christmas lights log: mars & lear
The triplets didn't celebrate Thanksgiving. Not that Lear wouldn't feast and toast to the monstrous genocide and forced assimilation of millions of people, if he was in the mood. Not that the parcel of humanity that occupied the lands of their heritage weren't conquerors—vikings, pillagers. He would and it was. But, the holiday had turned to an expression of gratitude made commercial and it was, in a word (or three), boring as fuck. He wasn't human enough to struggle with any depths of sadness. Some of the other jötnar might, but not him. He wasn't even modeled after them. His natural form was of a monster, cold-blooded and hungry, without need for any of the mind-numbing softness they all ached for pitifully. Mars included.—But, at least, most of the time, she was more interesting than the rest of them.
If there was anything better to do, Lear might have decided to do that instead. But, there wasn't. He drove his car out from where he kept it off the lake, with the heat on high and a song playing, and, you know, he was bored enough, that he wasn't even doing this to get his dick wet. Mars wouldn't put out. Unlike his sister, though, he didn't think that made her more interesting. But, it wasn't like he was dying for it. He smoked a cigarette with the window cracked, and his pea coat was spilled in the backseat like a tip of oil on water. In the driver's seat, he was just in a sweater and jeans, his dark blond hair pushed back and out of the way carelessly. Lear was long limbs, held loosely, almost coiled, and he gazed with eyes cold and serpentine out the window as he took the tour of Main Street. He'd passed First and Second, and just this side of Third, he saw Mars in her little, red riding hood, like a dash of blood against the snow. Like a gash, still seeping.
The car pulled, just shy of where Mars stepped down from the curb in her viscera-red. Lear didn't reach over to open the door, but he waited for her to get in, exhaling a smoke ring idly.