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Untitled - ChrisXPiers - Two
They were on the B.S.A.A's helicopter, headed back to a small airport to be flown back to America. A medic was fussing over Piers, using alcohol wipes to clean the dry blood from several small lacerations on Piers face.
"I'm fine, really." Piers insisted, though it didn't do much to stop the man.
The truth is Piers really was fine, for the most part. The jarring pain in his arm had stopped, leaving only a dull ache in its wake.
Chris chuckled, amused by Piers irritation.
"Once you arrive back in America you will be treated with the C-Virus vaccine." The helicopter pilot said, lowering the helicopter onto a heli-pad at the small airport.
They boarded a jet and Piers reclined his seat, closing his eyes. Chris looked over at the younger man. The choice Piers had made back in the underwater facility didn't even seem to affect him very much.
Once Chris was certain Piers was asleep, he placed his hand on top of Piers own, curling his fingers around it and holding it tightly.
The jet arrive
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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