Re: Third floor balcony
They both were not men on the other side of the mirror, even if the blonde with the hips(narrow like the gash from a whipcrack) was just barely a man now. This one had some familiarity with teenagers, and Blondie across from him was registering somewhere along the top tier of that wedding cake that represented the passage from child to proper adult. Funny how he as a man, without being a man... but lies tasted like truth, and who could tell the difference anymore?
Mr. Well Dressed passed the bottle again, unperturbed by the prospect of destroying younger livers. Give him a fucking break -- there were enough horrors in the world that could clip short the Fates' thin web-strand, dissolve that shit right into dust. Medusa would have given the okay to drink viper venom and -- "Oh fuck, I think, I think I'm… fucking gone."
Because that is how it happened, slow until the plunge. But what had he been thinking about beforehand? Oh, right… the boy who wasn't a man wasn't a boy and he who was a man wasn't also a man. It would have been confusing under every other circumstance, but he remained ever unaffected. "Eh, nothing to tell," he said of the overreaction. It was a long story, and who had time for that when there was vodka?
He sniffed, shoulders popped, and muscle that spoke of something other than 'fashion designer' rolled. He turned, fucking adorable. "You want to make out?" The body was asking.