[ No. I won't. As easy as the words heel. Elias stays hunched, shoulders rolled inward and into himself, and he huffs a laugh and the sound of it is wet, clicking into the back of his throat. A laugh even though it isn't funny. Tears, even though he's not, for a single minute, a single fragmentary second, mournful.
He still has his jeans on. His boots, even. Yet he can feel her hand up his calf and his teeth itch, every part of his body uncomfortable, skin too tight, coiled strength and discomfort. His lips, chapped, when he exhales a long shudder, finally opening his eyes and looking at her. ]
No.
[ They don't need to be alive. ]
It's better, if it—
[ He's never had to explain it. Put words to it, this vile, profane, fucked up thing he shares with so few. That so clearly makes him unhuman. He shakes his head, violently enough that stray strands unstick from behind his ears, fall messily over his forehead.
The last time this happened, more appetite than lunar, Elias followed a man on a greyhound bus. The guy had looked the type: ill-fitting clothes, yellowing teeth. 5'6", maybe 5'7". He hadn't finished him and left him there on the side of the road, offal for the earth. The next meal for the desperate predator with a stomach to keep themselves alive, picking the dirt clean. ]
Can get by on a little, if it's recent. If it's warm.
[ He's more wolf than man. The measure of a person, the sight that calls, even something as pedestrian as belief — Elias has none of those things. But he looks at Johnny anyway, studying the careful, cool planes of her face, when he says, quietly, ]
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He still has his jeans on. His boots, even. Yet he can feel her hand up his calf and his teeth itch, every part of his body uncomfortable, skin too tight, coiled strength and discomfort. His lips, chapped, when he exhales a long shudder, finally opening his eyes and looking at her. ]
No.
[ They don't need to be alive. ]
It's better, if it—
[ He's never had to explain it. Put words to it, this vile, profane, fucked up thing he shares with so few. That so clearly makes him unhuman. He shakes his head, violently enough that stray strands unstick from behind his ears, fall messily over his forehead.
The last time this happened, more appetite than lunar, Elias followed a man on a greyhound bus. The guy had looked the type: ill-fitting clothes, yellowing teeth. 5'6", maybe 5'7". He hadn't finished him and left him there on the side of the road, offal for the earth. The next meal for the desperate predator with a stomach to keep themselves alive, picking the dirt clean. ]
Can get by on a little, if it's recent. If it's warm.
[ He's more wolf than man. The measure of a person, the sight that calls, even something as pedestrian as belief — Elias has none of those things. But he looks at Johnny anyway, studying the careful, cool planes of her face, when he says, quietly, ]
You shouldn't be askin' me about this.