#sitrvn

[omjchx]

“Do you know how absurd you sound?” He stares at the man for a long time, looking with his dark eyes over the rim of said teacup. The air between them is both flat and electric, wavelengths dancing invisibly… but oh, Sitron can feel them. It both irritates and intrigues him, with his hair tugged back into a loose ponytail and cascading black over his shoulders and back.

“Once one burns something, it cannot be undone. I should know that better than anyone.” And he sips his tea, weighing the possibilities about this unheard-of food. “Personally, I have never come across it. Tofu sounds unpleasant. I hope I never need to try it, especially in the context you’ve just said it.” But he feels like Omijacha is trying to compliment him, suspiciously, and so he offers him the very faintest of mouth-twitches.

“I hadn’t asked you to turn a duck into a horse , Egg, really.” Om sits back, picking at a loose string hanging from the button of his shirt. He wants a cigarette. He wants to walk away from the mistake probably burning a hole through the plastic coffin it’s wrapped in and feed his addictions.  “ I thought we could circle around it,” he gives a low sigh, misses the dark veil of a glance in his direction and with folded legs he leans forward to pick at the gold imprinted on the rim of his own tea-cup. “--or I carelessly had a certain ..approximation,” his glance upward is sweeping, When’s the last time -- the prince wonders, that he’s simply looked at someone without the taste of hot coals on his tongue?  

[emphxtix-blog-blog]

"I just want to try something.."

…my character will react to yours saying that and then…

tracing a word against their back

          After a mildly tumultuous meeting, Sitron and Clarté had fallen into a comfortable arrangement that relied on mutual…neutrality towards one another. They were fond, and Sitron certainly possessive, but their roles were far from clearly defined. They weren’t lovers, as their touches had barely gone farther than simple kisses and Clarté saw and felt no pink in them, but he couldn’t say they were friends either. With a soft sigh, the young empath lifted himself from the bed to stand by the window and admire the falling rain, a hand resting delicately on the glass. He wasn’t sure when Sitron lifted himself from the bed as well, only absently sensing the very tip of his finger trailing over the delicate skin of his lower back. He was hardly familiar with the characters, but he lowered his head and let the other forge on writing on his skin. It was intimate, but intimacy never scared one of his kind.

[emphxtix-blog-blog]

He walks down the street hair flowing long along the breeze (it's to his waist, what a surprise) and black overcoat contrasting with his less than pale skin. both intriguing and intimidating, the Prince seems to glide along the streets like the geisha he once loved, hardly taking notice when he knocks somebody out of their path.

Clarté is startled as he's pushed out of the taller man's way, gray eyes finding their way up to his face as he watches him curiously. It's a wonder this man doesn't have the entire crowd staring at him as he walks down the street. He's not usually one to speak up when someone hits him in the street, but today seems to be lining up to be Not Clarté's Day. "Excuse you--"

[omjchx]

sitrvn replied:

"I." He expects more from the young man, but there’s some little seething doubt on the back of his mind. It’s unexplained unrest, some irrevocable sense of impending upset. Not that he cares— for all its worth, what would the Heartbreaker do to him? How did he know who he was speaking to— there was nothing that escaped Sitron. Nothing. He was fire.

"Such a strange sight, a look of insinuated hatred on a face so young whilst it looks upon something it cannot understand." His hair flows long to his waist, as black as the gloves on his fingers, as black as the charcoal ruins from his past.

"So tell me, you Prince of broken hearts. Why are you here?"

" I am not slow," Omijacha retorts folding his arms in front of his chest, the warm lining of his overcoat ( he won't give it up, not yet and although it's starting to grow worn in the last few days, he refuses,) is a comforting feeling as it hugs his skin. "Maybe I do understand, and I say maybe because you?-" There's a difficulty in the way he wants to address the elder man, - the respect that he has for him is wire thin and cutting. " You, are not a difficult man to understand," he finishes, consonants hard on the edge of his tongue though his eyes do not reach the flickering embers trapped in the others with the fear of being burnt by them. 

"Also, I don't have to tell you anything. It's my business where I walk --there is no-one that fears you enough here to give you whatever you ask,"  and Omijacha knows with the way his teeth pinch the inside of his cheek and he tastes iron under his tongue, that the people here are much different--borderline strange. "But-" he can't give up the urge to draw stories, the lifting of his voice from it's hiding. "If you must ask however-- I am here simply to buy this world's flesh-- it's land and it's lovely daughters for my keep. " Omijacha opens his palms out and bare, showing his bony fingers. "You're too late, Egg."