>> @SPIRITFINGERS | @ALL

[inconstantly]

while on bed rest i learned how to make pipes out of spider legs that i am now selling

60 ccs each or will trade for the spider tobacco equivalent

while i am exceedingly grateful for present and any company who has come to visit it gets very boring in recovery. place an order and give me something to do

or just send the tobacco my way

i'm not choosy

Comments

THE WATER BOTTLES ARE COMPLICIT

[inconstantly]

Dearest William, my charm is effortless.

[He returns the patronizing gesture with a smile, one that knows William's intent behind the pat. John is taking none of it and reaches back into the waistband to retrieve his credit card. Sure, it's useless now, but it's still his and he wants it back, especially if William had no proper appreciation for a gift.

When John grips the credit card he lowers his hand further below the waistband, careful not to make any skin-to-skin contact. Instead he presses the cold credit card fully onto the skin of William's lower abdomen, allowing enough time for the chill to seep through before retreating. He holds the card aloft between index and middle finger, dropping them both down and back up again to create an illusion of the card vanishing through sleight of hand.

With that out of the way John can begin to more fully examine the tattoo, touching his fingers to the lines on William's shoulder. He marvels at the otherworldly "ink", drifting his fingers where it catches the light.]

Not a bad consolation prize for dying.

[omniavincit]

[ William’s mouth clamps shut before he can take a gasping breath, before he can give John that satisfaction. Arms stiff at his sides, fingers curled. ] Stop touching my pants. [ He chides, feeling himself slipping into a familiar cringe of a smile. He's being fucked with, he knows it as certainly as he knows John, but there's still a second's doubt—a little bloom of dread as he realizes there's nothing stopping that hand from dipping lower.

He takes half a step back, rolling his eyes extravagantly at the parlor trick. Crossing and then uncrossing his arms, embarrassed by his acute sense of relief.

Nevertheless he lets John trail his fingers over the tattoo, looking on in silence, absorbed more and more in the play of the light. ] It was just there, I don't remember— [ William shakes his head. He sounds captivated, rather than confused. ] Does it mean anything to you?

[ He turns his gaze on the other man, a kind of insistent curiosity—a kind of fearlessness—in his eyes. ]

[inconstantly]

Only that it seems to solidify what I said before.

[When John looks up he meets William's gaze. The lack of hesitancy is welcome, different, a far cry from someone content to wait and observe before action. The touch of fingertip flattens to the length of John's hand and he tilts his head, examining the tattoo as if committing it to memory — from every curve to every trick of the light.]

You're a traveler, meant to see worlds beyond existence. And now you have bathed in the sea where life and death meet, leaving you with the mark of a story you won't soon forget.

[John inhales deeply and presses his hand into William's skin. In direct contrast to the cool metal his hard is warm. Comfortably so, but at too high a temperature for what the human body produces naturally. Tendrils of invisible heat trace every line of the tattoo, methodically snaking down along the design without John having to lift his hand. Through this extension of himself he can more fully see the roots, a full depiction from end to end.]

Remarkable really.

[omniavincit]

You have no idea, do you. [ There's a lightness to his voice, in his eyes. The words wash over him, pleasant and insubstantial. It's John's touch that holds him rapt, the warmth radiating from his hand transforming William's attention the way stained glass transfigures mere light into streams of color.

It feels like—well, it feels like feeling, heat and nerves blurring into some nameless emotion. Streaking through him.

He releases a tremulous breath. ] You didn't have to say anything. [ Not this time: no incantation, no Latin hurled across the room. A laugh catches in his throat, and he fights then succumbs to the urge to smile. ] Spiritfingers.

[inconstantly]

[John gives no indication that he's been caught in anything, giving a languid shrug of a single shoulder.] You asked what it meant to me. That's a good way to open yourself up to a bit of artistic license.

[But that's not the important thing. John happily lives up to his codename of Spiritfingers by drumming lightly on William's back, no more than one finger on each hand touching his skin at a time. Each one radiates a warmth, only to be pulled away and replaced again. Sometimes he deliberately taps against one of the lines of the tattoo, causing the heat to flare for a singular moment at a time.]

Not all spells require an incantation. Or maybe you just light the fire in me.

[They both know that second part is bullshit which is why John follows his comment with one of his customary winks that William loves so much. With the now warmed fingers John continues tracing the lines, contemplating the direction of the branches.]

Tell me what you're thinking, Louis.