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It seems that Lady Death had no sense for poetic endings, however — or perhaps just no sense of meter — either way, you'd failed to find your final silent rest, despite the rot that pulsed from the arm that was no longer you.
Such a pity... you'd been saving yourself for her, but it'd proved useless. Maybe, it was some failing of your own.
Once, before you met her, ice cold had overtaken you — the fear that you would vanish, not in time afar, but in the span of months. But that girl you had once adored — in her sweet, silent words that she whispered to you — she'd taught you serenity, grace amidst dreadful things, and after cherishing all she had left you, you were ready to follow her, to depart to your dearest, to meet again in death's soft embrace.
Ah, but just a hopeless romantic, that's all you were. Now, time had passed you both by, and you no longer searched for her face. She was woven into your very flesh, your spirit; now, that's all she was, a part of you. Acceptance was truly the hardest decision, when the zephyr whims of others blew one off their story's course.
Perhaps, it was because there was more to be written...
When you first arrived here, you had been in mourning, in search of nothing but quiet. These days, you were taking note of something, someone, new. Someone who made you wonder if you had been offered something of a second teacher— a teacher of what secrets, what answers lied in silence and what beauty you had failed to understand when you first had been given the opportunity, perhaps?
He often said he was cold— he said he'd still shiver in the burning heat; you were familiar with the feeling yourself, the chilled rot. The dolorous ache kept you ashiver, no matter what fever illed the world. It made you think that he also knew Death's touch, something of her grace.
You oft watched red drip from his fingertips, his lips. Even if he did know something of Her spectral chill, his heart also still beat, oh.
You failed to understand your previous lover, merely wished you did, despite never truly knowing her. Her silence, her power, it proved too much for how short a time you had to listen to her, learn her.
A sonnet of silence, to hear such a thing: it was a contradiction. You sought out stillness, but the body resented to be held in place too long, alas.
Perhaps you should ask him something, just to hear him speak? When he'd spoke of metaphor before, of his place in space's vast expanse, you'd loved every stanza.
It was night— the homeowner was busy with other things, he didn't ever disturb his guests while the sun slept.
You sat at the base of the flannel-patterned couch, off to the side — from here, you could make out some of his face, as he stared at everything below, while he clasped his hands over his head to protect him from everything above.
There was a lot to ask— a lot you didn't know. You were eager to learn, oh.
"You consider yourself an observer, an onlooker— have you yet considered that you, as your own anomaly of interest, are yourself being observed?"
He was slow to react, slow to look over to you, hands slightly spreading apart, leaving cracks in his armor.
"W-w-what?"
"You've spoken of a secret, one for the homeowner, but I'm afraid I can't help but listen along, attention rapt," you respond.
"Y-you w-want t-to k-k-know? B-but I'm n-n-not r-r-ready, y-yet..."
"To be kept in wait, is to be kept— I don't mind such a thing."
"O-oh..."
•┄∞◦:✦:𓉸:✦:◦∞┄•
He seemed to take your line about being kept quite seriously, as after you spoke it, you grew something of a little tail, who loved to follow.
It was quite enjoyable— going from occasionally glimpsing him while staying in separate rooms, to not missing a moment to onlook.
Now, he seemed to understand better, what you had meant by saying he himself was an object of observation. In-kind to that girl you once adored, he didn't mind — unlike her apathy, he actually seemed quite fond of it?
Like a cat seeking out an afternoon sunbeam to bask in, he found your gaze. If it was a possible source of unease that a beauty with a bit more ability to express themselves might object to your fascination— well, if you had such a worry, it was quickly put to rest.
He left one couch behind for another. You guess, despite appearances, this one must be less plain.
"Bodies are naught but holes, unable to hold things in their grasp— isn't there something beautiful in those lives that pass through our own?" you asked, reflecting on something he once said to the homeowner.
"I-I d-don't w-w-want to b-be l-left a-alone," he spoke softly, hooking his two index fingers together to pull them apart— testing each others weight as they failed to separate.
"No, it's quite unpleasant..." Having her taken away by those faceless men, you weren't at peace with it. A failing on your part, that lacking acceptance.
"...But an inevitable tragedy, I fear."
You shifted your dead limb.
"Maybe soon, I will commit my own offense, leaving others behind."
"Simply meet again later, then you can apologize for it, at least," someone butted in. You looked up at him— the man who sat atop the dresser.
He wasn't unfamiliar to you— you'd shared the same room for some days now, although you previously hadn't spoken much.
"You two might not be immortal in the same way as I, but you have no problem rising from the dead, right?"
Well, only these dead three made the contents of the room.
"I d-don't w-want to be l-l-left at a-all," the cold visitor repeated.
"If not even the immortal can avoid Her Lady, what can mere mortals hope for?" you sighed, "I'm sure the homeowner's shotgun will clarify to us that the Lady's leave is but temporary."
Although, you hoped he spared his bullets and let you walk your path alone.
"I-it's c-cold."
"As cold as you can get," the immortal visitor chimed in again.
"Living in fear of loss to come, leaves you mourning before the funeral bell has ever tolled," you, the poetic visitor, commented. Personally, you thought there was something to cherish even after someone's passing— your new muse's corpse, wouldn't there be something absolutely lovely there?
You admired him, half undead he was, but the Lady's refusal to welcome him kept the rot from setting in for either of you— your Adora, she changed everyday, you saw the beauty in that quiet transformation.
"I-I d-didn't even a-appreciate w-walking in the s-sun."
"How are you ever supposed to feel warm, if you never even take it in?"
Intriguing, that thought.
"...Rather than you lacking warmth, it might be you lacking the ability to feel it? We forget things, from when we die— Did you loose the memory of what warmth even feels like?"
"I-I've a-always b-been c-c-cold, e-even w-when I-I was a-a-alive."
He paused a moment, hand reaching up to touch his lips.
"A-and I-I c-can f-f-feel the w-w-warmth of m-my b-blood. I r-r-remember."
The immortal man simply shrugged.
"I know more than most— know that all this started in the forest, years back. But I don't know everything. Even Her little prophet doesn't seem to know that much, frankly."
You didn't know either, much of anything. But, you loved to learn.
An idea came to you. You excused yourself a moment— making a short trip to the kitchen before returning.
You held out a knife to immortal, handle out, blade in hand.
"Yakob, was it? Pardon me, but I only have one hand, if you could give me a clean slice."
He took it.
"Edgar, right? Make sure not to flinch, okay?"
Coat guy looked up, eyebrows pinched. "H-Holod. W-w-what's h-happening?"
Yakob cut a line in your palm, just deep enough to draw blood to puddle in your hand. You returned to sitting next to Holod, offering your open palm.
"Do you perchance mind?"
"M-m-mind w-what?"
"Holding my hand."
He stared down at your weeping wound, teeth biting into his lip.
A cold hand took yours.
"Is it warm?"
"N-no. I-it i-isn't."
You glance at Yakob.
"So, you must have forgot something of how to feel— if you can remember your own blood runs hot, but haven't the faintest of others."
Holod gripped your hand tighter, inciting a bit of pain to surface. You watched as his blue skin discolored, painted a different hue by your own brush.
"B-but if t-that's t-the c-case, a-aren't I a l-lost c-cause? I-I'm d-d-doomed, t-to f-freeze f-f-forever."
"Well, only if you're stuck not remembering. Rather, now that you have some hint of the problem, aren't you closer to solving it?"
Your blood dripped out of clasped hands, dropping beads onto the ground. Oh dear, you hadn't meant to make a mess.
Reflexively, you pulled your hand back, but he kept it held tight— black eyes swerved to question you.
"Alas, not to commit the offense of departing from you, but I should probably patch this."
Seemingly reluctantly, he freed you. Yakob hopped down from his perch—
"Now that you're down to no hands, I'll come help."
Ah. You hadn't thought of that.
Holod stared up, still seated.
"You gonna come and wash that off?" Yakob asked, gesturing to the mark you'd left on Holod's hand. Ah, you didn't mind it staying there a moment longer though.
"O-o-oh."
He tottered out to follow. Your party of three kicked the stoner out of the bathroom to make room, although he lingered, apparently having something to say—
"Dude, how'd you even get something that nasty? You gotta be careful!" he commented, before seeming to notice the bloody knife Yakob still held onto.
"I'll like, make some space. Keep clear n' all that."
You flipped on the faucet, letting it run too hot before you waved over Holod to rinse off his hand.
"Hot as it gets— do you feel any of it?"
"I-It j-just b-burns."
"Hey, let's try something else."
Yakob sidles himself in beside the two of you, turning off the sink. He covered Holod's eyes with one hand, and turns the sink back on with the other.
"Stick your hands in again. What do you feel?"
"It's c-c-cold. O-or h-h-hot? It s-still b-b-burns."
The faucet was set to lukewarm.
He turns off the faucet again, and reaches across to grab your hand, pulling it under the sink, just above Holod's, so they don't touch. He flicks on the sink again.
Pink water runs, lovely against blue skin.
"I-I s-still c-can't t-tell."
Yakob lets you go, and frees Holod's eyes while he's at it.
"If you aren't told somethings warm, can't see it for yourself, you can't even really distinguish at all. You'll have to remember, or you'll have to learn from scratch."
He glances at you, eyes squinted. Proud?
Something you hadn't expected of him, perhaps. Maybe he considered himself and erudite.
Holod finished rinsing off his hands, and sat himself on the rim of the bathtub. A mere day ago, a properly resting dead had occupied that tub. His dutiful widow had carried him away tonight, still in search of remembrance.
How lovely that love, how blessed. It was enough to inspire envy— you'd heard her tell the homeowner of her rescue, her liberation of her husband from the same kidnappers who'd taken your own love. A epic not your own, perhaps, but an inspiring devotion to a deathless love, none the less.
Would you have fought for your love if you hadn't already had sepsis in your veins, expecting to not last much longer at all? It was mere random chance she entered your life, so maybe you just found the random chance of her departure only right, and forgot to resist.
You wonder if you regret such a lacking choice?
You shook the water off your hands. Yakob had pulled out the first aid kit, and set upon bandaging the wound he had made. It amused you— the thought, that among the three of you, it was only his that remained bloodless. The knife sat in the bottom of the sink, rinsed clean.
"Immortal, huh? A pity..."
•┄∞◦:✦:𓉸:✦:◦∞┄•
In the morning, Yakob seemed to belatedly realize your meaning. Had he slept on it, perhaps?
"Oi, corpse-loverboy— did you say it was a pity I was an immortal, because you wouldn't get to admire mine?"
Ah, so he'd listened properly, when you confessed yourself to the homeowner. You offer him a placid smile of admission.
His mouth turned downward, showing teeth as his shoulders raised.
"...That's creepy, you know? I'm not immortal in that way, not like you think. I really will have a corpse— Guess I have to refuse to die before you."
"Ah, but in this cruel world, where men fend only for themselves, who else is there to admire your loveliness, but I?"
Too strange to live, too rare to die. The sentiment suited both Yakob and Holod perfectly— perhaps even yourself, at this juncture.
There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in proportion— here in this office, one could find both in great supply. Ah, what business to conduct with such fine supply, that was the question.
"Y-y-you t-think c-corpses a-are l-l-lovely?"
Your smile froze.
"Do you hesitate to agree, perhaps because of your disdain of bodies missing completion?" you ask, a bit hesitantly.
"...d'you really think he doesn't admire dead bodies just because they have more holes in them?"
That guy, he liked to intrude on conversations, quite mindlessly.
"I-I d-don't l-like a-a-anything a-about t-them. I d-don't w-w-want to s-see t-them."
But, dearest, you're sat in a casket with two of your fellows.
"...Not everyone sees beauty as I do. The silent haze of dusk, isn't it worth listening to?"
Maybe you should have refused to room with these two, who clung to forlorn thoughts of tomorrow.
"Ah, he's blushing, he's blushing."
Yakob left his spot, coming over to Holod's side of the couch. He offered Holod his palm, and having apparently learned the gesture's meaning from you, Holod gave him his hand.
Yakob pressed the back of Holod's hand to your cheek—
"Here, a reminder, Holod, this is warm—"
Black eyes latched onto your face, raised knuckles brushed your skin— the temperature difference was quite apparent, to you.
Oh dear.
You escorted his hand away, pressing it back into Yakob's—
"To clarify, three pairs of hands is warm, too," you muttered.
"I-it is...?"
He laughed at that, the immortal man. He took a seat on the couch too, on the other side of Holod. Disturbing the placidity of your perfect view, alas.
"What, don't trust us? Is it scary, that you have to?"
Holod startled at that— it seems the thought hadn't occurred to him yet, that he could be simply be lied to. His hands laced with one another, whitening from the pressure.
"A-are m-m-my h-hands w-w-warm?"
"They're cold. But not the cold absent of life, just—"
"Clammy, cold boy."
His eyes flickered to either side of him, uncertain.
"D-d-don't l-l-lie to m-me, p-p-please."
"I'll keep the poet in check, so you don't have to worry about him."
Yakob leaned against an arm bent against the back of the couch, his fingers resting just under his curled up lips.
You decided you must have provoked him, some way, some how, to have engendered this joy he felt, in his little sparring jabs.
"...rest assured, I'll make sure the jellyfish can't sting you either."
"Jellyfish?" and—
"J-jellyfish?" said in unison.
"There's one who repeats it's life cycle ad nauseam, restarting over and over— It's known as the immortal jellyfish, ah."
"...that better not stick as a nickname."
"I-it's c-c-cute, t-though?"
Upon hearing him protest, you decided it was already too late for him to regret. This bout, he seemed to have lost more ground in the end?
"Y'know what's also immortal? Doesn't show up in photos, only moves at night?" Yakob asked, defiance in his grin.
"Better ask the homeowner if he's got any bullets, before this vampire steals anymore of your blood—" Yakob threatened, trying to force you to give up your advantage.
"I think Holod might be more in search of blood than you— Even likes to drink it, no? It seems more fitting a nickname for him," you refuse.
"...V-v-vampires a-are l-l-less c-cute. B-but, it f-feels nice, a n-nickname."
You disagreed, a little vampire who didn't even want the blood, just wanted to feel the pulse of life from it— that was definitely cuter than some squishy invertebrate, ah.
•┄∞◦:✦:𓉸:✦:◦∞┄•
In the morning, there was some more noise in your supposedly quiet supposed resting place—
"Good question. Shame I don't have a gun, I'd ask you the same."
Ah, Yakob had gotten worked up while talking to the homeowner again. The homeowner left shortly, apparently having nothing to reply, and nothing new to check for today.
"Why do you provoke him? You truly don't fret death?"
Yakob huffed at your questioning.
"I shouldn't stick around much longer— I should go looking for my daughter soon."
You didn't hope to leave much these days. You sought silence, but you'd already failed once— perhaps in failing to capture your Adora's true beauty, you were short of being to achieve such an end for yourself.
"I-I h-h-hope you f-f-find h-her."
"I will, one day. Whether it's this life or the next. Then we'll scatter far away from here, somewhere FEMA can't reach us."
"This home is the quietest place I've found, I hope there is some solitude for the pair of you to alight on," you wished him sincerely.
Yakob roughs up his hair, before pressing a hand to his knee to lean upon. "It really doesn't get a bit on your nerves? His whole inspection nonsense?"
"...It bring some tension. Not upset," you clarify.
"I r-r-respect h-him. H-he's t-trying t-to h-h-help," Holod offers as his own answer.
"If he knew your secret, he'd shoot you, y'know?" Yakob questioned, irritation still running high.
Silence falls at that.
"...It usually e-ends b-b-badly, but maybe n-not this t-time," Holod finally whispered. "I c-can't g-grow c-close to a-anyone. A-All it b-brings is p-p-pain... and s-s-suffering. B-but i-if o-only there w-was a l-little w-w-warmth."
"You're surrounded by it— it's in every beating chest here, including your own. Pain, suffering, it's in every chest too." Were you attempting to comfort him, with your words? You didn't quite know.
"It's a package deal," Yakob affirmed, "To have warmth is to have something to lose."
It returned to quiet proper after that, the norm of how the day often passed. Did you really prefer such a thing, or was their beauty in both sonnets and silence?
After two handfuls of time, Holod murmured what seemed like a reply—
"I-I d-don't r-really w-want you to l-l-leave."
So, he had something to lose, but he still wasn't warm. How unfair, how cruel.
"Jellyfish, he hasn't actually confessed his secret— not the one that's a secret to us and the homeowner both. Wouldn't it be a shame, to know less?"
Erudite, where's your pride?
"...you want me here too, Edgar?"
"It'd be a shame."
Let Holod have his few days, his confession, so the loss could at least be in meter.
"...don't call me Jellyfish, then we'll talk."
You offered Holod a smile— all he had to offer in return was the smoothing of his brows from their creased upturn; you didn't mind, you loved every brushstroke of the painting you beheld.
•┄∞◦:✦:𓉸:✦:◦∞┄•
"Wanna to know a fun tidbit, Pygmalion?"
...had he finally come up with a nickname for you, then? Jellyfish, Vampire, then Pygmalion, it wasn't a very cohesive lot. They didn't rhyme, but somehow they still sounded nice together, oh.
"Word on the street is— Her Ladyship rejects those who reject her, fair n' square."
...so it had been something of your fault, how improper to accuse the Lady of poor meter. It seems you still had much to learn, of the beauty to tried to appreciate.
Pygmalion, not an inaccurate assessment. When you found her in walls abandoned, swathed in pale linen— only you had seen her visage of haunting beauty, her loveliness.
If you had not observed it, would had it ever been there? Had you not cradled her home, would she not have remained buried forever?
It seems unlike you, she properly accepted her passing.
"We can only continue to learn," you sighed.
"It's why I give the grace of sharing," preened Yakob.
"Y-you t-try to t-teach m-me t-thing t-too. I-I'm g-grateful."
"It's nice, to have such an avaricious student," Yakob joked, referencing Holod's namesake.
Holod didn't seem to find it very humorous, biting at his torn up fingertips. Between the three of you, there was one pair of hands still in order— both yourself and Holod were simply dragging down the count.
"..It's a compliment, ahem. We're all in search of something, y'know? It's only human," Yakob awkwardly rambled on, seemingly finding that small segment of silence unacceptable, and wishing to eliminate it entirely.
You wondered if you could get him to blush. Perhaps it would be easier to use the alternate method of bringing blood to the surfaced— simply slicing the man open.
"Hey, Jellyfish, do you get pinker, with the likeness of a rose, perhaps?" You asked, even though the species in question was a transparent blue.
He looked at you with utter confusion scrawled on his face.
"...Weren't you not supposed to call me that?"
"The vampire favors it— would you ask me to risk my neck?"
"I'm the one who will actually bite, y'know?"
You thought you spotted a chance— you loosened your tie, tilted your head up, and tugged your collar down—
"Go ahead then— fetch a worksheet for your student to do, ah?"
Ah, got him. He did indeed flush pinker.
You leaned over to nudge Holod from his reverie—
"Creature of the night, is the scent of memories clear?"
He snapped out of his own thoughts, looking to you in slight confusion, and then to Yakob for clarification.
Yakob seemed to flinch a little at his gaze, turning to stare at you sullenly. You tightened your tie back in its proper place.
"..Fine. Bloodsucker, c'mere, feel what you will."
•┄∞◦:✦:𓉸:✦:◦∞┄•
When dusk fell, as had become your habit, you moved over to the single chair by the window, staring at the faint changes in the white curtains as the dying sky's light bled into them.
"Busy thinking, staring at a blank white wall?"
"...so much lost. A lesson in letting go, taught to all of us, one by one."
"A-a-are y-you t-talking a-about t-the s-sunset?"
"To say the least," you respond, somewhat obliquely.
You tilted your head up, looking at Holod's face, cast in dull teals. Such a shame, to never see him in a different light.
"I-I m-miss t-the q-quiet l-life," he confessed, "I h-hoped to f-find p-peace here, a q-quiet p-place to r-rest."
You heard echoes of yourself ring in your ears.
Ah, it turns out with a verbose beloved, you didn't have to wish for the nothings your ears heard to be sweet, you simply had to savor them.
"Silence perhaps, is the loss rendered most severely from what we were," you agreed, echoing his mourning.
When you came here, you were desperate for the emptiness, the stillness, a quiet respite from the panic and screams that deafened your thoughts.
In this world, where the dead lacked rest, roamed sleeplessly, dreamlessly, it was only waking cacophony. Even you — with your monument, your beacon to guide you — couldn't find an end to lay down your head.
"To know peace, what a gift, that dwindling moment in time. It was all over, years ago. Fucking screw-ups," Yakob added.
You knew how much he resented those faceless men, it was often when speaking to the homeowner that specific topic would incite his anger.
"The end to everything dear— why is it never by one's decision?" you questioned.
"Who'd chose for the good times to ever end? Of course someone else has to come fuck it up," Yakob replied, stating the should-be obvious.
You supposed if someone was the cause of their own ruin, it would be a tragedy in a different sense. You think you would prefer it be by your own hand, none-the-less.
If Lady Death's refusal to welcome you had some cause — was indeed some failing of your own — that would be gentler on your soul.
"I-I d-didn't e-even a-appreciate w-when I c-could be in the s-sunlight. Y-yet, y-you're a-appreciating a s-sunset y-you can't e-even s-see."
Holod seemed upset at his comment, embracing himself. He always seemed to seek to protect himself, in some small gesture.
He liked to treat himself as if he was glassware, liable to shatter at any moment. Wary of some unseen knock, that could come from any direction, unexpectedly, and tip him straight to the floor.
But, he'd survived death once before— that little vampire, you failed to think him a frail thing.
"He's a lover of memories, y'know? Even ones so faded no one else kept."
"Is that how I appear? Or how you see me?"
So, he could only see white on the curtain, but he could see something more of you? Intriguing.
"I-I t-t-think it's t-true, t-too."
You startled at that, were you blushing again, so soon? The same assessment, from Yakob, it was a simple statement of fact, but from Holod? It sounded like praise...
"Ha! Are you joining in on keeping us honest?" Yakob also seemed to perceive the statement to have a different meaning from a differing speaker, just where you'd sourced embarrassment, he'd found some hilarity.
"I wasn't denying anything, just asking him to reflect on his assuredness," you clarified, fixing some tilt that your tie had found for itself.
"No need to reflect now, now that I've got Holod backing me up."
You give a sigh at that. A sonnet of silence, maybe it would sound prettiest from his lips.
Your attention shifted back to Holod, to find him staring fixedly at you. Not that he didn't stare at you occasionally, but this type of gaze— did he want something, perhaps?
It went quiet for a moment, before Yakob let out an "Oh."
He walked over to Holod, took his hand and pulled up from his seat, before bringing him over to you.
"Go on, you can have as many reminders as you want— he'll never mind."
Holod seemed to hesitate another moment, before his hand cupped your cheek. He leaned over to do it, other hand finding the armrest to support himself.
Oh, so that's what he wanted. It seems learning little else, he'd learn to seek this out, having been taught twice.
You wanted to disagree with Yakob, hadn't you said you'd call him out when he lied? You did mind in fact, quite entirely. But those thoughts inside your head, they remained just that.
Yakob leaned over, whispering in Holod's ear—
"Just so you know, he's quite a bit warmer this time than last. Not to give you a cheat-code for the test, but he's visibly redder, no?"
For someone just bemoaning the ills of external forces, you found yourself very content to be acted on, ah?
"Have you gained some feeling?" you ask.
"N-no. N-not— p-p-physically?"
Please, give your shame some meaning, would he?
"Guess you can only keep at it then," Yakob sighed. He threw you a parting grin, and left to laze across the stretch of the couch, abandoning his fellow man to sea.
So it was you, sat against a pastel sunset, with your muse leant over you, holding your face in his hand, slightly tilted up to meet him.
As a lover of beauty, your eyes rested on Holod by default— but at the moment, you were finding such a thing quite difficult.
"H-hey, l-l-look at m-me, w-will y-you?"
Ah, it seemed he objected to it though. You wondered if this was perhaps on purpose, to raise all the blood to your face, so that you were as hot to the touch as possible.
If it was, it worked well, as your eyes met his.
You were afraid you didn't quite know what to do anymore, other than quietly smolder in place.
You had previously found Yakob's tendency to interject an irritant; now it seemed, him exiting out of the way was also annoying! Forget enjoying the lack of agency, you were wishing some outside interference now— how insipid.
Maybe, if the flush faded from your face, you'd be freed from your predicament, but that wasn't something you could perform on command, ah.
After a minute, you were pretty sure you were starting to sweat, evidence that you were only getting hotter.
Holod shifted— you felt a pang of loss.
Oh, but he simply shifted to kneeling, looking up at you instead of down...
Narrow, black eyes. There was no pale chill of the moon, he wasn't any such antithesis of the cataclysm, rather its very thesis in full. Although he was often quiet, he wasn't at all silent— in the end, he lacked her power, but he had one of his own, oh dear.
Your hand reached out and cupped his face in turn.
"Desire another reminder, dearest, of something lost?"
You leaned down, a breathe away, to make your question clear.
"This too, is warmth."
You tasted something, of his flavor.
You hear a soft laughter, followed by motion. In just a dwindling moment of time, his lips left yours.
A hand pressed against his shoulder was the interfering cause— you were bemoaning with me earlier, others making decisions for you, so why are you now the one fucking it up!
A finger curled under your chin, your gaze forced to meet a squinted pair of mismatched eyes— one opaque black, the other the transparent version of the same color.
"Hold it, I'm not so sure about that—"
He lent down close, asking you the same silent question you'd asked Holod a moment earlier.
"Let me double check how really warm it is—"
Your palate expanded once more; another new flavor.
Always butting in, tsk.
"Hm, what is it?"
He broke first, pulling back to respond to Holod's tugging at his sweater.
"Ah, that's right. Want to know how warm it is?"
Holod's pouted lip screamed injustice.
"About this warm, ah?"
You watched, as they learned something of each other.
Ah, how beautiful.
"So much lost, say did you gain something back, or did you get you something shiny and new?"
Some formless noise of complaint left Holod's mouth. You should really spend more time studying him, your Galatea— it seemed you were not yet the most proficient interpreter.
"Oh, come on then—"
It seemed Yakob had the edge on you by some measure— he offered Holod a hand, and pulled him to his feet.
Holod settled on the right arm of the chair where you sat, while Yakob took the left... hey, there was a three seater couch in this room, did anyone remember?
Holod made a noise of complaint again— you didn't need to be told thrice, he wanted attention, right?
It was no problem to give it to him.
•┄∞◦:✦:𓉸:✦:◦∞┄•
When next you and the homeowner spoke, he seemed a little uncomfortable— just a tad more than his usual awkwardly silent demeanor.
He didn't seem to know how to speak with you individually, while you where being clung to on both sides— Yakob's feet were kicked up on your lap, while Holod's cowering somehow involved holding your hand.
"...Is he doing better?" the homeowner asked, gesturing to Holod; it felt strange, that he ask you.
"If you're asking about his temperature, not in any way I know of."
Perhaps it wasn't a problem that could be solved. Holod seemed to like trying though.
He didn't seem to gain any warmth from your newfound skinship, but he sought it out anyway— an act of a gambler, chasing a winning roll, or an act of a student, studying diligently despite not understanding the material, you couldn't say.
"If you're asking in general, though, he's got some more chipper to him." Yakob helpfully stated the part you'd left unsaid.
The homeowner raised a brow, but didn't ask.
He did ask to check Holod's hands though— even though he didn't even have nails to check, just empty beds.
The homeowner left without anything else to say. He seemed to lack energy these days— waking up each morn' to the smell of another death, it seems it was taking it's toll.
...your apologies.
"We're not aliens. We're living creatures, just like him, and just as native to this planet as they are!"
He'd managed to hold it in while the man with the gun was here, but it seems Yakob got riled up again— really, he might lower his voice a tad.
"I-I d-don't m-m-mind..."
"Don't tell me you don't mind, when he shoves that shotgun in your face! These checks are fucking stupid! Why waste bullets on us anyway— they'd be better spent on those FEMA goons that don't even pretend to be human!"
Yakob seemed more upset than yesterday— was it because Holod was involved? Holod bore the fear of Yakob leaving, now in exchange, Yakob feared Holod dying? Careful, immortal, of what lessons mere mortals can teach you.
"...I d-don't l-like the g-gun. W-waiting is w-worse than d-death," Holod admitted, "Why d-does anyone n-need to d-d-die? M-Maybe it was n-never n-necessary to b-begin with?"
Did he view the checks and the threat of the gun as separate acts? Sure, the homeowner didn't always pull out his gun, didn't always shoot. But it was always implicit, a part of the action.
"Every time he asks you if your human enough, he asks if you deserve to live. It isn't mindless curiosity he sates," you say, drawing the line clearly.
"On the word of that box of lies; he doesn't know a lick of what's true! He can shoot me if he really wants— but mark my words, I'll come back and snap his fucking neck."
The violence of that comment seemed to affect Holod, he retreated further into himself, pulling your arm along with him. Ah, he got properly scared.
"I-I'm t-t-tired of l-living l-like this. We're here, s-sitting c-cozy. M-M-Meanwhile, s-somewhere else, s-someone else was k-killed in their o-own h-home. W-Why?"
"If only there was such a thing, as a why. Rhyme and meter— those are human, constructed things."
"I-In the v-vastness of s-space, s-stars j-just e-expand, c-collapse and c-collide. M-must I o-observe? If I-I was n-n-needed, of some u-use, would I be a-able to c-change a-a-anything?"
"We can certainly change ourselves! Sure, someone might come fuck it up! But we'll have chosen something for ourselves." Yakob moved to sitting on the coffee table, so he could pull Holod's hands from atop his head, holding them firmly.
"You want to change, right, don't want to be stuck as you are? You shouldn't stay here— there's no peace here you to rest your laurels, you should leave with me!"
Maybe you'd been a bit black and white in your thinking— thinking it was either one's own fault, or they were absolutely faultless in the own fate. It was own choices that intertwined with the choices of others to produce the randomness of the result.
He pulled Holod a little forward, leaned in himself, speaking from within the crook of Holod's neck—
"You can help me look for my daughter, that's more useful, right?"
"W-w-would I r-really h-h-help?"
"I'm immortal, you can't hurt me. I'll just come back and demand you kiss any wrong better, okay?"
Holod bent his neck to press into Yakob, eyes flickering shut. When they next opened, they looked at you.
"...let's depart, shall we?" you suggested lightly.
When the end comes, you shall say that all you ever did, you did with love.
Yakob looked up at you too— grinning. He grabbed you by your collar, pulling you over to give you a momentary kiss. He then slapped you on the back, seeming to need a variance of ways to express his approval of your choice.
"M-maybe this t-time w-will r-really be d-different," Holod muttered, managing a faint smile.
"Tomorrow, then! I stuck around here too long anyway! Well, it was worth it in the end!"
"Secured yourself some less lonely travels, hm?"
Yakob and Holod glanced at each other, apparently not sure who the question was for.
"Well, I have," to clear the confusion, you answered for them.
•┄∞◦:✦:𓉸:✦:◦∞┄•
Holod went over to check the curtains, peering outside into the night. Did he wonder what lied outside, now that he had chosen to venture beyond these walls?
Him, lifting the curtains, seemingly half-draped in them, it brought a thought to your mind—
"You would look so lovely in white..."
Holod startled at the comment, looking towards you to confirm it was about himself.
You watched as his whole face flushed with embarrassment, well, purple was a lovely shade for him too.
"...Don't get so heated, Holod. He doesn't mean wedding clothes, he means a shroud," Yakob clarified with disgust.
"You really have to stop telling men you're into they'd be so hot as a corpse. Really, please."
...You had tried to be subtle about it. He was the one who put it all on the table like that. Ah, but you knew that about him by now, no?
A jellyfish who liked knowing things, and he liked proving he did by sharing it with those around him.
Seems you hadn't picked up one teacher, but two.
"S-still—" Holod stuttered. You waved him over to you— might as well take the chance to confirm, while it was available.
Yeah, his cheeks burned as hot as your own, when blood rushed to them. Maybe even hotter, as your bandages muted his warmth.
"It's only fair," you offered as explanation. He nuzzled his face into your touch, seeming to agree. Or maybe, he hadn't needed any justification from you.
"B-b-before w-we l-leave— I th-think I'm ready. I w-wanna share my s-secret, o-okay?"
"Ha, good for you, finally worked up the spirit!" Yakob congratulated. He paused a second, before speaking hesitantly, "...should I go get the homeowner for you?"
Holod shook his head, "N-no. I tr-trust b-both of y-you, j-just y-you."
They say the living take something of the dead if they lingered beside them too long; you had once wondered if it was the other way around. Now, here you sat dead and unburied, taking joy and pride from the dead— it seems, whenever you lied next to someone enough, such flimsy distinctions didn't matter.
Yakob laughed, a happiness that felt your own. Yakob had made his choice, you yours— and now, Holod was making his own.
"U-Under these c-clothes is, I believe, the r-reason for my c-c-cold and l-loneliness b-both," Holod confessed, hands twisting at the bottom of his sweater.
White, purple, green, it was all pretty. Whatever he had to show you, it was always beautiful.
"Look."
