dance with the devil || 13 + john [ past para ]
there is a small knot of apprehension. this is not something he is familiar with. and as feet tread the streets he knows so well, he feels almost like everything is foreign. perhaps a tinge of nervous anticipation then. not something he’s - felt - for a long time. nothing to creep beneath his skin and turn his stomach into a tumbling mass of butterflies. he remembers something similar, but then it had been attached to dread, to things which bore no manner of ‘good’ - to those harsh lessons learned and learned quickly. this?
this is different.
it’s not a foreboding that overwhelms senses. nothing that settles into his bones with a cold dread. this is an anxiousness perhaps borne of a worry of propriety. it’s new and it’s something that people... ‘people’ ( not jericho... certainly not 13 ) do. so he could probably do this. there are things which were necessitated and he has been very careful to abide by those things which were classed as ‘societal norms’. in fact, he’s been rather meticulous about it. he really doesn’t want to get it wrong.
there’s a crackle over the intercom as the door is buzzed open. 13 pausing in the wide hallway, taking in his surroundings - so vastly different from the basic simplicity of the basement. it was... plush. modern. sleek and stylish. there was colour instead of just grey. a splash of softness in a few sparse furnishings, and he wonders if john’s apartment is like this. thinks perhaps that his own -- home -- is rather paler by comparison. it’s clean. functional. nothing more. there’s a small twist of lips as he passes the elevator and takes the stairs ( something he has more of a tendency to do by instinct rather than conscious thought ) begins to climb... mind flickering to the challenge john had overcome... how he had - climbed - the red string seized from the empty elevator shaft, pulled from cables, held in clenched hand trembling with effort, skinned and bloodied, defiance and victory chasing the light in his gaze as 13 had laid down the next challenge - that fire which burned brightly even in the throes of exhaustion... perhaps then, this was john’s challenge to him. an invitation into his life - one which was... so very, very... different. a lesson to learn.
long legs take the stairs two at a time. though he’s not late. he is - never - late. he is on time. it’s four minutes to the hour. and as he reaches the top floor, only roof access above, a door is pushed open into another wide hallway. and he takes thirty seconds of those four minutes to pause, hand running through his hair - combed back and wrestled from it’s usual unruly state. presses hands down the front of his shirt, immaculately white, not a crease or a blemish to the surface. freshly shaven, skin smelling of soap and vanilla, no blood beneath his fingernails...
three minutes now, and his hand raises to knock against the door with the number he was given. maybe the preparation wasn’t enough - perhaps there was something he’d missed, though he had planned this since the invitation had been extended - there’s no time for further thought or adjustment as the door swings open... perhaps it would be enough.
“hello, john.”