Glim had only been to one play in his life, and he wasn't even sure if it was called that. He seemed to remember someone referring to it as a musical—but whatever it was, he hadn't been impressed. It was too noisy, what with falling chandeliers, and the whole 'mask' thing was so overrated.

Perhaps he didn't appreciate fine art.

It was a little too flashy for him, in any case. The entrance, for example. Was it really necessary for doors and whatnot to be so...intricate? It was just an entrance and an exit, nothing that required such beauty.

His distaste was clear on his face.

The cigarette pressed between his lips had long since burned away to the filter, and the acrid smell of smouldering plastic filled the air. He was unaware of it. Mostly, at least. He took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it against the building.

Now here was one who enjoyed the theatre. In fact, he'd been to every play since... ever. The greeks were especially good at them, but his favorites were the operas.

This one also enjoyed the intricacies of the door. How could you not? It flowed, spun, swooped, and otherwise pleased the eye.

What this one didn't like was the nasty smell. It was offensive, lethal, and otherwise sickening.

Not to mention the aura the smoker gave off. Must, mold, old, and death.

Apoth frowned. "Excuse me," he said. "Smoking kills."

"Excuse me," Glim retorted automatically, not even giving himself enough time to be properly annoyed. "But I'm already dead."

He bristled, then, at the other. Looked him over with those fathomless eyes and scowled.

It kills, hm?

"Would you like a cigarette?"

Catty, this one.

There was something different about the...man beside him. Very obviously different, and it brought about the anger he was becoming so accustomed to. That severe fury that brutalized his stomach and made his skin prickle, only so much worse this time.

The man beside him was wrong. He edged closer, like a curious animal.

"No, no thank you," Apoth said smoothly.

The god could feel some strong emotions coming from this man. Apoth scrutinized him, lookng not at him, but at him.

"What exactly has he done to you?"

Glim was struck by the oddity of his afterlife. Had he been the only one in this damned city that didn't know about the existance of Azrael? It seemed as if whoever he met the god had already touched. Was he just a magnet, or something of the like?

"Who?"

Best to play it dumb.

He turned his gaze back at the building. "Ugly thing."

Safest to change the subject.

Apoth allowed the subject to change. If he wants to be dumb, go ahead.

"Ugly?" He sounded offended. "This is a work of art."

Don't insult beauty, man.

"It's hideous," Glim shot back, critically looking over the artwork. "It looks like someone designed it with their eyes closed. Someone with a penchant for the flamboyant."

He moved closer to Apoth, again. Completely unconscious. The power was there, the sheer power that drew him in like an ant to sugar. The energy—the everything. So unlike Azrael, but so...so...everything.

Well, Glim never really had been good with words.

"It's too flashy." He frowned at the swoops and loops and curves. "I would have preferred a plain wood door."

"How incredibly boring."

Just a plain wodden door?

"A place such as this deserves the very best, and this is th every best."

Apoth wanted to try something. He took a few steps away from Glim.

Glim followed, as if he was being pulled on strings. He didn't once stop looking at the doors.

"Boring, but it serves its purpose. Hell, you just walk through the things, no need to make it so...artsy."

This coming from a tattoo artist.

"I certainly wouldn't call it the best." Maybe he just wanted to argue, now. He was being inticed by the man when every atom of his being screamed 'NO'. "It's ugly."

Interesting.

"You do more than walk through it," he said. "It's a kind of transition, from the mundane to the extraordinary. Out here," a wave of the hand, "to in there."

For the god, it was a great thing. The theatre was almost sacred to him.

"It is not ugly." Sure, he was beginning to sound like a small child, but he was right, dammit.

"Transition? What are you on about? It's a door. Here and there is completely irrelevant. You're still you no matter where you are." He wondered why he was getting so worked up about it. It was probably just the man in general that brought out this side of him.

"And, hate to break it to you, it really is ugly. It looks..." He struggled for an appropriate word. "Kind of like a monster."

He could almost see the designs moving, twisting, trying to break free. He lit another cigarette.

Apoth put it out, using divine intervention.

"Smoking kill," he repeated.

"A monster? What are you on about? There is nothing ugly about this building. It is... majestic."

He then sighed. "You're not always the same person here and there. Watch." The god walked forward, pushing open the doors. As he passed through, his clothing changed from the vest, slacks, and shirt to a winter coat, jeans, and a teeshirt. His hair went from being a dark brown to a pale blond, slicked to spiked. No more glasses. The face went from a pointy, scholarly looking face to a rounded, early-twenties childlike look.

The maroon stripe remained, however.

"See?" Even the voice was slightly different, a bit higher.

Glim kept his face schooled, his expression a blank mask. In reality he was shocked, but had a feeling he shouldn't have been. After all, he was an animated, thinking corpse being used by the god of death. Why should something as mediocre as that shock him like so.

He scowled. "Come off it. That's completely different, and besides, appearences aren't anything. It's not like your personality changed."

He inhaled deeply, unaffected by the poison. "We've established that. It kills. Okay. So what's it going to do to me? Kill me? Again? Do two negatives equal a positive in this situation?"

"Bitch, whatchu know 'bout personality?" Along with the voice getting higher, it got more annoying.

"Two wrongs don't make a right, muthafucka. Smokin' kills, dat's dat. Be knowin' of tha otha people 'round you."

That's what you get, calling the building ugly.

Glim looked at him in disbelief.

"Okay, now you're just being dumb." He raked his fingers through his hair. "Come off it, you must be a...a...an elf or something. Maybe a shapeshifter. I'm talking about normal people. For creatures that aren't freak—why would they need a fancy door? I stand by what I say."

He took another drag, deliberately. "You're missing the point—are you daft? Why should I care if it kills if I'm already dead?"

He would call the god of knowledge dumb and daft. Glim was stupid like that.

Apoth badly wanted to curse this young man, but it seemed like Azrael had beaten him to it.

He walked back through the doors, his appearance changing back to what it had been.

"I'm not an elf, thank you, or a shapshifter." He didnt' say anything about normal. "Fancy doors are for anyone who truly appreciates theatre and art." Generalizing, but good enough.

"I'm not talking about you, I'm talking about the people around you." He reached out and pushed the smoke back at Glim. "Second-hand smoke kills other people, Jakob."

This man was just full of surprises.

"Does it really look like I give two shits about if people live or die?" He ran his tongue over his lips, as if catching something that tasted good. "I think I prefer them dead."

The cigarette was back in his mouth, and as if to prove a point he blew a cloud of smoke in a passerbyer's face. They turned away and kept walking, but not after giving Glim a self-righteous glare.

"Elf, shapeshifter, nymph, you lot are all the same. Freaks. Abnormal." Gods included, yessiree.

"I happen to give two shits." People were much more useful to him alive than dead.

"Abnormal, hm? What're you, then?"

Defensive, this one.

Glim laughed. A small chuckle—his eyes would be gleaming if they didn't just soak up the light.

"Touché. I'm anything but normal, I guess. What am I? A zombie that isn't very fond of brains. An animated corpse with the ability to talk and think. A—" He stopped. No need to tell him that he was Azrael's slave, that was a bit too much information, thanks.

"What are you?" He felt the energy, something that was so like Azrael but so very, very different. Again he moved closer, not realizing it. Rather like a paper clip to a magnet.

"I am... a god." The air darkened, became heavier, and the body of Apoth seemed to grow without actually growing. Even his voice was more majestic as he spoke the words. It was as if he put more power into the body than was previously in it, which was essentially what he had done.

They were at a theatre. Might as well be theatric.

Glim was impressed.

It was hard not to be when what you were used to consisted of...ordinary.

However, he didn't want to give the god the satisfaction.

"Another one, huh?" He squashed the awed tone that came with his words and tipped his cigarette. "You lot are just springing out of the woodwork these days."

Closer, now. That power, that fucking power. It was brilliant. A hand reached up, to Apoth's arm, wanting to pull out the energy and wrap it around himself, wanting to feel it thrumming through his dry veins.

He dropped his hand.

"You know—" The thought of veins reminded him. "—it's weird not having blood. Or needing to breathe. If you're not used to it, that is."

Apoth returned to his previous state, a hint of a smile on his face. Around the eyes, mostly.

"Do you want it back?" Breathing, blood. Apoth can surely do that.

Who knows what it would feel like, though.

He blinked.

"You could do that?"

Of course he fucking wanted that. But what would happen? How would Azrael react? He didn't want to make the other god angry, but the temptation was so hard to resist.

Could this god read his thoughts?

Moving closer, again, still oblivious.

Indeed, he could read his thoughts, in a way.

But he wasn't going to let on.

"Sure. It's not that hard."

He neglected to mention returning life as well as breathing and blood. He wouldn't, of course, because he couldn't. That was more Azrael's area. Breathing and blood, however, were easily done. Especially painfully.

Apoth didn't quite like this person.

They insulted the theatre.

Glimmerman didn't know he was being played with. The god had charmed him, pulled his strings just right, offered him something he thought he could never have again. He was ready to just spring forward and accept what was offered to him, but—

"Why?"

There was a wavering to his tone, uncertain and...afraid?

Allowing this would be allowing trust. Glim wasn't used to trusting anyone, dead or alive.

But—

Fuck 'why'.

"Please." A slightly plaintive tone. He wanted to be alive again. "Just...just do it."

Glim didn't realize he was unliked. He was so used to being so that it was just natural. Just normal.

Apoth grinned.

It was a happy grin, but not a good happy. Maybe there was still some humanity in him.

"Very well." He then reached out a hand and placed it on Glim's forhead. There was a feeling of pressure, light, and sudden sound. And then it was gone. But it wasn't over.

Apoth listed his hand, curled it into a fist, and brought it down on top of the dead man's head. Whether or not that was part of the process, only the gods know.

The effect of all this was instant.

The thought, did he just bonk me?, was simultaneous with the sudden, overpowering pain that sent him to the ground. He couldn't even scream in agony—it closed around his throat.

The blood was there—burning him—from the inside and out—behind his eyes, in his cheeks, in his arms, his chest, his legs, his midsection, his toes, his fingers—

The air was there—it was more poison, than air—the oxygen levels too high, the toxin from the pollution (he could smell his old cigarette, burning away, plasticy and choking)—

There was no water to his tears, only searing hot blood that streaked his cheeks red.