#closedstarter

It's taken Sol a bit of wrestling with himself before he arrives at the hospital and checks the floors for the right room.

He's kept his distance after the fiasco at the Halloween party. The chair that came flying at him, the negativity and insults... it had put a terrible taste in his mouth. He knew that Azazel was going through something, but if the roles had been reversed, Sol would've never been spoken to again.

Suffice to say, he hasn't been in a rush to reconnect. But of course he's been worried. Azazel had been acting off and Sol's already suspected vampirism is afoot... he's just not 100% sure, and he can't exactly reveal himself in the process.

He wraps his fingers on the door as he finds the right number and stands in the doorway. "...Can I come in?" Sol's not sure if Az wants to see him, anyways.

Melian tinha sua fama. A maior parte do acampamento sabia que ela não era um imã de problmeas, mas aquela que causava eles. Estar ao redor dela normalmente queria dizer concordar em participar de qualquer merda que ela resolvesse fazer, o que poderia ser desde uma pegadinha inocente até desrespeitar o imperador. Por isso ela não era uma pessoa rodeada de amigos, e até gostava assim. Mas por algum motivo alguém louco o suficiente, ou idiota, estava a seguindo enquanto ela se dirigia para fora do acampamento. Melian tinha duas opções: 1 o confrontar; 2 fazer que ele se arrependesse da decisão. Obviamente, ela optou pela segunda. Melian se deixou ser seguida, entrando em uma região mais profunda da floresta, a caminho para o ninho dos dragões. Quando estavam afastados o suficiente ela se pôs em prática, bastou uma curva para sumir de vista por alguns segundos e chegar bem perto de seu perseguidor. Ela puxou a gola da blusa, com uma força que não parecia corresponder a estrutura e aparência frágil da menina. Em um movimento bem calculado ela empurrou o outro contra uma árvore, pressionando ele com o peso do próprio corpo com uma adaga bem posicionada na jugular dele. "Estamos longe o suficiente para ninguém te ouvir gritar." Ela sussurrou. "Se eu fosse você começaria a me explicar."

Famously not a man of many words, there were thankfully other means of communication that Reeve used to get his point across.

Not that he needed to say much around Gaetan. The two formed an easy friendship some time ago; the other's capability to also converse without actually speaking words helped them create this bond. He even helped Reeve learn how to better express himself. He would never be able to repay Gaetan for his companionship, Reeve felt.

But nights like these certainly helped.

Gaetan, naturally, gravitated towards the water, even if it were within the confines of a bathtub. [ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ? ] was how Gaetan had once put it. They were just doing their part to conserve Metia's natural resources. Of course.

Running a strong, large hand down to Gaetan's toned ass, he admires the smooth musculature of his friend's body, feeling the soft skin under his fingertips. Beautiful, Reeve thinks to himself. Gaetan's slick physique contrasted Reeve's rugged, hairier self; a man of the oceans versus a man of the woods. So different, yet so alike.

Feeling Gaetan's lips on his neck, Reeve turns his face to return a kiss in kind to the other's lips, lingering slowly. When he pulls away, he looks into Gaetan's kind eyes with a lazy smile.

"It's not that I... mind the existence of a club about birds, Millie. Nor do I fault you for wanting to have a space like the library to meet. It's more-so the insistence on bringing the birds that has me a bit nervous. We can't exactly guarantee a parakeet is going to mind his manners and keep quiet in a library that's designed to be a quiet space for- well. Yes, I know we should be inclusive to all club types, but the thing is, Millie, we don't actually even let dogs in- right, yes, um-"

Asa has the old corded office phone tucked between shoulder and cheek, and he looks to be at the end of his rope. Making the same point about five times over. That look of sheer boredom changes the moment he sees a familiar face coming near the counter.

"Yes- love, I feel your frustration, I do. How about you submit this in writing through the um- the email. Yes, right, the portleirylibrary at hotmail dot com... perfect. Lovely talking. Ta, love." The phone is placed on its holder a little too harshly and Asa meets eyes with the other, relief as he leans into the counter. "Mikala, how are you?"

It's something he's thought about since the auction. The frequency of their conversations about death, and escaping death, and what happens after death. A backing symphony as intrinsic to their relationship as 'I Think We're Alone Now.'

He's in the loft... again. In one arm is Hank, cradled against his chest like a shaking baby, while he sets things on the dining table - the one where they never got to eat that nice steak dinner. Their usual order from the nearby Chinese place sits in a sturdy paper bag to keep it all warm, while a few pre-loved cassettes sit with a simple bow wrapped around them to keep them together. ABBA, Frank Sinatra, and the BeeGees. Two tickets to The Leslie-Lohman Museum of Art sit beside that. And then... a small, wrapped box.

If Lee were to open the little package, there would be an accessory he often wears - something that, perhaps, he already has too many of. But the one Asa has found is worthy enough to add to the collection - a memento mori, found in the illustrator's exploration into estate sales. More specifically - a ring, of black and gold. Vintage, and formerly someone's gift after death. A reminder from one love to another... now both gone.

The most fascinating thing about the ring - what had stopped Asa in his tracks - was the spot where a stone would be, nestled amidst black simple petal shapes. Instead, a glass inset... and upon further research, one would normally put their dead love's hair beneath. A literal memento of death. And so, inside the ring, woven so carefully, is Asa's dark raven hair in a braided lattice. A few thin gray strands intermixed- and set behind clean, lovely glass. From far away, it looks like any old dark stone. From up close, a textured marvel of something deeper.

He isn't dead - far from it. Never felt so alive. But in a world where two killers have found each other through a crime syndicate... well, perhaps a reminder of mortality, or the immortality of affections, is okay.

Can you settle for fancying the eventually dead, for now?

When he hears the door open, he turns, and both arms now hold the dog as he walks over, barefooted and wearing his comfortable clothes from being home most of the day. A kiss before anything else, as always, before a soft smile that glints in dark eyes. "Happy birthday, my love. You hungry? Hank and I nearly scarfed it all down without you."

He knows that Vic’s bound to stop by at some point today- and it shouldn’t be distracting him as much as it has been from his work day. The pack leader has been carrying a laundry hamper to each empty room, grabbing up sheets and pillowcases and towels. It should be easy work… when he’s not forgetting what the hell he’s doing, wondering if he has any booze or something he and Vic can enjoy in the office. Or if he'd like to come back to his. Or maybe they could go out? 

He’s tugging a stained fitted sheet off an old mattress in one of the rooms when he sees Vic’s truck through the open door- losing all of his focus and balance, and slipping right onto his ass with a deep, rumbling laugh as he hits the floor. “H….Hola, guapo!” He calls, still chuckling as he gets himself up with a groan. His old denim shirt is tossed over a chair and he’s wearing his usual work pants and a dirty undershirt, hair back and out of his face in a bun. "You s...surprised me."

It's late. Oz has changed into silk pyjamas, and walked himself tiredly with his forearm crutches to the living room of the little apartment he's made his own - maybe a nightcap will help. Sleep doesn't come easy anyways lately- especially with supernatural creatures on the alert for hunters. He's been worried. About his family who he never speaks to any more. About his ex, who he's texted maybe a bit too much today. Just little messages: 'You owe me, you know. Bring some wine over sometime.' 'Good seeing your blood again.' 'Thanks for the dance.' 'I miss you.'

He's startled by the knock at the door, and leans into one of the crutches, checking the peephole before realizing who it is. The door swings open. "Do you have any idea how late it is?"

They hadn't had too much to drink, but certainly enough for Ash to relax into the bar-top a bit. A long day at the hotel always spelled out a sore back, stiff legs. A few drinks with a frequent visitor probably wasn't the best idea - but Ash doesn't much care about good ideas after a certain time of night. So when Dahey mentions wanting to do a trial run of the lecture, of course Ash agrees. Why wouldn't he? He slings his bag over his chest and walks astride the other, slowing his pace on long legs to walk beside them. Lets Dahey lead him after a glass or two of wine have warmed his belly, made him just a little less uptight - a short distance to the university. "G...Gonna show... off a bit?" He can't help a small tease. "Show... me around?"