Paradigm [Laszlo]

[Abalia]

It was the smile of familiarity that graced her lips as one long arm reached out to tug her close. He was quickly becoming that; familiar. Such proximity to him still made her pulse race a little quicker, but it felt nice in a comforting way, too. She leaned into the strength he offered, and reached out to touch the wool of his cloak. Amusement quickly settled and gave way to something much more serious. Abalia was frozen in place as he recounted his loss. It was too soon. Too familiar. Her mind skipped over the part where Laszlo said they weren't especially close. The words friend and death tied together to create a weight of emotion that was stifling. "Oh, Laz," she breathed softly, at last moving. She turned to face him, nestling inside the folds of his coat as her slender arms wrapped around his thin waist. Pity merged with her own sorrow, and caused her grip to be firm, unrelenting. If he took no comfort from her embrace, she certainly felt better for giving it. The notion of feeling abandoned was certainly one that resonated with Abby, whose small fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt just above his waist. "I'm sorry." Trite words that people said when they had no other words to offer, usually, but the immediacy of Abalia's empathy made it sound so very sincere when she muttered it against his chest. With a nuzzle against his warmer frame, her fingers unintentionally pulled too far, and broached the barrier between cloth and skin. The heat of it was intoxicating, and so Abalia offered no repentance. She merely traced soft fingertips over the small space she'd exposed, the scrape of fingernails feather light. "It seems so hard. To be like you are. I... can't imagine." There was a pause, and then the human who had molded herself to his form pulled back enough to peek up at his shadowed face. "But you're strong. Strong enough to stay. Strong enough for this. And... she might have left you, Laszlo, but you're not alone." Certainly not at the moment, anyway, with his arms full of the sweet smelling Alvada who currently had the splay of her fingers tucked into the waistline of his trousers. More warm skin to explore, of course, and a fine place to store them while she spoke. "I'm here."

[Laszlo]

An involuntary breath pushed itself past Laszlo's tongue as he felt Abalia's cold fingers press against the very warm skin of his waistline. "Don't," he whispered, making use of that breath as he aimed his violet eyes down at her, his upper teeth resting gently upon his lower lip as his mouth remained open. A familiar pressure in the roof of his mouth around the base of each fang alerted Laszlo that he should take a moment and step back from Abalia. Her friend was dead, she was human, and as a Symenestra, he was dangerous. Contrary to his want for caution and his weak protest, the thin, bony fingers of his hand slid from Abalia's shoulder and down her side and back. The tip of his sharp nailed dragged along the fabric of her clothing, until he reached the bottom of her shirt and tucked his thumb underneath the fold of linen. The pad of his thumb pressed into her smooth, impossibly soft skin, while the edge of his nail might have caused a minor pain. Leaning forward, Laszlo pressed his lips into Abalia's hair, releasing another warm breath into her silken brunette, while his other arm closed around the woman, the both of them bathed in the shadows of late evening. "I'm the same as you," he murmured into her hair, his fingers slipping further under Abalia's shirt and tracing idle patterns over her skin with the smooth back curve of his claws. His Symenestra blood wanted more, but it was stilled by the reality of the woman he killed yesterday, and the one he allowed to die just days before. Abalia was comforting someone she thought suffered the same as her, but it was a lie. Everything was a lie. "I breathe, I bleed, I feel. We're made of the same flesh. It's just… I've seen so much better. It's like waking up from a blissful dream to remember that your friend is still gone, and no one's coming to save you." Enough whining. Abalia couldn't understand and Laszlo's depressing tirades could go on forever. This was a waste of time. He should have just gone for a walk. Pulling back one arm from around Abalia's slender frame, he lifted her delicate hand out of his pant hem, holding onto her fingers firmly as if giving her a form of punishment. Laszlo leaned back from her and stole his other hand back as well. "I can't do this with you, Abalia."

[Abalia]

It had been blissful, those few seconds where it wasn't his logic ruling the day. His nails, too rough, wonderfully painful against smooth skin so eager to acquiesce, had been blissful. But such pleasures were brief, Abalia had long since learned. Roxanne had been her only constant, and even that was gone now. She wasn't terribly surprised when the lazy fingers that had curled against his own warm skin were removed, when he was retreating again. It was what Laszlo did, it would seem. "I know," she breathed softly, countering the edge of his annoyance with a soft sort of understanding. She even smiled at him, skin positively tingling from where he had touched her, and tugged at the fingers he still held. She captured that hand of his, and pulled it towards her. "We discussed this. We can't do this." What good her words were, when she forced his fingers to unfurl. She pressed a moist kiss to the very center of his palm, big brown eyes lifting to enthralling violet as she adored him thus. Having done such, she tipped her head to nuzzle her cheek into that same palm, the dangerous stroke of his nails against her terrible fragile throat. Abalia's clever gaze hid away beneath heavy lids, and she sighed. The self-indulgent, stolen moment only lasted a few breaths. She came back to the chill of winter in the street, then, and closed his elegant fingers into a fist. Lips to knuckle, she smiled at him again, and then released his hand altogether. Standing in front of him now, she crossed her arms across her body, as if willowy arms would be enough to ward off the chill. "Sorry," she tacked on. As the thick, sober emotion of his admission began to wane, her smile became a bit more mischief and less concern. Abalia always did well to hide behind playful retorts, making it difficult to discern just how much truth was in what she said. "I don't mean to end up in your arms everytime I see you, Laszlo. I just... can't help it." Abalia rocked back on her heels and diverted her gaze, because staring up at him was doing little for her resolve. She worried a rosy lip between pearly whites for a moment and then, without warning, reached for him again. This time it was only small hands that fastened around his own. She squeezed them as she leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. "Tomorrow will be better. I think time helps. And, if you ever need [/i]me[/i]..." she continued, in an echo of a promise he had made to her. She didn't finish it with words, just that flash of a smile as she stepped back again. "G'night, Laz. Feel better." With that, she turned to pick her way along the glassy street, as Dog emerged from a shadow to join her.

[Laszlo]

With Laszlo's earlier reciprocated offer hanging in the air, he watched as Abalia began to walk away. The air grew colder as she left him there, and without her anchoring his weight, he fell an inch or two backward until his back met with the wooden side of the tavern again. Sudden movement pulled Laszlo's eyes down and to the side, reddish eyeshine glimmering in his violet pools as he spied the same dog from the other day. It wasn't even hers. Just a stray, like she was. Like Laszlo was. Following her around because… it didn't want to be alone. An irked sigh strained through his teeth, as Laszlo suddenly became more angry with himself than anyone else. Angry, too, at the circumstances of everything—of how easy it would be to kill Abalia even accidentally, of the sequence of events that had brought them together, of how she as a human should have been so beneath Laszlo's notice. Why did it all matter so much? Why couldn't two people just do what they wanted? Just… petch it. Petch all of it. The only thing that seemed to make sense right now was his Symenestra instinct. He listened to it. It only took two long strides to catch up to her, the rest of the distance crossed by one length arm that grabbed out for hers. Closing his slender fingers around the stem of her upper arm, Laszlo pulled her harshly backward, which forced her to stumble. He caught her easily, and pushed her against the tavern's façade, pinning her back to the wall with both hands upon her shoulders. His lips were on hers because she could begin to protest. In another moment his tongue forced itself against hers, and a set of clawed fingers tangled themselves in her long, dark hair. Laszlo squeezed at her shoulder, as if he were hanging off a cliff and she was his salvation. Come what may, he kissed her. Even if she cut her tongue on an extended fang, if she shoved him away from her, if she stuck a knife between his ribs, he threw caution to the wind and accepted the risk of whatever would happen. Laszlo didn't care about anything else, he just wanted to have someone be near him, someone who wanted to be there. His cloak naturally fell around them, hanging off his shoulders and trapping their body heat, creating their own little pocket of warmth and sweet musk. Abalia's flowery appeal mixed with his own spicier aroma, creating a cocktail of scents that the Widow in him could barely resist. The hand upon her shoulder pulled her toward him, sliding down her shirted back until he was holding her waist against his own body. His other palm caressed down her jawline and held the side of her neck. One claw traced her cheek. Finally, as their lip's embrace lost its momentum, Laszlo pulled away. He didn't go far, and when he spoke, his lips still occasionally touched hers. Violet eyes were angled down, hiding behind thick, long graphite lashes. "I can't," he said breathily, almost a whimper. "I can't keep… I don't want you to go. I don't want to be alone." Laszlo looked up, into Abalia's large coffee colored eyes. His hand upon her back shifted, testing the firmness of her back with each fingertip and the ball of his palm. "I hate… all of this. I don't care what I should or shouldn't do. I don't care if I'm taking advantage of you. I'm tired of worrying about everyone else." Laszlo's eyes dipped closed, and his forehead rested against hers. "I need you."

[Abalia]

Dog displayed his absolute worthlessness when Laszlo accosted her from behind. He sat back on his haunches and watched the exchange with a tired expression, while Abalia made a surprised little noise but otherwise broached no struggle. After all, the discomfort of his grip upon her arms was a welcome one. When he shoved her into the side of the tavern, claiming her lips and more, she couldn't have been more pleased. It felt good, of course. Everything about Laszlo attracted her, and her incredibly limited experience with him suggested that everything would feel good. It was more than that, though. It was soothing to be desired, to feel as if there was a place that she belonged in that moment, if only because Laszlo willed it so. She was nursing a genuine like for the ethaefal, though, and so it extended beyond herself, too. She could feel the desperate giving in his fingers, in the way he pulled her closer, the way his mouth claimed hers. He was not the first Symenestra she had ever kissed, and so Abalia was caution to his abandon. Coquettish and almost playful in the return of his affections, she managed to repay him with like passion without ruining the embrace with the misery an unfortunate scrape could bring. And then she was breathing again, the smell of him filling her, small hands that had been rendered dumb for a moment at last lifting to grip at him. The vocalization of his need echoed within her, mirroring her own desperation too closely. She sighed, a pleased sound, and nodded vaguely. "Mmm," was her assent. His breath felt warm against her moist lips, sweet. With a flicker of her tongue she could still taste him upon her own. Familiar, tinged with that horrible drink he'd tried to give her. The one she'd tried to like, if only because she had misunderstood it as kindness and felt loathe to reject it. How unlike her, to worry so about the feelings of a stranger. "How much longer do you have to work, Laz?" Human fingers tugged at his shirt, only half tucked into his trousers now, as if she had somehow been given that privilege. When it was loose all around, eager palms slipped beneath the cloth to splay instead against heated flesh. She could imagine, with dark eyes closed, what he might look like with all of those layers removed. The pallor of his skin, the almost delicacy of it. Perhaps, even, barely visible veins of gray. As her wandering touch danced upwards over the curve of his spine, she imagined the taste of that skin, the contrast of her dark hair against the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his hip. "Do you have to go back?" Forcing herself to relinquish those fantasies, if only to focus on the present, Abalia opened her eyes once more to glance up at him. So close, so handsome. There was no question as to how desperately she wanted him to say no.

[Laszlo]

Abalia's fingers were cold from the Winter air, but warmed quickly against Laszlo's own skin. Tensed against her touch, he anchored the flat of his hand against the wall behind her and leaned in, close enough to inhale her with every breath. Another clawed hand traced itself down a lock of her brunette hair, setting it neatly over her shoulder as his nails cut between the strands. His bottom lip briefly touched against her forehead, but retracted as she asked if he had to go back—he was smiling. His violets slanted down to meet her eyes, too close to focus on them. Her gaze of longing was a chocolate blur. "No," was the answer he delivered, albeit with a note of uncertainty. Seven would be right pissed if Laszlo disappeared again, just as he had the night before, but the halfblood knew some of what had happened. Perhaps he'd understand if Laszlo needed an early night. Maybe. "Not really. It's my tavern; I work when I want to." Though Laszlo had abandoned whatever useless principles he had accumulated in his short life, dismissing Abalia's own pain and vulnerability and taking comfort in feeling a warm body so close to his, something about this still didn't feel right. His discontent left him in a muted sigh, which feathered through the human's long, tangled hair. Yesterday doesn't matter, he reminded himself, hoping it would resolve his discomfort. Just let yourself have this and you'll feel better. "However." Laszlo leaned back, turning his eyes toward the door of the tavern. He wondered if the patrons would talk, seeing a Symenestra taking a human girl to the private areas of the tavern. What kind of look would Seven give him? Walking back through the small, crowded bar area might not prove such a good idea. "It's freezing out here. I should take you somewhere warm. Not sure Seven would like the sight of that if we walked back through the tavern…" As his cool amethyst eyes slanted off his own hard, black nails, a new idea occurred to him. Leaning back from the warmth of Abalia, Laszlo glanced up at the second story window of the tavern, specifically belonging to Victor and Seven's room. Laszlo's window faced an alleyway, with a perfect view of the adjacent building (whatever that happened to be at the time). He was fairly sure he hadn't locked it. "Do you trust me?" Laszlo asked Abalia, turning back to her. Immediately after the words left his mouth, he remembered that the human made it repeatedly clear that she didn't. Embarrassed, the false Symenestra made a warm smile and tilted his head playfully. "You'd better start if you don't want to fall." He took a step back from her, sweeping his cloak into the crook of one elbow. Holding it aside, he lifted one leg behind himself and pulled at his boot by the heel. His balance wobbled once, but with some effort the article came free. A pale, bare foot pressed onto the chilled Alvadas street, his splayed toes sporting nails as black as his fingers', though these were trimmed down. In another moment, his second boot was pulled off, and he allowed his cloak to sweep back behind him again. "How much do you know about Symenestra, Abalia?" A flash of violet glanced briefly upward as Laszlo unfastened his bootlaces, then began retying them to each other. Once finished, he slung them around his neck. It looked a little comical, with his gray hair pinned down under the weight of his footwear, but Laszlo seemed unabashed. He quickly took Abalia's hand and led her away from the tavern wall. As he coaxed her beside him, Laszlo turned and, for a moment, he stooped low. Watching from the corner of his eye, he reached for her other hand and pulled her arms around his neck, preparing for her to ride piggyback. "I've never done this with a passenger before, so hold on, but don't choke me, please." Straightening, he felt Abalia's weight press into his neck and compress his shoulders. Realizing that she was heavier than he expected, he smiled but wisely held his tongue, rightfully attributing this to the fact that he was presently a Symenestra. Although during the night he was graceful, fluid, and light on his feet, he was stronger and more able during the day. Bouncing his knees once, he adjusted her weight on his back, then approached the tavern wall. It always surprised him how well his gray skin adhered to any surface when he wanted it to. Easier than he expected, Laszlo raised both himself and Abalia off the ground, his palms and the balls of his feet practically glued to the tavern's siding. The grip of the tiny hooks in his skin was so fast that the false Symenestra was positive nothing could forcefully separate it. It seemed more likely that the siding would become dislodged from the tavern's façade. Thankfully it didn't, though he realized there was more grime on the outside of the building than he had anticipated. "Nrgh." Laszlo grunted, evidently out of the sheer effort it took to climb with a woman hanging from his neck. In reality, it was the gash across his side that he had completely forgotten about. Spikes of sharp pain clawed across his torso in tandem with his movements. Siofra had attacked him with a knife the night before, and he'd narrowly avoided having a blade threaded between his ribs. She still got him good though, opening a superficial wound along his side. When the day came, Laszlo applied his Ethaefal talent to the wound to help hasten its healing, but now his skin was pulling at the barely sealed injury. In fact, he was sure it had reopened, and that this climbing idea had been a little unwise. "Almost there," he gasped during a pause, closing his eyes briefly to block out the pain. Petch finding his own window. Laszlo and Abalia would have to take a shortcut through Seven and Victor's room. There was no one in there anyway. Hopefully they didn't lock their window either. "Hold on—" Several meters off the ground now, Laszlo reached upward with one slender arm, pulling at the seam between the windows with his long, sharpened claws. It was amusing, to think he was using his long nails exactly what they had been intended for: climbing and finding purchase, rather than opening wine bottles or scratching stains off his clothes. With a whine, the window thankfully swung open, and Laszlo anchored one hand in the window sill. "Gonna need you to—nrh—climb off. I'll be up after you." Assisting her as she needed, Laszlo hoisted himself into the window behind her, his spidery motions completely natural to him but a little odd looking considering he was a human-sized creature. Bare feet planted on the cool wooden floor, not for the first time in this room, and Laszlo stood straight, dusting his hands off on his trousers. Immediately afterward, he wrapped one arm around his side and cradled his wound, annoyed that his shirt felt wet under his touch. It was dark, however, and his cloak shielded most of his body from view for now. After turning to close the window, he gestured for the door. "This is Seven's room," Laszlo explained, keeping his voice level. "Mine is the next door over. If you'd like to go there, I mean. I don't mean to hurry you, but…" Seven's room was not where he'd like to be. Besides, he'd be so glad to get off of his feet.

[Abalia]

Laszlo's proximity alone was intoxicating. Abalia recognized that, for some reason she couldn't comprehend, she was especially susceptible to the charm of his race. There was something about Laszlo, a beloved of the gods in shimmering daylight, a beautiful wraith at night, that amplified her longing. Or was it circumstance? Was it the cruel twist of fate that had stolen Roxxie away from her? Abalia didn't want to think it was desperation, even as he gave the response her entire body had been poised to accept, and a shudder of anticipation coursed through her. "Lasz-" she was murmuring, but all too soon he was plotting their escape. One she'd never have imagined. He was laughably beautiful in bare feet, with his boots draped around his shoulders, but the small giggle that had threatened to part her lips was swallowed, and she bumbled through a mostly incoherent answer to his question. She knew what a Symenestra had tasted like, the feel of one beneath her lips. She knew the eerie beauty, the compelling allure. She understood broodiness, understated strength. Those musings were cut off with a question that stole her breath, those violet eyes pressing it into her soul. Do you trust me? She'd trusted Roxanne. That had been enough. How could she ever trust someone else, when Roxxie had been ripped away from her? And yet her limbs seemed to have a mind of their own, obeying the smooth summons of the grouchy tavern owner. She was clambering onto his back with more grace than he might have expected. When he began to move, a shrill squeal escaped her and became soft laughter, before she buried her face in the fold of fabric covering his shoulder. "Oh, gods, Laz!" she laughed. "I'm afraid of heights." She gripped him tightly, but was thoughtful not to strangle him as they made their strange ascent and she laughed as she hadn't in several long weeks.When, at last, there was solid ground beneath her feet, she swayed a little. Curious brown eyes swept the room once, deciding immediately that it didn't feel like Laszlo. He confirmed her thoughts as he labeled the room as Seven's, and she shrugged off the eerie feeling it gave her. "Okay," she said, voice musical and light. She was absolutely ignorant of the fact that her greatest loss had been sealed here, that he knew all about it. The human who seemed to trust him despite her most firm statements to the contrary tangled small fingers in his, and left behind the foreign room without another thought. His room, however, entertained her lingering curiosity for longer. She didn't glance up as the door closed behind her. Instead, soft fingertips were stroking the length of a bedpost, testing the softness of his blanket, taking in the place which was likely his sanctuary. There was something perfect about the imperfection of it all. "You're a slob," she teased, stooping to pick up the shirt he'd worn and discarded the day before before she glanced back to smile at him. Only then, in the tight corners of his smile, did she at last notice his discomfort. Her pretty brow furrowed, knotted in concern, and she dropped his shirt to the trunk that stood sentinel at the bottom of his bed, and crossed back to him. That one hand still clutched protectively at his side, beneath his coat, and when she forced it into light, his long fingers were bright. "What happened?" she half gasped, pushing him back onto his own mattress. "This couldn't have happened climbing up..." Without asking permission to do as much, she shoved the weight of his coat off of his lean shoulders, and deftly began unbuttoning his now stained shirt. "You should have told me you were hurt," she scolded in that warm way that was softened by fondness.

[Laszlo]

"Don't—" But Abalia was already unfastening the buttons down the front of his shirt. She was honed on what she was doing, solidly determined to leave him partially undressed. Even if her primary motivator was concern over his well-being, it still made his heart beat faster to watch the woman work at removing his clothing. "It's nothing—Will you slow down? I didn't take you here so you could…" Without a lantern burning, only the bright moonlight filled the bedroom, flooding through Laszlo's only window even though it faced a building. Even without a Symenestra's keen vision, the room was lit well enough with a bluish glow, perceptible most likely to even Abalia's human eyes. The two of the stood in the center of the mildly untidy room, two silhouettes against a small, bright window. She had called him a slob—he supposed he could have kept things cleaner. Several articles of clothing lied strewn about the floor, though to his credit anything clean was properly stored in the tall wardrobe on the far end of the room. The bed was unmade, of course it was unmade. Who would he try to impress? He may have been the fallen son of Syna, but that didn't mean his organizational skills were as divine as his dayside countenance. As Abalia opened his shirt, Laszlo gave a sigh of defeat and shrugged the rest of it from his shoulders. For a moment, his angry wound was exposed as he struggled to free his wrists from the still-buttoned cuffs, an effort which took place behind his back. The gash had a sort of curve to it, cradling his side like a lover's arm. It had healed, somewhat, but his endeavor to scale the tavern façade had pulled it open in the middle. Light remains of blood remained wet on his skin from his clothing, and the smiling wound still glittered with intent to drool. "It's only a flesh wound," Laszlo mumbled, finally protecting the injury with an arm and twisting away from her, now that his hands were free. His other hand pulled his boots from his neck and tossed them to the floor. They landed with a heavy and loud series of thuds, which Seven had probably heard. Great. "It happened yesterday when I tried to stop my friend from killing herself. She turned the knife on me, it happened quickly—I'm not a slob," he added, a flood of unwanted emotions inspiring him to change the subject to something less morbid. It occurred to him belatedly that he had just taken Abalia to the room where Roxanne had died. He had been too focused on his own woes to realize it. Gods, what was the matter with him? "Don't fuss over it," Laszlo insisted, moving hurriedly past the woman and heading for his bed. He sat down slowly, resting his long, thin arm in his lap as he kept it around his side. His gray skin was well exposed, bluish in the low light, and blemished here or there with the odd mole or minor scar. Without clothing, the Symenestra looked even less like humans than they usually did. His body was long, lean, and regrettably soft. Laszlo lacked any pronounced muscle tone, and made up for it in sheer, catlike grace. A slender, bony hand combed through his hair. "She used me. She wanted me to be part of her own personal dilemmas. It's not like I didn't understand, I went through the same thing she did. She just…" He shook his head, holding out his hand and summoning Abalia to him. "Come. Sit. I just want to relax."

[Abalia]

Abalia refused to heed his beckon, at least immediately. Instead she used the silvery light of the full moon to navigate through his mostly dark room. Eventually, she found a scarcely cool basin of water, into which she dipped the soft cloth beside it. At least he kept clean. "Let me clean it up first," she insisted. When she returned to where he sat, she sank to her knees between his bare feet. She seemed fresh faced and innocent when she smiled up at him, sleepy moonlight illuminating the fragile beauty of her human face. And then she was all focus, sweet lips pursed in thought as she so carefully began to wipe away the unhappy blood weeping from his wound. "That must have been terrible," she murmured into the curve of his chest, where her face hovered. "To lose someone you cared about like that." Her hands were gentle and thorough, the curtain of her hair falling to tickle the bare skin of his torso as she worked. She'd yet to pause to really take in the topless Laszlo she'd managed to get into his bed, somehow, because her efforts to help him were quite sincere. Soon the cloth was much brighter than it had been when she'd first claimed it, but the worst of the mess was washed away and the wound was clotting again already. "I'm glad she didn't kill you," Abalia mused, the sentiment seeming more heavy and important than she might have intended in the quiet of the room. "I'm glad you're still here." Having said as much, she leaned away to place the cloth on the nightstand. Drying her fingers against the fabric encasing her thighs, she settled back into the curve of her heels and peered up at him thoughtfully. The burn of desire had faded for her, but only because it had been replaced with genuine concern. She'd never really taken care of anyone before, except for Roxxie. She wasn't even sure what moved her to do this for Laszlo. This wasn't her typical nature. But he was lovely, and right now he seemed as fractured as she felt. They were a lot a like, the two of them. Maybe that's why she felt best, of late, when she was by his side.

[Laszlo]

"I didn't exactly care about her," Laszlo pointed out insistently, having moved his arm aside and surrendered to allow Abalia to do as she willed. Despite the cool air in the room, the damp cloth felt amazing when gently applied to his torn, bruised skin. Cleaning the wound was something Duvalyon had once stressed as important, but Laszlo hadn't cleaned it beyond (rather unintentionally) dousing it in brackish seawater. The cloth became well soiled with salt, sweat, blood, and who knows what else, yet Abalia didn't seem to mind. To see someone so nurturing, without a polished veneer of stoicism like Duvalyon had always worn, was a little astonishing. "I suppose I did, a little, but it was more… we were the same, she and I. We were Ethaefal, young and new in the world. It was just so hard for her. And I tried to help her, I did! In the end she just… gave up. To see one of my own kind broken like that, I…" Uttering a sigh, Laszlo idly reached forward and threaded a lock of Abalia's hair between his fingers, brushing it down over her cheek. He repeated this a few times before speaking again, his silvery purple eyes settled on the soiled cloth on the nightstand. "I somehow found the resolve to keep living. Many Ethaefal have. Not long ago I even met an Ethaefal over four hundred years old. We buy his ale, can you believe that?" Laszlo smiled, turning back to Abalia and stilling his hand. "It's hard to see a point, but I know that I don't want to die. I've faced death several times, and felt this strong urge to live. I always listen to it. It feels right." Siofra and Arrow, despair and resolution. Laszlo fit somewhere in between. Siofra had been young, like him, frantic and passionate. Arrow had been distant and cautious. He couldn't imagine what four hundred years of life would be like. The reasons to keep on living must have changed for him over the decades and the centuries. Laszlo retracted his hand into his lap. "I…" No. For a moment, Laszlo had considered telling Abalia that it was his hand that forced the knife into Siofra's gut. It may have been accidental, or it may not have been, but he wasn't sure he could face the look in her eye as she realized that Laszlo could be capable of anything so dark. Look at her, innocent and ignorant, here at the side of his bed and lit softly by a neon moon. He couldn't even tell her that her friend was dead. Why did he feel so compelled to protect her from the ugly world? "Thank you," he managed, glancing down at his gash mark and running his hand gingerly over it. With his other, he reached for the underside of Abalia's chin. Anchoring his clawed fingers behind her jaw, he pulled her forward as Laszlo simultaneously leaned in. The kiss was soft, but lasted for several long seconds. "I appreciate the company. You know, I… I don't think I know anything about you. I'd like to change that." He felt relieved and renewed, suddenly. This entire exchange had been quite cathartic, having someone listen to him drone on about himself. Laszlo tilted his head at her as his mind shifted tracks, and a peculiar new gleam appeared in his violet eyes. He took his gaze from her own eyes to her shoulder. That hand slid down her neck until his thumbnail hooked under the collar of her shirt. Laszlo had removed his shirt, after all. It would only be fair. No… something didn't feel right about this. He felt… "I'm curious as to why you're so eager for a Symenestra's attention. Don't you know we have a bad reputation?"