psychoshenanigans | Paradisa // Not-So-Canon

Entry tags:

pharos,
zelman

Paradisa // Not-So-Canon

Zelman is in kind of a mood. Not that he's ever not in a mood these days, but today it's particular. It's a little irritated, a little anxious, a little flighty. All of those bad things that lead him to making rash and impulsive decisions.

So after showering and making himself look all nice (which is, weirdly, something he does more out of boredom than necessity because, as a vampire, he tends to stay looking mysteriously and inhumanly good no matter what), he starts thinking over who he could bother. The moon is full, which might be why no one seems quite fitting of the night. He ends up standing and staring out his window for far too long, hair drying, lost in pointless spirals of absent thought.

But that gets old too. Eventually he settles on the one person he actually likes, and calls Pharos' name to see if he'll show up this time. He has yet to experience a time where he doesn't show up, but for some reason... The realization that he'll come at just the sound of his name is always a pleasant surprise.

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Full moons, strangely enough, always leave Pharos feeling a little restless; they remind him of when he was in pieces, important parts of him scattered about that rampaged every full moon. The pieces that Minato had effectively returned to him, but they still shifted and growled whenever the moon was bright in the sky.

After two years in Paradisa, of course, little urges like that are easy to ignore or overcome, as Pharos often has strange and inexplicable urges that can only be blamed on being around humans.

Still, restless or not it's quiet, and - all too glad for the company - Pharos appears the moment that he's called for, perched on the arm of a chair in the room.

"Good evening, Zelman."

Ah, there he is. Barely a pause between the words and the appearance. Zelman looks over his shoulder, sees Pharos clearly in the dim, candle-lit light of his room (it's perhaps worth noting that his room is always dim and candle-lit, mostly out of personal preference and a particular dislike of the sun). A flicker of his vision shows a shell with insides that don't look like a normal human's. It used to bother him a little, to look at something human-shaped and see only what he could describe as a strange void, an absence of a circulatory system, but now he likes it. It's familiar. Distinguishing. Inhuman.

But that's neither here nor there. He smirks one of his smirks that's more like a smile, turning to face him properly.

"Good evening. I assume I'm not pulling you away from anything important?"

He asks this more out of want for a starting place than actually being worried he might have interrupted something. He notes, a little late, that Pharos is in his older "form", which he then notes as interesting. He must be getting used to seeing him around like that for it to have not phased him earlier.

A void is a fairly accurate way to describe Pharos's body, strange as it might be; on the outside, he's a fairly good imitation, something that's clearly meant to pull off being human and to pull it off fairly well. His nose turns red if it's cold out, his chest rises and falls with every breath, and if someone where to put their fingers to his neck they'd find something like a pulse; but put a hand to his chest, and there's no heartbeat there. A good imitation is all he is.

Pharos's own smile widens in return, because he knows the difference between most of Zelman's expressions and when he's actually smiling instead of being cocky (which is a lot of the time).

"Of course not - though even if you were, it would not make a great deal of difference."

It was Zelman, after all, and Pharos would drop most things if Zelman called for him. "I actually found tonight to be somewhat dull until you called, so I am glad that you did."

"Ah," He's stopped saying that these things are flattering, because otherwise the sentence would be quickly run into the ground. "Good. I was feeling much the same, actually. I don't have any plans."

He steps forward on bare feet, the carpet and surrounding drapery soaking up his sound to make him silent as a ghost. Nothing echoes right in here. Unlike the candles, that's for more than just interior decoration. The methods aren't reflected in the moment, though. The silence envelops, but he's very soft about it. Hands in his pockets, not a cruel thought in all the maps of all his thoughts. Because Pharos is here, and Pharos is better than all that.

"I thought that between the two of us, we might find something to do."

"None whatsoever? What a shame."

Pharos laughs, and it always sound a little different when he's in this "form" than the smaller one. Deeper, perhaps a little older. It isn't the same childish giggle, although the glint in his eyes never changes between the two. He rests his palms beside him on the armrest, and leans back with practiced ease; it's the sort of thing that gives him away, the tenseness in the motion whereas it'd be easy and natural for anyone else. He's getting better at his imitation, though.

"Did you have anything in particular in mind, or had you hoped that I would think of something?"

There's a little something in it that he likes. Maybe it's the way he said that first part (maybe he's starting to rub off on him, he thinks), or maybe it's just in the constructed way that he leans, which he can appreciate. Those sorts of things take practice.

"Nothing particular, but I'm sure something will come to mind. Something always does."

He's trying to think forward, but he doesn't particularly want to. He's working on imagining another walk, or a late-night visit to the town, or any number of things they could do in the castle, but all that really manages to stick is the now. Maybe it's the full moon, or his mood, or everything about Pharos he'd just mentally ticked through, but he doesn't feel much like going anywhere.

With a slight change in his expression, maybe the far edge of a laugh, he follows an impulse and goes to touch his hair. He'd meant for the familiar ruffling he does whenever he wants to show how fond he is, but he never quite makes it that far, running his fingers through nightblack strands instead.

And after a pause too long, he says, in a different iteration of the last time, "I really do like your hair."

He'd agree that Zelman is probably rubbing off on him at least a little bit - they certainly spent enough time together, after all, and it was something like a compliment to think that perhaps he was picking up small things from Zelman, who was infinitely better at what he did than Pharos was at pretending to do it.

"You do tend to come up with very entertaining things to do regardless of the circumstances."

Another smile. He entertains the idea of ramen, briefly, but it's only because it's been a long time since they did that last. The idea is almost a little unappealing though, as it involves sitting and waiting, and though Pharos has quite a lot of patience he doesn't have it tonight. Not when the fractured pieces of what he is, despite being whole yet again, are moving beneath his skin. No, it is not a night for sitting, and certainly not a night for patience.

Pharos's fingers flex against the chair, curling into the arm rest, and he says nothing when Zelman touches his hair, but oh-- it makes that slightly restless feeling twist, and it's strange being so aware of a feeling, but this one is difficult to shake off. It demands attention in much the same way that Zelman's presence does.

He tilts his head, enough so that he can look up at Zelman without making him move his hand from where it is against his head.

"Are you flattering me, Zelman?" He laughs again, because he likes laughing. "I must admit that I prefer it this way, however. It is far more entertaining."

"Yeah?" He echoes a small laugh of his own. It's as close to sass as Zelman thinks he's ever going to get from Pharos, and it's endlessly amusing. A part of him likes the simple conversation, the strange, bizarre, almost whimsical tint of the moment. "If that's what you want, I could spout flattery for hours."

It's no secret that he thinks highly of Pharos. It's almost humbling to be thought of so highly by him, and he treats Pharos with more respect than he shows towards everyone else in the castle combined. Flattery would not be a stretch for him. But even with the way the other is positioned in his little universe, another part of him can't overlook the way the other's fingers are curled into the arm of the chair.

He moves his hand, but only to press his palm against the side of his head and give him a kiss. It's small, impulsive. Seems like a good idea, running along the lines of what could be more flattering?

"Really? Of the two of us, I always thought that I was the the one more prone to flattery." The idea doesn't seem to bother him very much, though; being spoken well of by Zelman is a rather delightful experience. Everyone under the sun knows that Pharos thinks the world of Zelman because he never stops babbling about people that he holds in high regard, but Zelman spoke very little of the people he cared about.

He has the next line on his lips already, the next thing to say, because there is rarely a time when Pharos doesn't have something to say - and he barely notices the way Zelman's hand moves until Zelman bends down enough to kiss him.

Perhaps Zelman was better with flattery than he'd initially expected, because Pharos is certain the strange spark that feeds his restlessness must be that. It wasn't as though it could be anything else.

One of his hands uncurls from the chair, and he lifts it to hold Zelman's arm, before tugging on it. Drawing him in. The movement is slight but noticeable, and when Zelman pulls back (if he does at all) Pharos leans closer to kiss him, instead.

It surprises him. He lives his whole live on lightning-fast calculations and every move counts and speaks to the whole of his surroundings, so a little gesture like that (a tug at his arm, the lead-and-follow) says more to him than whatever dime-a-dozen words could have been in its place. He doesn't expect a return, doesn't expect to feel softwarm pressing at his lips, doesn't expect the way he, himself, instinctively curls his fingers into Pharos' hair because he doesn't know what he'd do with his fingers otherwise.

He breaks it with a grin, because he can't help it (bubbles up from his chest and spills out of him, so unlike and lighter than the usual claws and scratches and writhing that he barely keeps down), pressing his forehead against his friend's. He looks right into those strange blue eyes of his, delighted by the idea of getting something he isn't allowed to have.

"You like it when I kiss you?" He asks this softy, somewhere between teasing and genuine curiosity. He knows he's done it before, though the last time was... Well, with how things have shifted, he has fewer reservations this time.

Pharos's mind, meanwhile, is everywhere and nowhere at once, there but a million miles away; comparing this experience to things he remembers but were not actually his own memories, bits and pieces of Minato's life that he watched from behind his eyes.

Fingers in his hair, Zelman's forehead against his own. New experiences, but things that were recognizable. Always girls, though. That was the thing he'd never understood. Minato got along better with so many of his teammates than the girls he did things like this with, so why not them?

He always got the impression that it was meant to be an expression of something more, something that wasn't just about reproduction, but it never made sense the way Minato went about it. It was like it didn't mean something once it was over, and Minato always seemed lonelier for it. Pharos thinks, if he could, that he would have made sure that it lasted longer than that.

He views Zelman in much the same way, these days.

"Perhaps," he says, but the easy sort of smile that spreads across his face is more telling than the word. "I wanted to see if I would enjoy it more if it was a conscious decision on my part... and I believe that I did."

Pharos chuckles. "So I suppose I do like it when you kiss me."

He hums a distant note of approval, quite pleased with himself. To get away with kissing death of all things... Well, the metaphor alone is enough to keep him entertained for hours. It falls right into that bizarre and narrow valley that houses his sense of humor.

Approval, too. He likes that. He'd always kind of wondered.

"Good."

He tries to think of something else to add, but that's really all there is to say. His thoughts of leaving have almost completely dissolved. They can do that any time. He feels light. Worrying doesn't become him.

So with traces of a smile still on his lips, he'll kiss him again. That hand slides to his neck, presses in towards that shadow of a pulse. He does a better job of it this time, since Pharos doesn't seem at all opposed to the idea.

Quite honestly, Pharos thinks of similar, and for a moment he considers making a poor joke of it; how Zelman was probably one of the only people who could actually get away with receiving a kiss from death, or giving one to death. Yes - only Zelman could do that, and perhaps Minato, if the circumstances were different.

Perhaps it's good that there's little to say, though. They exchange so many words so very often, but this doesn't quite seem like a night for as many of them. His fingers slide up, following the path of Zelman's arm to grip his shoulder (this form is so lanky; long arms and legs and fingers, even though it isn't exactly tall). Pharos kisses him back, because he can't think of anything he'd rather do, and it almost seems like he knows what he's doing. Like a student who has read something a dozen times and finally gets to put it to practice - clumsy but straightforward. Hesitation never plays a part in it at all.

He likes the clumsy. No one would expect it of him, but he really drinks that sort of thing up. Fearless and unpracticed, like some sort of uncut gem; overly poetic as it is, he's long since had enough of perfect diamonds.

And with his eyes closed he can smell lilies again. He stops to press his face into his neck, breathe him in and feel how warm that precious disguise is against his lips. His skin is empty of traces of others like him (of course, no one would dare, a thought that stumbles out faster than he meant it to as he bites, just a little, just a scrape, just to know because he has to know--)

But he stops before it can get too far. Pulls his mind back, kisses into where he can hearfeelsense his pulse. He hopes Pharos will stop him if he goes too far, because self-control is a very slippery thing for him on the best of days.

And Pharos is so very far from perfect. As much as he tries to perfect and at the same time deny this imitation of his - he does try quite a bit to play the part well - he does so enjoy the few times where it feels like there's something pumping through veins beneath his skin, instead of just that whisper of a hear that should be but isn't there.

It had been similar when he was attacked by Riful. He'd been angry for weeks after that, and there was no feeling quite so concrete as anger. Something that made you clench your fists and made your core set on fire when normally he didn't notice that sort of thing at all.

Pharos thinks this is something similar - not anger, but it's still there, something warm in his chest (stomach?) that's almost pleasant.

Perhaps it's a little corny, given the circumstances, but Pharos thinks it probably feels something like being alive does.

His fingers slide further up, from Zelman's shoulder to across the back of his neck, and up into red hair. He's always liked Zelman's hair-- his eyes, too, and he has a particular affinity for the color red now. Strange the things you come to like. But Pharos tilts his head, inviting, and he chuckles, something low in his throat. "You should likely be careful of that, Zelman."

Not for his sake, of course (wouldn't it be hilarious if it was?), but Pharos isn't totally sure what consumption of this body could do to something like Zelman. He'd rather not experiment with it. Aside from that, though, Pharos does nothing, says nothing to discourage this. He doesn't want to.

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Paradisa // Not-So-Canon

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