Re: Under the trees: Elijah/Klaus
Elijah felt like wet paper. Soaked through and easily torn, but twisted until it frayed out at the edges. Didn't know how far what he did extended, like blotting paper soaking up anything that oughtn't to be where it was, or shouldn't be doing what it was doing. Normal, like a parasite - or penicillin, perpetually hungry to consume. It was eating up whatever it was that the man did, that he drowned in drugs and drugs and drugs.
Elijah coughed wetly, and spat rancid saliva onto the ground. He twitched, a long, body shudder at the peripheral contact the man made with his back even through a shirt and an undershirt, and slid sideways, a little like ice skidding on a hot surface. "Didn't do it," he said crossly, unpleasantly. His voice was deeper than might be expected, scratchy and dry. "Don't do." That implied decision, action. He was just a living magnet for all the junk the man had ingested.
His liver, Elijah thought hazily, had to be macerating through at least half a dozen chemicals at a rate of parts per second that was astronomical. His pupils were ink, the ice-blue of his eyes almost entirely blotted out. "Why do so many people try non-sobriety as a solution? Not a solution. It's never a solution." He showed no interest in either water, or sitting down.