haverton pier
yaris 17, 2719 ꧁꧂ after midnight
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yaris 17, 2719 ꧁꧂ after midnight
It was comfortably warm, even at such a late hour, a cool breeze blowing off the gentle waves below the pier. The water was dark, though moonlight glinted and glistened across each passing wave, and combined with the phosphor lanterns nearby, it was just light enough to see the expressions of anyone that had business being out this late. Perhaps the peaceful, salty air was what appealed to him most, perhaps it was the silence; he came to the pier often during the late hours of the night, and relished in the (relative) solitude.
"I miss the beds."
A pale gray gaze flicked over to his companion, the two men situated at the very end of the pier with their legs dangling off the edge. The other man's head was resting on his shoulder, dirty blonde hair covering his face and barely allowing him to see. Lars blinked, considering his companion's words as the breeze lifted his own hair away from his face, the snow-white strands brightened from the light of the moons.
"That seems like a strange thing to miss," replied the passive in a soft tone, "the beds here are softer. Lived in."
"But they don't feel like ours," his blonde companion shifted, sitting up straight to look him in the eyes. His face was nothing but a reflection of his own, a reminder of what once was, of what would never be again - but it wasn't unsettling.
"Nothing will. Stop dwelling on that place."
His words did little but irritate the other man, a small grunt escaping the blonde as he glanced out into the dark sky, the stars, the moons. Lars watched him with a veiled curiosity, observed the way the eerie light of the pier lit up blue irises but hid whatever lie behind them. His face was so pale compared to his own, so fresh and unblemished, so unremarkable. He never felt self-conscious about himself until he looked at him.
He felt like such a wretched creature in comparison. Ugly, twisted, but fully realized. He often thought that he would've been better off if he'd never come to this place at all. Maybe his diablerie would've never shown itself at all - certainly not twice, at the least, certainly not enough to warp his appearance.
"It's hard for me not to dwell on it when you think of it so often."
"Shut up, Lars," he snapped, and might've said more if it weren't for the distance sound of footsteps, approaching rather quickly. They thundered down the pier, passing by lanterns and charging straight for the white-haired man at the end. Lars didn't bother looking over as they sat down beside him, his companion dissipating as if he'd never even been there in the first place. He felt a cold hand fall upon his shoulder, accompanied by the slight shiver down his spine.
"Why ent ye at the Queen, Cailan?"
"Clock off, and stop touchin' me," shrugging off the man's hand, Lars finally looked over, though his eyes strayed upward to where his first companion stood above the newcomer, arms crossed and expression devoid of patience.
Just push him in. Let's go home, we've got to get back to work tomorrow,
and his eyes swept back to the man beside him, older by a decade or two, familiar only because of his frequent visits to the Queen. Lars didn't mind him much; he was fairly clingy and seemed to always know of his whereabouts, but he was just a bleeding heart. A man too often dragged to sea, away from the comforts of home and the sense of love it could provide. He couldn't blame him for getting attached to the only people he ever got close to, especially not when he was far kinder than many of the others. It was just annoying.
"Yer still too young t' be that sad," his name was Louis, a short human with more hair on his chin than on his head. He had the voice of someone that'd smoked since they'd been able, and his calloused hands moved to light a cigarette and offer it to the younger.
Lars took it between his fingers, bringing it to his lips to take a long puff, "who ever said I'm sad? Do I look sad to you?" and breathed out smoke to watch it get swept away by the breeze.
"Ne, s'pose not."
The passive hummed, taking another quick drag before handing off the cigarette to Louis.
"I miss the beds."
A pale gray gaze flicked over to his companion, the two men situated at the very end of the pier with their legs dangling off the edge. The other man's head was resting on his shoulder, dirty blonde hair covering his face and barely allowing him to see. Lars blinked, considering his companion's words as the breeze lifted his own hair away from his face, the snow-white strands brightened from the light of the moons.
"That seems like a strange thing to miss," replied the passive in a soft tone, "the beds here are softer. Lived in."
"But they don't feel like ours," his blonde companion shifted, sitting up straight to look him in the eyes. His face was nothing but a reflection of his own, a reminder of what once was, of what would never be again - but it wasn't unsettling.
"Nothing will. Stop dwelling on that place."
His words did little but irritate the other man, a small grunt escaping the blonde as he glanced out into the dark sky, the stars, the moons. Lars watched him with a veiled curiosity, observed the way the eerie light of the pier lit up blue irises but hid whatever lie behind them. His face was so pale compared to his own, so fresh and unblemished, so unremarkable. He never felt self-conscious about himself until he looked at him.
He felt like such a wretched creature in comparison. Ugly, twisted, but fully realized. He often thought that he would've been better off if he'd never come to this place at all. Maybe his diablerie would've never shown itself at all - certainly not twice, at the least, certainly not enough to warp his appearance.
"It's hard for me not to dwell on it when you think of it so often."
"Shut up, Lars," he snapped, and might've said more if it weren't for the distance sound of footsteps, approaching rather quickly. They thundered down the pier, passing by lanterns and charging straight for the white-haired man at the end. Lars didn't bother looking over as they sat down beside him, his companion dissipating as if he'd never even been there in the first place. He felt a cold hand fall upon his shoulder, accompanied by the slight shiver down his spine.
"Why ent ye at the Queen, Cailan?"
"Clock off, and stop touchin' me," shrugging off the man's hand, Lars finally looked over, though his eyes strayed upward to where his first companion stood above the newcomer, arms crossed and expression devoid of patience.
Just push him in. Let's go home, we've got to get back to work tomorrow,
and his eyes swept back to the man beside him, older by a decade or two, familiar only because of his frequent visits to the Queen. Lars didn't mind him much; he was fairly clingy and seemed to always know of his whereabouts, but he was just a bleeding heart. A man too often dragged to sea, away from the comforts of home and the sense of love it could provide. He couldn't blame him for getting attached to the only people he ever got close to, especially not when he was far kinder than many of the others. It was just annoying.
"Yer still too young t' be that sad," his name was Louis, a short human with more hair on his chin than on his head. He had the voice of someone that'd smoked since they'd been able, and his calloused hands moved to light a cigarette and offer it to the younger.
Lars took it between his fingers, bringing it to his lips to take a long puff, "who ever said I'm sad? Do I look sad to you?" and breathed out smoke to watch it get swept away by the breeze.
"Ne, s'pose not."
The passive hummed, taking another quick drag before handing off the cigarette to Louis.
