#terminusvitae

           “Hi. Are you gonna answer the question? Whatever you said earlier, I couldn’t understand a word of it, so that doesn’t count.

Badly made Martinis. 

No, really he dislikes people prattling on about nonsense. 

He finds stereotypical teenage behavior utterly grating. He can’t stand that manner of childishness.

He dislikes when people let their emotions keep them from seeing the reasonable side of an argument. (Yes, he IS a giant hypocrite. thanks for noticing)

Messy kitchens, unmade beds, little out of place things that are simple fixes but someone neglected to do, all bug him. 

     report after report of sightings of a strange creature were sent to the glaive, made to be even more concerning as they were from within the city. nyx and a few others were given orders to check the refugee districts, as that’s where they were most common. their movements were to be discreet, unsuspicious, but all nyx can think of when he spots the mystery creature is;

Initially, Tseng thinks the voice is a figment of his imagination: a trick played by a deranged, sleep deprived mind. It wouldn’t be the first time. Oh, the stories he could tell about the tell-tale heart and the effect it has on the psyche. At the church while tending to certain flowers, he thinks he sees her too.

But this is no illusion. Reality is Chaos strapped down with metal cuffs while unnamed fluids are pumped into his veins, monitors beeping all around him in unison. Reality is that he’s conscious for once, with those glowing eyes boring straight into Tseng. Reality is the helicopter blades whirring noisily above, the seat belt cutting across his rib cage, and the weight of his deeds lying heavy on his shoulders. 

For a moment Tseng closes his eyes, wishing it wasn’t. 

He swallows, noting the tightening in his throat, the sensation of time slowing to a crawl, and his heart beating too loud for his ears. But before long, it’s gone. Like a rain cloud threatening a storm and then passing by. 

Fear is normal. It makes him human after all. How he navigates his way around it and how he keeps his hand steady regardless, is what makes him a Turk. And a unique one at that. No one can do what he does. No one will do what he’s done. That level of bastardry is something only Tseng is capable of. 

“Oh? Interesting... you can talk now,” Alastor purred, and his gaze swept up and down Chaos’s form to assess whether or not he was afflicted with any other ‘conditions’. “Last time I checked, when you saw me like this you were speechless, and I swear I have no idea how that happened.” There was an obvious and playful tone to his voice.

He curled his finger in a beckoning motion and stepped back, away from the doorway, in order to allow Chaos inside. 

“Are you sure you don’t know anything of what I’m talking about? Because I could swear,” he closed the distance between them and draped his arms along Chaos’s shoulders. “I could swear I caught you looking at a certain something of mine... but now that I think about it, I can’t remember what exactly it was! I can’t quite put my finger on it...” He drew a hand away solely to tap just under his lower lip, purposely drawing attention to, not how plump it was ( because it was that was on its own ), but the gloss he applied on it, the color of mulled wine. 

Alastor had seen this movie to the point of knowing the lines by heart and being able to recall them on demand, and that level of repetition failed to diminish his enjoyment of it. He thought there’d be nothing better to spend the time doing, but he would be wrong-- and he’d be glad of that fact.

His fingers skimmed along his friend’s hair; it was deceptively silky, harmless unlike the blazing heat it evoked. He smiled at the thought of having a fire that only his hands could touch and remain unscathed. There was a lot of that, about Chaos, that he enjoyed. But sometimes that happiness came tinged with shame. The warmth of enjoyment drowned it for a while, but there were times when it bubbled up and bobbed along the surface regardless. 

It was greedy, what he was doing, wasn’t it? To spend so much time with Chaos. To be the only one to touch his hair. To ask him so much of his passions. To want to see the way his eyes lit up when telling a story. To nurse the bruises from a fight, or put ice on a busted lip. To want to hear his chuckle at a joke, the rich belly laugh earned by something truly amusing, or watch the curl of his lip and the quiet snort earned by a pun he wouldn’t admit aloud to finding funny. Though Al wanted to believe that such things were infinite and that Chaos had a right to give it freely to whomever he wanted, they were only human, and their time here was so short. Al couldn’t help but wonder if maybe his being around so constantly made it... easier to divert the sweet things he found in Chaos, take them away from others who would want them.

Chaos asked for his attention, and he gave a low hum of acknowledgment as he attempted to pull himself from his thoughts. He wasn’t paying attention to the movie anymore. He was happy enough to spend ever more time with Chaos, no matter what. Even with the shame churning inside him from his selfishness. 

He shut his eyes, and placed a gentle kiss onto the crown of his friend’s head. He wouldn’t see the way Chaos made himself small -- physically impossible now, but he closed himself off with the way he curled up. 

“I think I love you.”

Alastor stilled to the point where he wasn’t sure he was breathing. How would he be, anyway? All the air had left the room. He withdrew so that he was no longer touching Chaos. The television turned off. Wasn’t aware when he’d pressed the button. Didn’t matter. 

He shifted around from his spot on the couch. Slid down to the floor, right beside Chaos. Needed to be level with him. Needed to be on the ground before his knees gave out. His heart kicked a Broadway musical against his rib cage while he thought-- nothing. He had nothing. 

He stared at the empty television, to his and Chaos’s reflections on the glass. The reflections’ hands were too far apart. Alastor moved his own until the one on the TV was holding onto his friend. His more-than-friend. The one where, had this truly been a movie, he would have spent two hours and a montage trying to earn the love of. He had to say something. This was where he’d say it. So many movies where the lead character knew all the right things to say, what to do, blessed with the gift of pithy quotes,  but he wasn’t them. He wasn’t them. 

Still, he had to say something. He turned to Chaos and--

“You could at least say that to my face, asshole.”