#avecaisar

[dogbleed]

EXT.     THE  CLEAN  GUTTERED  END  OF  A  STAIRWAY,   SHYING  FROM  THE  GLITTERY  STREETS  OF  NIGHT  CITY-LIGHT.   SHE  KEEPS  HIS  GAZE,  IN  THIS  DYAD  BEYOND  ORIGIN.   SIMPLE  SILHOUETTES  FOR  NOW,  ORDINARY  IN  THEIR  NEED  TO  BLUR,  MINUTES  EARLY  FOR  THEIR  CHAUFFEUR. CLOSED  STARTER  FOR  LAVINIA  DE  VERA  NISHIGUCHI.

his  veins  are  silent,   here,   by  her  side.     the  tomb  won’t  listen  for  echoes  of  his  need  to  hurt.     of  dead  skin  mottling  itself  pink,   as  it  remembers  blood.     her  skin  shouldn’t  remember;   not  where  he  can  see.     that  wrinkle  of  pain  between  her  brows.     a  bother  to  him,   in  a  way  he  won’t  admit.     and  so,   @avecaisar   will  not  hurt.     mired  by  this  promise  uttered  long  ago.     atop  a  bleached  hill,   under  an  open-armed  tree.     vast  in  its  leaf-bare  branches,   reaching  for  a  hand  it  will  not  find.     the  sun  watched,   instead,   as  the  earth  upended  itself.     you  were  stuck  to  the  tree’s  moss,   to  the  gaze  latched  on  you.     (   even  when  beckoned,   you  would  never  move.   )     you  needed  to  breathe  water.     this  makes  them  humid,   breathing  old  air  that  circulates  like  blood.     the  warmth  of  yourself,   between  you  and  me.     translated  through  time  until  words  no  longer  suffice.     they  don’t  need  to  exist,   when  enfleshed  in  a  hand  that  fits  into  another.     again,   there  you  are.     again,   here  i  am.     again,   the  assent  precedes  him.     in  the  wait,   jack  twirls  a  strand  of  her  hair  into  knots.     his  other  hand  offered  into  the  air,   for  her  to  see  his  dry  wrists.     his  blue  veins.     ‘   are  you  looking  for  me  to   juggle   you?   ’     a  raised  brow,   teasing  a  smile  onto  his  lips.     any  distraction  would  work.     how  unlike  you  to  resist  the  bitten  taste  of  your  own  hand.     he  won’t  recognise  how  they  wait  on  a  dirtied  path.     how  he  brought  them  out  early,   and  extending  her  time  standing  amidst  new  york  crowds.     ‘   i  have  many  talents   ( … )   giving  you  a  standing  foot  massage  is  not  one  of  them.   ’

[sikarius]

godfather   house   of   blues   in   brooklyn,   new   york   ⭑   *   18:00 hours ⸺ @avecaisar, for soledad.

tempo   and   rhythm   was   important   to   a   man   in   his   occupation,   you'll   find.   everything   in   the   natural   world,   even   silence,   had   a   rhythm   that   beat   irregularly   when   something   was   wrong.   red   eye   operatives   were   taught   to   match   it.   instead   of   making   no   sound   at   all,   they   followed   the   ebb   and   flow   of   the   natural   tone   of   the   location   of   their   kill.   it   caused   a   silence   less   unnerving   than   the   normal   one.   

music   was   something   wit   hadn't   thought   recreationally about   for   years.   the   distant   scratching   of   a   memory,   frozen   over   and   thawed.   but   music   existed,   he   reminded   himself,   and   it   was   loved.   

the   patrons   of   godfather   house   of   blues   were   oblivious   of   the   wolf   among   them,   but   they   were   safe   in   their   chairs.   wittaya   wasn't   hunting   tonight.   he   wasn't   working   at   all.   the   consistent   pain   in   his   side   told   him   he   had   to   rest   now   if   he   didn't   want   to   risk   adding   injury   to   injury,   and   the   sweet   smell   of   whiskey   and   desolation   lured   him   here.   

a   sway   of   dark   hair   drew   his   eyes,   and   he   tipped   his   head   politely.   "you   were   great   up   there,   ma'am."   a   pause,   surveying.   "   i   apologize,   i   did   arrive   a   little   late,   missed   your   name?"