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To say that he was dead would have been an understatement. Christian had clawed his way out of his own, shallow grave before he had been found by Reagan. He was cold, his skin drained of color and his hair now stark white from the shock of it all.
He deserved it but he was still left with a trembling anger that shook him at night, that could not be assuaged by the warmth of his boyfriend. He was dead but he could not remain dead. His wounds would knit together, he would wake up in the dirt, alone and confused. Effectively, Christian Avitia was immortal.
He pulled at his long hair, the silver strands falling around his ghastly pale face in waves. Ah, his hair. He had not cut it since his first death, it was nearly at his mid back now. He pulled it into a strangled ponytail and grunted his disapproval, slipping outside into the midday sun.
He wanted to shop, without Reagan, left alone to his own devices to explore downtown Olive. Maybe he would find something nice to bring his spirits up; perhaps he could, for a moment, escape his overbearing lover for merely a moment. Yes, Christian was aware the man was afraid, he was afraid he would lose him again.
The Lich found his way to the mall, mindlessly flipping through the racks of some little outlet store, humming along to the deafening song that was left bit-crunched through the stores shitty radio. It smelled heavily of perfume and bodies; he could acutely sense he was not alone here. It was bold to assume he would be alone in any retail store, there would always be someone.
But this someone was acutely aware of Christian’s presence. He could hear the uptake in their breath, the pumping of their blood. What reaction was this, he wondered as his gaze lifted, pupils sharpening into slits.
“Can I assist you?”
