❛·° › closed starter • @brhaneul
CROWDED PLACES MADE HIM anxious and no one needed to be an expert to see that. zemin had never been much for big crowds and many strangers — even back when had lived in oblivion had he preferred to reside within his comfort zone at all times. he had since branched out of course; nothing was comfortable about killing, but he was getting eerily used to it, to the burning smell of dead flesh and liquid pooling by his feet. this was never how he had wanted, dreamt, figured his life was going to be, but here he was.
and he felt nothing, nothing at all.
he had consumed a champagne glass too much and had long lost count: it took an impressive amount of liquor for the boy to even feel the least affected, his height the only reason for that advantage, and right now he was more alcohol than blood — maybe, the guests considered, that was for the better. he wondered just for a second if his intoxication would stain any predator, should anyone decide to drain him that day, and the thought made him snicker.
there was always an underlying heaviness to everything he did, even something as innocent as a drink too much, and in one inattentive moment the glass slipped out of zemin’s hands and shattered against the ground. «oh. shit,» he murmured almost inaudibly, eyes darting up to see if anyone had noticed.
― he inhabited the corners of his mind. untouchable places where she had stored parts she did not want to deal -- parts that she didn’t want to stain her hands with the gory parts and the soft parts. ever since she stepped out of shadow, she had encountered him, somehow; and ever since she had encountered him, he had flashed more light into her life than she’s rather prefer. so yes, the untouchable dark corners of her mind was where she kept him -- unsure of how to simply act.
but like satellites, somehow, she gravitated towards him. maybe it was the way his blood thundered in his ears e every time danger was impeding -- deafening and also numbing; his hands would ball into fists and the battle that ensued inside was translated into his eyes -- to fight or to fly? maybe it was his scent -- of leather, of rust, of something underneath that not quite tinted him completely, like the rest of his kin, the lingering sweetness of doubt.
or maybe, it was himself as a whole -- a weakness. her weakness.
eyes scanning the crowd, she felt the cold surface of marble walls against her bare back, breathing at ease, comforted -- at least, chillness was a familiar sense. crystal glass rolled on her palms, and her fingers created patterns of frozen veins radiating from its tips; risky, she knew. she didn’t mind, much.
until he came, and the cold was no longer there -- and his scent was all twisted by the only thing that numbed human beings other than fear -- alcohol. everything translated his intoxicated state, slouched shoulders, dilated pupils, staggering movements; and then, glass shattered on the floor. with gritted teeth, the shards of broken glass cracked under her heels, “ you’re so stupid. ” and with an iron grip, she dragged him after herself. “ you could’ve cut yourself -- have you cut yourself ? ”
