonus.     Felix was put on this earth, kept alive, and promised immortality for one main purpose: to create a clan of new reapers, just like himself. And yet, after his five years of being here, he had yet to even begin to create his "disciples" (as he affectionately referred to them), with the exception of one— which had gone terribly wrong.     "And you'll have a forever companion. You'll never be alone. And trust me, this... Profession... Gets lonely."

[ sms → unknown ] GET ME A COW INSTEAD[ sms → unknown ]  ALSO, WHO ARE YOU

[ sms → unknown ] you're welcome to sit on the handlebars. You get a pretty sweet breeze.

     Felix remains genuflect on the hard pavement, cold due to the frosty bite the wind held lately. Not even the bright sun shining overhead stopped the chill from seeping through the thick denim of his faded jeans and licking at his skin. Despite the man laying prone, and recently declared dead ( obviously, so— the puddle of blood he was laying in was kind of a give-away ), all Felix felt was a vague sense of annoyance.      These kinds of things aren't accidents— they didn't just happen. Everything is planned out, everyone has a specific time and place they're supposed to die. . . And everyone has a specific person who is meant to reap their living soul.      'So why in the fuck am I doing this, then', Felix questions silently, bitterly, as he drags the tips of his painted fingers down the man's sternum, hardly any pressure behind it. Drawing his hand back, he extracts the dark, murky pink ( Dark, muddled pink: Immature or dishonest nature ) wisps of the unknown man's soul.      It dissipates in the open air seconds later, like the white puffs of Felix's breath. He rises shortly after, bringing the man's wallet with him. Without care, he opens it and pulls out an I.D., a few crumpled bills, and a gold credit card. He discards the leather billfold, tossing it so it lands on his chest.     ". . . Gotta make money somehow, y'know?" He says with a kittenish grin, the first little glint of a good mood he's felt since the two had arrived. His grin dies down as he glances down at the name. "Okay, what the fuck. Jaehwan Kim— I was not assigned to him today. This is bullshit and a total waste of time!" He gripes, sounding whiny even to his own ears.     "Death is a fucking system, okay? A fine-tuned machine! If one thing goes wrong— a bolt loosens, a screw falls out, whatever— then everything gets all out of whack!" He throws his hands up in an extravagant gesture, causing the plastic I.D. card to go flying. He doesn't really care anyways, he already had his name, his soul, and his money. What more did he need?     "Whatever. We still have a few more people to hit up before the day is over. Let's hurry, I'm ready to go home."

     He doesn't answer to the sound of his name being called.      She would see that it was him coming through the door and not some robber or armed criminal in just a few moments, anyways; he didn't feel like wasting his breath on it. Instead, he toes off his shoes by the doorway and closes the door behind him, before padding his way into the drab room without a word.     There was something comforting about their relationship. To outsiders, they might seem cold towards one another, or even snippy and rude— all deadpan expressions and short, curt sentences— but to Felix, it was perfect. By the end of the day, his energy is gone. His battery is in the red. Please Connect To A Charger.        Flopping down onto the couch and placing his head into her lap without saying a word, having her card her clammy fingers through his hair even though it hurts sometimes, and the comfortable silence that settles around the room is what keeps his battery from dying. This is his Charger, his cup of coffee in the mornings, or a sugary drink during the afternoon lull.     Here, he doesn't have to smile politely, or hold open the door for some expectant old woman. He doesn't have to worry about 'am I using formal enough speech?'      He simply  i s  and  g e t s  to  b e.     It's something entirely precious to him.

     "Pfft— what a coincidence!" Felix grins, the corners of his lips lifting and his eyes widening into a kittenish display of excitement. "I like making new friends, too. Crazy world, huh?" Carelessly, in a painfully western fashion, he slings a casual arm around the small girl's waist and uses it to pull her closer. The best way to make a friend, he thinks confidently, is to pretend like they're a l r e a d y your friend.      "So... How 'bout it, then? You and I? Friends?"

       "You can say that again," Felix mutters under his breath, the notes of dissatisfaction in his tone still ringing clearly, even when his voice itself was unintentionally muted. He cradles his phone in his hand, a coffee in the other, and slides a calloused thumb over the glass of the touch-screen.       He's scrolling through a hefty note on his phone, flicking through it rapidly— one that he had deliriously typed out during the tribulation of his daily migraine. The note he had used was jokingly ( morbidly ) titled 'GROCERY SHOPPING LIST'.  In reality, it was a checklist, of sorts, that contained a twenty-some names; all names were paired with a time, a date, a location.       Just looking at it makes him tired. It was his job, and his job a l o n e, to reap all individual souls that were doomed to perish— by their own hands, no less. The only thing that kept him going was that he only worked with suicides ( with the exception of a murder, maybe even manslaughter, on the occasion ), which averaged about forty per day.            She really should be glad it's not her job.       But with a single touch, he could make it so, if he should desire it.       And, boy, does he desire.      

     "Probably the flame. All elements were created during the big bang, right?" he pauses, brows furrowed.      "And life— shit, life didn't even really show up until three-point-something billion years ago. The Earth is like... What, four billion years old? Or something like that...." Trailing off, he flickers his gaze over to the man questioning him in the first place. He looked a little familiar.      "I'm going to say that the flame cam e first— assuming phoenixes exist, anyways. What about you?"