The word ‘PACE’ wizzed by on a trendy pseudo-european smart car, the white letters stark against the black square of the bumper sticker, as the vehicle itself speeded by and turned the next corner. Normally such a detail wouldn’t have mattered. What was ‘pace’ to North America? Besides the fact that it was the Italian word for peace meant nothing. Not in the long run.

The view from this particular apartment balcony allowed for great philosophical thoughts and ponderings, as well as great insight in to the street below and the windows of the kind people living across the street. Perfect view, in fact, for the youth who leaned against the railings casually, his back to the open doors behind him.

He was lean and lithe, and where there was usually a glow of vibrancy and strength there was instead an air of lackluster interest and dashed confidence. His eyes, rimmed with dark curling lashes, were still the bright blood-red they always were, but the mind behind them seemed worn-out and older than that twenty-something casing enveloping it.
Sanguis, God of War, was tired.
His reddish tongue ran over the paper-white slightly sharpened teeth.

He was still predictably beautiful, but his cheeks were slightly sunken, and his soot-black hair even more mussed than usual. All of this, of course, added to his devastating charm.
Standing there, watching the world with a calm and quiet air, his lips curled slightly at the edges. He was going to see an old friend soon.

And there’s nothing like seeing an old, old friend.

Lorre had nothing to do. He had the week off and was spending it accomplishing jack shit, such as watching as many marathons as he could and building sorry looking cardhouses with even sorrier looking cards. He was spending this particular hour with his bed, face first on his pillow in an attempt at a nap. He was uncomfortable. It was hot. This was normally the perfect temperature for him, but he just couldn't fall asleep.

"Fuck it," he said out loud, and rolled out of bed. He groggily left his room with all intents and purposes of going to his kitchen, but was distracted by a familiar sight on his balcony.

Lorre paused in midstep, balancing himself on the arm of his couch. He hadn't seen San for fuck knows how long, and there he was casually leaning against the balcony as if he owned the place.

He didn't want this, but he walked to the sliding doors anyway.

"What are you doing here?" Lorre asked, voice thick with sleep. He was wearing a pair of gray pajama pants that slung low on his hips and dragged a bit under his heels. They were faded and worn, held together by some sort of miracle.

San doesn't turn just yet. But one can see his tell-tale grin even from behind.

He lets out a slow and carefully placed grunt; guttural, but sensual enough to be almost soothing. He straightens, tanned hands lightly placed on the railing infront of him.

He's wearing a simple black undershirt paired with black pants and worn-through sneakers. Everything is nondescript, understated, leaving his various tattoos and rings the only decorative statement. Not that San ever cares about statements. Excepting his own, of course.

Slowly the God turns around. He looks much the same, but he is somewhat thinner, and the darker bags under his eyes seem that much more obvious seeing as his appearance rarely changes at all. He brings a lit cigarette to his lips, something that wasn't there beforehand, and takes a long silent drag as his eyes roam freely over Lorre's body, as they are wont to do.

"Couldn't sleep, huh?" His coarse deep voice hasn't changed, the kind of timbre that rattles the vertebrae and makes fine crystal vibrate.

Lorre restrained a shiver but was powerless to stop the feelings that shot up his spine that accompanied San's voice. That fucking attraction was still there. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself he hated the young-looking god, his body protested nonverbally. He couldn't bring himself to budge from the spot by the door; rather, he braced himself against the frame and looked San over.

"No."

But as usual, his body betrayed him. Drawn like a suicidal moth to a flame, a poor creature that can't not avoid its attractor, Lorre moved to San's side. He leaned on the balcony, reaching for the pack of cigarettes he had left on the plastic table earlier. Parliments, this time. He pulled one out and lit it with the tip of his finger.

That threat was tangible. San reeked of danger. Lorre responded to it as if it were an aphrodesiac.

"It's been awhile. You look tired." And good. As usual. He wanted to bend San over the railing and fuck him slowly. Instead, he took a drag from his cigarette.

San shrugged at the observation, a youthful and steely glimmer returning to his eyes as he stood still, looking over at the pyrokinetic with a gaze that was either full of soulfull love or a deep need to pitch him over the balcony. Instead he let one of his warm hands smooth its way up Lorre's back and rest on his neck, his hot fingertips pressing the flesh beneath it gently, feeling the bloodflow.

"I was just thinking of you, these past couple of days," He smiled like a wolf, as if barely suppressing a tremendously devastating secret, "And I got the sudden urge to crush you quietly..."

Leaning in close he places his lips practically up against the shell of Lorre's ear, the hand on the back of his neck tightening its grasp.

"Miss me." He stated hoarsely, not asking, not observing, but demanding.

Lorre could not suppress the shiver this time. He leaned into San's touch and hated himself for doing so. He closed his eyes for a moment and sucked in a breath. Part of him wondered if he could kill a god. The other part needed him. Cherished him. Hated him as much as he fucking loved him. His emotions were in a stupid warring state. Violent anger mixed with lust and need with a hint of something that he didn't want to identify.

"As if I had a choice," said Lorre, looking down into San's eyes. He couldn't not. It was practically written in his code. He briefly wondered if that was possible.

A flash of memories reminded him quite painfully what it was like to be crushed by San. He frowned a bit. Being crushed wasn't on his agenda, but he didn't like the idea of San leaving without doing anything, either. Anything. Whether it be fighting or fucking. Either was fine. He wondered where this masochistic side came from, and decided he developed it that day at the café.

((So sorry about the lateness! Life caught up with me!))

San smiled softly, only the barest hint of white teeth between his lips. Then quite suddenly he stepped back and away, making the cooler outdoor air funnel in between them, their close and warm moment seeming that much sweeter in retrospect.

"Been killing, I assume?" He asked, not leaving room for an answer, "Do you think of me every time you make someone burn or bleed? Or do I just pop into your head, like one of those weird freudian associative things?" He lights another cigarette, which he doesn't even pretend comes out of an actual box on his person.

For some reason, perhaps because of shifting light, his face seems healthier and fuller, not quite exhausted. His body seems fitter as well, returning to his usually svelte frame. He leans back against the balcony rail, facing Lorre, with a crooked smile on his face.

"Mm..." He makes a soft 'tsk'ing sound as he stares hard at Lorre. His red eyes look eerily focused, as if he is staring at a pounding heart instead of a chest.

((It's okay! I totally understand.))

The loss of the heat was disappointing, but Lorre just leaned on the back of the balcony, dangling his arms off the railing. He wondered what was more tempting to San—sex or the idea of pushing Lorre off the balcony and him being violently run over by a van (or a scene similar to that in Naked Gun). He leaned more towards the latter, but who could know a god's thoughts?

Lorre shrugged. He didn't want to admit that it was a little bit of both. San probably already knew, anyway. Lorre pictured San while he was in the shower, a sweeter fantasy of him up against the wall, the sex slow and gentle (he supposed this was because people tended to fantasize about the opposite of what they had). He thought about San when he twisted the knife in one of his victims. Sometimes, when he had an especially violent day, his mind supplied him with an image of a youth with red eyes when he looked in the mirror.

But San didn't need to know that.

Lorre took a step towards San again. It was an effort made in conscious defiance, but his body missed the heat. "What about you? Just a courtesy call?"

He remembered when San told him he loved Lorre. He remembered the terror he felt, the anger, the defiance. And then he hadn't seen San for—how long now? and as disgusted as he was to admit it to himself, he realized that it almost felt like an important part was missing. Which disturbed him so, so much. Was it something the god did, or was he more fucked up in the head than he realized?