hey guys! i participated in the @soulmakazine2018 with @ahshesgone and this is my entry! please see HERE for ash’s i n c r e d i b l e art; she was the best friend and inspiration for this, and i’m so thankful for her influence on this piece.
i hope you enjoy!
“Pass the salad, wouldja?”
Forks and knives clink on Tsubaki’s finest china while everyone tucks into the mountains of food before you. It is the biannual Spartoi dinner, an event that had grown organically once the mental scars from the battle on the moon made themselves known. You started coming because you thought humans needed companionship during rough times, but you are no longer certain you know anything about them at all.
Ox is chewing with his mouth open to your left. A gob of something lands on your arm with an impact soft as a fly and just as pestilent, drawing all of your focus to that small spot near the crook of your elbow. You can almost feel the saliva eating into the fabric, sinking closer and closer to your skin and then what will you do, then how will you keep the contamination from spreading through your skin through your veins inside your mind –
“Dude, the salad. Or do you need that in writing, too?”
Black*Star’s sneer splits your focus. His right eye is a nauseating blend of pallid yellow and deep purple, and there are many more small scrapes along his chin as if he had been knocked onto the pavement. Given the jobs he takes these days, he likely had been.
You tell yourself that Ox’s spit will not actually rot you from the inside out, and pass the bowl overflowing with vegetables Tsubaki must have picked from her garden. He takes it from you and doesn’t care that his fingertips slam into yours, doesn’t care that dead skin cells from the both of you are now in free fall, becoming dust.
“Would anyone like more to drink?” Tsubaki asks from the head of the table, a carafe of red wine in hand.
“Please,” says Maka from her right, and Soul shifts beside you.
“Same here,” Kilik adds, one arm around Black*Star and the other around his wine glass.
Yours is empty. It appears your father was right about your humanity, or rather, your distance from it. Alcohol does not affect you as it does your peers, sleep has only ever been a choice, and the smile lines you see at the edges of Tsubaki’s mouth will never crease your face. You are a visitor in their world, an observer and an escort. You do not need to fit in, though you wonder why you share their feelings. Loneliness seems unbecoming for a god.
(rest under the cut, or on AO3)
like crystal glasses, falling
Published
part-time recluse 