have yourself a merry little christmas

[priorcommitment]

Order, like everything else in Ishiah's life, has its place. Life comes too quickly, ever tumultuous, for Ishiah to expect it in all walks, senses increasingly honed over the centuries to pick up on the slightest changes in the wind, but he finds it in the slightest of details, holds them close to his chest. The same mug of coffee whenever he walks into the coffee, testing its strength, stocking enough to offer the patrons who never seem to know their limits, or otherwise insist on testing them day by day. The same pattern with which to wipe the counters, sweeping motions that waste no time, but overlap enough to guarantee cleanliness. It isn't that Ishiah is incapable of change, but instead that it's only during the constants that he manages to relax at all, shoulders losing their tension even while his eyes and gaze are held sharp. All of it, at its core, amounts to little more than a stubborn habit and addiction clung to by a man never meant to walk the earth for so long.

Mornings have turned lazy over recent months, never quite the same, but still a constant. Tangled limbs and reluctant murmurs, a press a back to chest and fingers weaving through hair. Warmth, always, and heated with a kiss.

The break of that constant is always as abrupt as the shattering of glass.

Ishiah adjusts to the gentle rocking of the train car long before his mind is able to process the details, wings appearing in a blinding flash and sword pulled out with the cool slide of metal. It's a mistake immediately felt as the other passengers in the compartment begin to shriek and yell, some clutching sharply to their chests — the only acknowledgment comes in the sharp furrow of Ishiah's brow, confusion in his expression. He should have sensed them, and quickly enough to stay his hand.

Another second, then two, and both wings and sword are put away.

"Illusionist," he offers by way of explanation, jaw tensing as the train starts to slow, pulling into an unfamiliar station.

Comments

[goodfella]

For two weeks now, there had been a vendor selling live pine wreaths and other decorative plants for the holidays. This morning, the leftovers are sitting out unattended, with a donation box.

Robin doesn't leave a donation, but he takes some wreathes with him.

He doesn't celebrate Christmas in general, is in fact mildly disgusted by much of the behavior surrounding it (although it had always been a good time for the dealership, what with the need of some people to purchase extravagant gifts) -- but Christmas tradition is anything but tradition. Most of it was forcibly taken from elsewhere, and though Robin can't appreciate the birth of Christ, he can at least appreciate a good immortality symbol when he sees one.

And he can hang it on the door to his bar. Which is, of course, open tonight.

But as he turns to head back into town, he catches sight of something so surprising he could piss himself, and so ironic he could vomit. At the very least, he finds himself standing, gaping and startled, as one of the wreaths under his arms falls to bounce lightly, once, and roll to a stop.

At a pair of feet that belong to Ishiah, though everything in Robin's gut says that they can't. They very probably cannot. Because Robin could not be that supremely lucky.

Or quite so horribly cursed.