When it came to limbs, Lorre was willing to give up a hand for a cigarette. It was no secret he was addicted, but it was only until recently that he moved from a pack a day to a pack and a half a day. What was even worse was that he stuck to Dunhills, a brand that was notorious for being about $6.48 per pack. Hell, with the amount of money he spent on his cigarettes, he could practically afford a new set of lungs.

Well, if anything, it made his wallet a little lighter.

"Sir?"

The young and relatively new looking waitress sounded wary. Had his reputation preceded him? No doubt—he had come to haunt this little coffee joint more often than not, these days. It seemed all of his money was heading straight for caffeine and cigarettes—but why did there have to be a middle man? He had heard of caffeinated cigarettes before, but had he been able to find them? That was a negative, sir.

"Could...I get your order, sir?"

"Coffee. Black."

Something that reduced him to caveman speak. He had a gut feeling it was the atmosphere in general—The Half-Baked Bean didn't exactly give him a warm feeling in his stomach. In all truth, he wasn't sure why he always came back. The coffee was mediocre at most and cost an arm and a leg, and his experiences with the overpriced place weren't exactly what he would call superb. Memorable, for certain, but being clocked in the jaw by a psycho god wasn't exactly his call for a fine time.

But like a magnet, he was always drawn back.

He supposed it was his masochistic side.

San—ah. The god who seemed bent on ruining everything for Lorre. First, by punching him. Second, by stealing his drawings. Third, by pitting him against his roommate.

What could happen next?

Would anything happen next?

Gods were fickle creatures. He wondered why he still thought about that certain red-eyed one, even if it wasn't with fond regards. A sudden bout of insanity, perhaps? Masochism, at best.

Fickle, indeed.

"Good fuck this is nostalgic, isn't it?"

Well there's a familiar sound. That kind of voice one would expect on, perhaps, a wise sage who had travelled the world, or a learned man who had brought up his business from the ground up. One might even go so far as to suggest a business tycoon. And yet, here the owner was, as young and beautiful as could be.

He stood behind the moody pyro, hands on the back of his chair, lips to ear. A seventeen year-old boy, skin like cafe-au-lait, hair like black between stars. Eyes like all hell incarnate. He swooped around the chair, grabbing the one across from Lorre, his smile just as greedy and malicious as always.

His clothing was as unimportant as usual, black and casual, what did he care? Over which he wore a dark grey wool coat. One had to keep warm against these harsh winters, no?

He leaned forward over the small round table, crossing his arms. A few strands of his bedhead-hair fell over his eyes as he licked his lips, preparing for a meal.

"You miss me don't you?" He asked with full arrogance, "I don't blame you, sparky. Looking to turn the other cheek?"

Lorre couldn't help but to be interested. He had never known anyone with the audacity to approach a well-hated one (did San hate Lorre, there was an interesting question) with such scorn. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Not at all. Wasn't the standard way to greet someone unliked?

San was an interesting being. Lorre was curious about him, if only because he was unable to figure out the other man.

Lorre himself was clad in unremarkable clothing. A faded, stitchy gray coat with a gray scarf tied securely around his neck, and dark blue jeans. His shoes were untied and his hair was tousled, but this was all natural. He didn't mind looking as if he had just stepped from Good Will—some people were just able to pull it off, and he was one of them.

"Hello, San."

The waitress brought his coffee, along with sugar and creme, and Lorre busied himself with concocting a more suitable mixture than the black brew in front of him. He didn't change much—just a half a packet of sugar and a half a packet of creme. If he wanted something sweet and creamy, he would have asked for a mocha or something of the like.

"Miss you?" There was an interesting thought. Lorre grinned. "I guess I do. I haven't been able to find many people with the ability to keep up such witty badinage as I'm delighted to find in you." He sipped the coffee, ignoring the fact it should have obviously burned his tongue. The point is, it didn't.

"In any account, isn't it you who always finds me? Should I count myself lucky or start updating my will?"

San listened with what seemed like patience, but really he wasn't listening at all. He was examining Lorre closely, watching every movement of his fingers as he prepared his cup of coffee. Hm...Old flames never really got old, did they?

"No need to begin updating your will as of yet," The God replied casually, "Considering you have nothing to leave to specifically nobody, I could rip you without making a ripple, doll." He gave a small playful wink, his smile fading slightly.

The waitress returns with another cup of black coffee, only this time without the usual assortment of milk and sugar. She sets the mug down in front of the God before moving on quietly. San leans back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head.

"So, still drawing people who don't know you exist, or have you actually grown as a human being?"

Lorre tapped his fingers to his lips three times (an interesting habit), then took another sip from his coffee.

"I suppose you could say that. Nothing to nobody, rip into ripples. Kind of poetic."

He didn't think it was a good idea to play peace around the god of war, but he supposed it could be considered an experiment. How many buttons do you need to press in order to get San to the point of flipping tables? Not many, if he remembered correctly. Then again, wasn't it always himself who let his fiery temper explode into smithereens?

He considered the second question for a long moment, letting the silence draw out longer than necessary. This wasn't entirely intentional, he just wasn't really sure how to take the question. With sugar or spice? A spoonful of each? His lips curled in a distracted smile—how would San react to him bursting out into 'A Spoonful of Sugar'?

Probably with violence.

"I...haven't." It wasn't getting any easier to admit so. Graceful fingers slid from top to bottom of the coffee mug, and his free hand pulled out his Dunhills from his breast pocket. With one hand he managed to get the cigarette out and lit, using a skill that took many years of practice. "But it may be satisfying to know that I just haven't drawn period."

Perhaps he had grown. Into what? Was it so immature to like to draw? Why waste a talent if he was born with it? He could laugh at that—wasn't that exactly what he was doing now?

The God reached out slowly, taking the cigarette by its lit tip before ripping it rather ungracefully so the contents fell in to Lorre's mug.

"Careful..." He said while leaning forward over the table, "Those things can kill you. And I can already see the tar in your lungs. Kind of pretty, in a way."

His red eyes darted between those of the man across from him. He looked calm and composed, which seemed to enhance his maniacle aura. Leaning back in his chair he reached in to his jacket pocket, taking out a few roughly folded pages before tossing them carelessly on the surface of the coffee table, narrowly missing the hot mug in front of him.

"Well, you can have them back. I'm bored with them now. I paid one of your models a visit- Did I tell you? -What a sweet girl. I'm afraid I may have been a bit rough with her, but Azrael's sweet touch is soothing her now."

He lifted the mug to his lips, taking a sip from the clear black liquid. His grin was back as he set down the mug. Such a confusing smile. It was beautiful because he willed it so, but it was simply too barren of human emotion to fully comprehend.

Maybe he was lying, simply wanting a visceral reaction from the other party. Then again, why would he lie about doing something, when it was so easy to do?

Lorre gently reached out and pulled the papers closer to him, treating them as if they would burn him, but that wasn't possible so he didn't know what he was worried about. In an almost gentle caress he straightened out the folds, eyes following curves he had drawn so long ago, fingers remembering the feel of the pencil as it outlined a lover's body—unable to capture the perfection of the after sex, the scent, the warmth, the glow—but trying vainly to catch the essence.

Who had he killed?

The woman in the picture had been beautiful. That was the first thing that attracted Lorre to her. The second thing was her voice, as she danced around his kitchen while making breakfast, singing to and Elvis song. He had fallen for her, but she was in love life. She couldn't settle down with him, which was okay he supposed, because he couldn't settle down with anyone. His fingers were too stained, with blood, with nicotine, with gunpowder and lies and half-truths, and he liked them that way.

What was her name? Gods, what was her name?

"What did I do?" His voice came out as a low growl—San had succeeded in pissing him off. He had been hoping for a peaceful day—was that possible in his life? "What the fuck did I do, paint a target on myself that attracts you cock-sucking gods like an arrow?"

His voice was trembling—he was trying to restrain the anger, trying not to let San win even though he already won.

"Nothing," he answered his own question, voice falling flat. Lorre was hitting his breaking point. "You're just a sadistic fuck, ain't that right."

The table exploded in an almost theatrical ball of flame, and Lorre's eyes turned purple. His pictures, the coffee, the little plastic flower in the little plastic vase that decorated the surface were all incinerated. People screamed. Ran. Lorre stared at San.

It wasn't the girl.

It wasn't the pictures.

It wasn't even San.

Lorre was just having a bad life.

San sat quietly as the question that only a few unlucky individuals had to ask throughout his existance, once again swept over him. He wasn't answering yet, he could feel Lorre wasn't finished. And then came...

Ah, sweet flames.

Tables were knocked over, people running for the entrance door, their rational minds completely obliterated as none of them ventured for the emergency exit. He took in a deep breath, his form barely seen through the flames on the table. He watched the sketches curl up in black claws of agony, eventually dwindling into ash as the fire ravaged the surface. He could smell the chaos, the fear, the addictive rush of adrenaline running through moist and sweating bodies. But above all...He could smell the essence.

In a sudden movement he was standing up, and his hands slammed down viciously hard on the burning table top. He leaned towards Lorre, red eyes reflecting the dancing light, his skin glowing while it shifted.

"You didn't do anything," He said through gritted teeth, "Got it? You didn't do...anything!" With one movement of his hand he pushed the table aside, producing some more screams from the young girl behind the bar. He stepped closer to Lorre, and with a steel grip he grabbed the material at his throat with his right hand.

"Come with me." It was said harshly, and without room for debate. He was already making for the emergency exit, which was just to his left, obviously intent on dragging the poor mortal with him.

His body emenated a heat that could easily have burned away any mortal that stood too near. It didn't matter with San—the god probably got off on it.

He hadn't really moved since the table had exploded. He didn't have a furious outburst or anything of the like, and he just calmly let himself be dragged along like a doll.

But if anyone were to look in his eyes...

Lorre was murderous. He was pissed. He was destructive.

He was plotting.

He didn't know what he could do to the god of war, but there had to be something. Some kind of confinement, maybe. Stick him in a book for a hundred years. There had to be something he could do. He couldn't just be a pawn for this god's torturous games.

"If I didn't do anything," his voice was quiet and emotionless, "then I was right. You're just doing this for your sadistic games."

He didn't sound upset about that, but then again he didn't sound much like anything.

"So where are you going to take me, baby?" His voice was tight. "Some alley? Beat the shit out of me again? Rape me? Use me? You've been doin' that for awhile now, why stop now?"

His taunts could have been more titillating if he wasn't so monotonous at the moment.

"Oh no, my lovely little morsel," continued the God, not at all put back by Lorre's taunts, "I will find something infinitely more painful for you." San began laughing with unabashed pleasure as he pushed open the emergency exit door, the alarm going off and joining the trills of the smoke detectors.

There were two steps leading down from this door, which San took gracefully despite his dragging of a murderous mortal. He was standing in the middle of a small secluded alley, where he roughly let go of Lorre before standing and facing him.

"I have yet to pick which means, my beauty, which means..." He trailed off in a distant way, the eyes that were firmly focused on the pyro now glazing over as he began sifting through some incredibly delicious ordeals.

Oh but he loved this! And it was safe to say that Lorre was the new love of his life. God he could just eat him up!

"You are mine," he whispered softly, a full-fledged grin gracing his handsome features. He was saying it more to himself than anyone else, but if it meant enraging Lorre even more, then why not voice it?

Ideas swirled in the mind of Violence. Machines of the past with their rusty hooks and bloody ropes were enticing him from centuries ago. But no. This had to be special. It was for his current love, after all...

Something about the way San...well, the way San was suddenly and very abruptly terrified Lorre, and for some reason that new horror amused him. It seemed like lately he was just a bundle of nerves—hadn't it been once that he was never scared? Now it seemed like he was scared all the time (even though in reality it was, what, three or four times in the past half-year?).

The laughter—the smile—it was like a carnival gone to hell.

His own ideas unraveled and spun out of control in his mind—he could find out a way to confine San later—he had to get the fuck out of there.

But that would require running away, and Lorre was sometimes stubborn as hell.

"Oh," he said, still sounding highly sarcastic. The fear was still there, but Lorre was no coward. He wasn't going down without a fight. "So you're going to get creative. Let me guess. Torture. Huh. How cliché. Dipshit."

His life was already surreal enough to be a movie.

He didn't know why he was still daring to mock San. Maybe it was his ways of self-defense when he had nothing else he could do—Lord knew, as usual, that San had complete control over the situation again.

"I'm not yours," he growled back, once again feeling slightly cliché. Isn't this what a chick would say to some evil bastard, or something of the like? But he said it with a confident finality—he wouldn't be San's if he had any say over it.

"I couldn't possibly love you anymore than I do now," San said with an innocent laugh before taking a small step forward. He placed his hand to his lips, a professorial gesture of one in deep contemplation. If one had the mind to ignore his strange presence in reality and those bloody eyes of his, he might seem like a truly thoughtful and beautiful person.

He shook his head ever so slightly, perhaps dismissing an idea known only to himself. Then quite abruptly he was pushing up against the angry mortal, eye to eye, his hands on the man’s shoulder.

“I figured it out...Oh yes, I did,” He began whispering, “I know what you’ll really like.” The tone seemed to implicate an entirely raw and sexual connotation, his red eyes widening dramatically.

In a split second he had slipped two fingers under Lorre’s shirt collar, drawing it back over the man’s left shoulder, and even quicker he had dipped his head down and viciously bitten in to the exposed flesh. He bit hard, his teeth beginning to pierce the skin. The God’s body heat rose in temperature, his tongue tasting the flesh.

For all his selfish need of taste and touch, something else was happening with this bite. The red of his eyes darkened before he finally let go. Dried blood on the coliseum floor.