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TRUSTING HAND IN HAND, LIFE, DEATH WILL FOLLOW

[attr="class","locbody"]All he can hear is the ticking of a clock. It has been wound incorrectly, in that the ticks are spaced too far apart and it won't be long before the clock is not even remotely close to the actual time to day. But, it is not him who wound the clock. Nor is it him who made the bed so haphazardly, put so little effort into the décor or dressed the man that lies in his bed. When he can, he likes to take the time to take care of him.[break][break]

Sometimes, it's as simple as doing his hair. Andras has always had beautiful locks, recently that have become strawberry blonde when Caelan learned that Andras has dyed his hair since he was young. Honestly, he prefers his natural colour. Andras does not have the capacity to complain anymore, as he will quietly tend to Andras in the silence of the apartment with only the incorrect ticking of the clock to break the silence and the shaky sounds of his husband's breathing.[break][break]

Sometimes, Caelan will do his best to fix things wrong with the room. He hadn't been able to afford anywhere nice, instead taking an apartment in Tartarus. He's fixed it himself into a nice enough place, no leaks, no visual damage. When Andras wakes up, Caelan wants his husband to know that he tried; he would have done anything to make it just a little more pleasant for him when he finally opens his eyes again. And yet, as more and more of his body turns to stone, so much so that thin flakes of sediment have to be cleaned from his legs - he wonders.[break][break]

Is he doing something cruel? Is he being selfish?[break][break]

He hovers sometimes with a blade. It would be one smooth, final cut. Andras' athane, which he had seen used in many wonderous things, lies on the bedside table. It would seem disrespectful to the deed with anyone else, as he sits on the bed and listens to his heartbeat with his ears pressed close to his chest. It's still there. He swears that sometimes, he hears it getting weaker. He swears so many things, accompanied only by the slow ticking of a miswound clock.[break][break]

He places the knife on the bedside, kisses his husband's cheek, and leaves the room - frozen in an odd slice of time.
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