sunday_reveries: The first requisite...
Prompt: The first requisite for immortality is death. --Stanislaw J. Lec
They Do Not Love that Do Not Show Their Love
It's a hot night in Atlanta. The sun is down and the temperature is still well above eighty Fahrenheit. It's sticky. St. John and Shayera are on a blanket set out on grass in a park, watching a play.
Shayera shifts. She was quiet through the first act, and St. John kept her busy kissing him during intermission. He knows she's been waiting to say something. She turns. "I don't like this play."
He arches an eyebrow. "Should you?"
"It's Shakespeare."
"So?"
"You like it."
"So?"
She sighs and looks away. "I want to like what you like."
"If you liked everything I like, you'd be me. And I don't have any interest in fucking myself."
She turns back, smirking. "You touch yourself. Until you orgasm."
"Masturbation isn't the same thing."
"Okay."
He knows she didn't know the word for it until that moment, but it doesn't matter. He wonders what the Thanagarian word for masturbation is. He wonders how she could have spent this long on Earth and not known the word masturbation. He decides he's lucky he has her, and the other men were stupid for letting her go, not for the first time. "Do you want to leave?"
"No."
They're in a space set apart from everyone else. Near enough so they can hear, but isolated enough so they can talk. He has his arm around her. Her jacket is on, which they argued about for a few minutes before they left home. He told her it would be hot, she told him there would be too many people in one place for too long. Eventually he gave in. He's learned to choose his battles over her wings. "What don't you like about it?"
"Everyone dies."
"Not everyone. But it's a tragedy. The only people left to live are the innocents, to tell the story to someone else. Everyone else dies for their sins."
"That's not how it works."
"Life? Or drama?"
She's quiet for a minute. "Oh."
"Oh," he answers back, leaning in to kiss at her neck.
She pushes him away, but she's smiling. "Only you would find death arousing."
"Says the woman in love with a corpse."
Her smile fades. "What did you call it?"
"Necrophilia."
"You're not a corpse." Her voice is hard.
He looks into her eyes. They're shining. He sees himself reflected back. "I know."
They Do Not Love that Do Not Show Their Love
It's a hot night in Atlanta. The sun is down and the temperature is still well above eighty Fahrenheit. It's sticky. St. John and Shayera are on a blanket set out on grass in a park, watching a play.
Shayera shifts. She was quiet through the first act, and St. John kept her busy kissing him during intermission. He knows she's been waiting to say something. She turns. "I don't like this play."
He arches an eyebrow. "Should you?"
"It's Shakespeare."
"So?"
"You like it."
"So?"
She sighs and looks away. "I want to like what you like."
"If you liked everything I like, you'd be me. And I don't have any interest in fucking myself."
She turns back, smirking. "You touch yourself. Until you orgasm."
"Masturbation isn't the same thing."
"Okay."
He knows she didn't know the word for it until that moment, but it doesn't matter. He wonders what the Thanagarian word for masturbation is. He wonders how she could have spent this long on Earth and not known the word masturbation. He decides he's lucky he has her, and the other men were stupid for letting her go, not for the first time. "Do you want to leave?"
"No."
They're in a space set apart from everyone else. Near enough so they can hear, but isolated enough so they can talk. He has his arm around her. Her jacket is on, which they argued about for a few minutes before they left home. He told her it would be hot, she told him there would be too many people in one place for too long. Eventually he gave in. He's learned to choose his battles over her wings. "What don't you like about it?"
"Everyone dies."
"Not everyone. But it's a tragedy. The only people left to live are the innocents, to tell the story to someone else. Everyone else dies for their sins."
"That's not how it works."
"Life? Or drama?"
She's quiet for a minute. "Oh."
"Oh," he answers back, leaning in to kiss at her neck.
She pushes him away, but she's smiling. "Only you would find death arousing."
"Says the woman in love with a corpse."
Her smile fades. "What did you call it?"
"Necrophilia."
"You're not a corpse." Her voice is hard.
He looks into her eyes. They're shining. He sees himself reflected back. "I know."