But I'll ride home laughing [RL]

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[It's a Friday night. Closer to Saturday morning. Kirei tends to wake up early, when he sleeps at all. Fridays are no exception. He hopped out of the bar earlier. Gilgamesh, of course, still had work to do. Well. A certain definition of work. It tended to involve climbing rooftops with various bottles in hand.

But it's the type of late that's starting to seem early, so Kirei tries to catch some sleep by the tail. It's illusive today. Just when he thinks he's got his finger on it, it slips away. Uneasy. That's the word for the feeling. A roll in the gut that won't stop churning. He shuffles his blankets and pillows in the hopes of pinning sleep down. He avoids the still slightly pained shoulder. There are some problems advil can't solve.

This is one of many.]

Comments

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[It is strange, to not have a rumble spring up as Kirei awakes in time for his classes. A complaint as he shifts. Gods don't get cricks in the neck. Apparently. And it is strange, to not have to dodge a pile of blankets as he walked. To be able to click the light on as soon as he woke up. The sheets kicked off in the night, which lacks a nearly disheveled pile on the floor of the bed to join them.

But awake he does. Firmly Saturday now. No homework to contend with. He could sleep in, if he wanted. Roll over. Go back to sleep. But he shuffles off the sleepy coil. Lets his feet find flat slippers. Wanders into the main room in search of tea and breakfast. Not paying attention to the time that blinked on digital clocks. Glances at the front door. The smudges in front of it.

Meh. Tea first. Cleaning second. The floors creak and shift beneath his feet.]

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[Kirei runs cold. Always has, always will. A chill in his veins. Especially his hands. And yet he kicks the blankets away at night. Still, the slippers come in handy. The heater's been on the fritz anyhow. It let cold seep into the floorboards or linger in the morning.

He glances up at the gleam of gold that heralds Gilgamesh's awakening. Faint surprise on his face, though he recovers well enough. Early for him. Very early. Usually it'd take a very sharp stick to get him up before noon, and Kirei lacked sticks he was willing to risk.]

I see you're up in time for breakfast. For once.

[He puts the kettle on. He glances back at the mess on the floor. The scuffs and the dull blood. He feels faintly ill. The stirrings of a sickness in the head. Still subtle. But clearly on the approach. He looks away, though he doubts it will banish the feeling.]

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[He sets to making eggs. Retrieves the pan. Sets it on the burner. Grabs the eggs from the carton. Taps twice on the flat of the counter. Separates the shells. The sharp crack of it. Splits them over the bowl. Whisks with a fork. Pours a bit of milk. Keeps whisking. A rhythm to it. Repeated often. Not even interrupted by the hop up the counter, the lean and the lear and the lure of it all.

Butters the bottom of the pan. Watches it go from pale yellow to brown. Pours the eggs. Watches the steam hiss up. No hum to his steps, no tune to his voice. Practiced to the point of it seeming careless. A step and then the next. One after the other. Glances at him. The hang of jewelry that never catches. The cross of legs. The sleep still clinging to his hair.

Considers it with a hum.

Retrieves the hot sauce from the cabinet.]

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There isn't much to explain.

[A glance away. To the left. And down. To the place where blood's congealed on the floor with the dirt. The smoke still builds from the eggs. The crinkle of the frying pan as it cooks. The addition of salt, and shreds of cheddar cheese. The distance larger than that. Imposing. Like of a great chasm which would swallow him whole if he let it.

So he won't.

Not today.

The way blood wells from cuts. The way skin heals from burns. The way candle wax drips and seals and oozes and freezes. The edges of cross. The clinging of rosary beads. The way a bed dips when it's sat in. The way the sheets get mussed. And hair. The way bandages are wrapped and unwrapped. The look in the eyes when light fades away.

He discards it. The eggs will be ready soon.]

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[The eggs finish. He tips them out of the pan and onto a plate. Pours hot sauce on it. A thinness to it. Orange-red. Not at all like blood. Or ketchup, for that matter. Hears the kettle whistle. Pours tea into a mug. Plain. Ordinary. The steam rising off. The bag pressed down with a spoon. Stirred. Squeezes lemon in the amber-red liquid that grows and spreads like ink inside the cup.

Returns his gaze to Gilgamesh. Like a magnet, inescapably pulled. The hand near bandages that have not bled through just yet. He knows they way they do at times. The way they stick to skin. He knows it all by heart, or what counts as one with him. Sometimes he isn't certain he has one. He remembers the way she faded away. The conviction in her eyes as they dulled, beneath the bandages.

The mess left behind.

He raises a fork in Gilgamesh's direction. He lacks knives within reachable distance. The point is clear, regardless. A rumble of voice. Not quite a scoff.]

Don't touch it.

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[He sets the spoon down. Takes a sip of tea.]

On purpose?

[He considers it. Almost waffles. Thinks as he spears some egg with the fork. Wonders if Gilgamesh will follow the movement.]

No. Not really.

[A bite of breakfast. The point hovers above his head like helicopter blades. He almost smiles, as he takes another sip of tea. Places the mug down on the countertop. Absently. An almost scoff to the tone.]

Most people have more sense than to toy with their injuries to make a point. If you'd like to keep your sprain longer and get bandaged again, though, be my guest.

[A look back up. A faint smile. Here for an instant, gone in a flash. Flat again as he spoons bits of egg onto the fork. He doesn't dare turn his back on Gilgamesh. The plate of eggs and mug of tea in the no man's land between them.]

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[Ice water flows in his veins instead of blood. The tea mingles with it and spreads warmth. An almost scald. An almost burn to the back of his throat. The citric of lemon. The bittersweetness. He holds the mug carefully aloft. Hand curled around it. The impression of a squeeze. He sets it down on the countertop now and then. Watches the curls of heat escape from it.

Gilgamesh scares him, sometimes. Obvious, he knows. He scares everyone. Ought to. But there is such a lure in his brilliance. A sort of shine. A pull, now and then. No one holds out long against it. It's like fighting against the tides. The curl of sea foam along the shore. Dragging his feet out from under him to shipwreck.

His smiles are like warning bells. The deadliest of chimes. So why does he stay here within range, as his hands going about the business of breakfast as always. His eyes may widen. The realization that, too late, he may have been swept out to sea. Gotten lost in the undertow.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the kettle. Warped and stretched. He doesn't find any answers in it.

He shifts his gaze back to Gilgamesh.]

It seems you like the souvenirs.

[And the bruises he left behind.]