Re: Third floor balcony
He didn't want to die. This made itself apparent, cheekbones be damned, in the suddenly extinguished light in blue eyes. It was likely, because experience that didn't belong to the snake-hips or the tie or the ruffled blond curls that were doing their adorable best to curl around his shirt collar at the back (really, he was very attractive, Igor, if you went for barely out of adolescence boys) said either you were dead or you were one of the ones screaming in back corners and alcoves and he didn't think that was him. Either of them.
"You've died?" He thought that deserved a drink. The vodka looked more appealing in the bottle than in his throat, but he thought a temporarily borrowed body could handle a drink. He couldn't remember being drunk but he wanted to be.
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Pleased. His fingertips gingerly ran up the line of one cheekbone. "It's not mine. I don't look like this at all. Less," he waved a hand that took in the hips as well, "Runway model." And he had a sudden, lurching thought that maybe whoever was walking around in his body was doing something to it significantly less innocent than necking vodka. It wasn't a pleasant thought. He wasn't used to being obvious, blue eyes filled with ambiguous dismay and the full mouth pulled a little at the corners.
"But I don't think you get off being murdered for being pretty."