But I'll ride home laughing [RL]

[structuraldefect]

[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

[structuraldefect]

[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.

[structuraldefect]

[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.]

[structuraldefect]

[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.]