Bright Green Litmus Paper

Sid liked to think of himself as a simple guy. He enjoyed simple things, hated things that were too complicated, and liked acting before his brain could fire off the nerves telling him that it was a bad idea. That was just how he was, and he disliked anyone trying to change that about him, or people who complained that it was weird or annoying. Not that many people did.

In this town, everything was complicated. There was nothing simple about a city where all manners of magical being interacted and intersected until their differences became meaningless. Where people had powers that made someone's thoughts as obvious as the sun, or who needed to live by killing others. The city had an inherent complication to it that was hard to escape.

Because of this, he found people were quick to like him. Not quick to trust, but quick to like. Although his heritage made him dangerous, inherently so--a race of elves who lived underground and solved all their interpersonal problems with extremely prejudiced murder was hard to "trust". But he was liked well enough. Something simple in a place where everything was complicated was like a beacon.

He found himself thinking about this as he walked down the street, arms stretched over his head. It was getting dark. When was he going to do something with his life? What was he going to do with his degree in Chemistry? What would he do about his powers, that he'd neglected for so long? These were things he didn't like to think about, because they didn't have easy, simple answers. It made him question his life. It made him question what he was doing here.

It made him question if leaving his hometown had been worth it, now that he was no longer drunk off light and freedom.

As he walked, shirtless in the warm August weather (though, to be fair he would be shirtless no matter what weather it was), he felt a strange feeling. It was something he hadn't felt in a while. A sense of deep loathing, bubbling just under the surface like heating milk until it started to burn. He looked around, curious. There weren't many things that could illicit that in him. After scanning the afternoon summer crowd, he thought he saw a form that he recognized, and made that bubbling loathing come back.

This, too, was simple.

"Deith!" He called, walking through the thicket of bodies. "It's been so long!"

He took a deep breath and felt such a familiar and comforting disgust that it almost shook him. He loved the feeling of being around Deith. He didn't love Deith--unless breaking someone's nose under your boot was a method of expressing love, which for Drow, hey, was technically possible--but he did love hating Deith. His hatred for this.... person, using that term lightly, was the closest Sid ever felt to being a real Drow. A real one, a proper one, a ruthless misanthropic killer that could mow down everything in his way. Sadly, he lacked that.

It felt weird to him, somehow, saying that he was sad he couldn't be a ruthless, heartless killer like others of his race. Here, among mortals, immortals, gods and heathens, that would be something that they would appreciate. Being charismatic, a good guy. Being like them was ideal.

Being like them.

Initially, that had made him happy. The whole reason he'd left was because he was different, he didn't fit in, and he felt like he never would. Now, being among people who looked at him as a novelty rather than the norm, it occurred to him that this wasn't what he wanted. He didn't like this. He hated this, even. He wondered, belatedly, if going back was the better option. But drow did not take kindly to deserters, and their punishment for that was the same as their punishment for everything else: torture followed by death.

But Deith made him feel normal. It made him feel like a drow, like a motherfucking dark elf the way he always wanted. Seeing him made him want to punch him, kick him, break every bone in his body, let them heal and then break them again. What was it about him that made him feel that way?

As Deith walked up, Sid had to tilt his head back to meet his gaze. Sid was only a paltry five-foot-seven to the other man's six feet, which made him a little bitter, but drow learn pretty early on from being killed by their own young that size is not the determining factor in a fight. Sid put his hands on his hips and crossed one booted foot in front of the other. He liked the way his heavy boots felt, and though people looked at him strangely for wearing them in the summer, he liked having something to take off and bludgeon someone with if need be.

Never knew when you'd need to beat someone with a shoe.

Case and point--

"Of course I'm still here!" His voice was cheery, like he was greeting an old friend, even though the terms they'd left on made the word "abysmal" look promising. "Come on, it's not like this complexion is exactly normal on the other side! Well, magic and glamours and the like, but who has time? Who cares?"

He shrugged his muscular shoulders and locked eyes with Deith properly. "Though, I have to say the feeling's mutual. I'd thought I'd never see you again either... isn't that funny?

"We have to celebrate this occasion, Deith! Though with what... ah, how about food? I here there's a good new restaurant around here.... Good menu... a fine selection of women with no one waiting for them and no friends to speak of..." He let the last thing he said hang, letting Deith imply what he meant. "What do you say?"

Sid smiled, his crimson eyes watching Deith squirm with the kind of glee that showed up Drow texts a lot. It was something that loosely translated to the Hunter's Priapism, an affliction said to only affect males because of their weaker and baser natures compared to the priestesses. When a hunting party found something just strong enough that it proposed a challenge, but not strong enough to kill the hunter, the glee of the hunt, the moment when it thrashed and exposed its squishy bits to be sliced and diced. In that moment, the excitement caused the Hunter's Priapism.

When he'd been first learning about fighting, he hadn't taken any joy in it. He viewed beating something to a bloody pulp, to death, as gross and unnecessary. But now he understood. It clicked, two dissonant cogs slotting together, revealing they were meant to be like that all along.

When Deith reacted, by calling his idea shit, a big grin came to his face. Of course, of course. He'd expected him to refuse. Deith always did, at first. But it was funny--he knew that Deith would fold one way or another. Not because he had any particular power over him, or because he feared Sid, no, it was because he always managed to trap him. In an open space like this, Deith was hamstringed by decorum by politeness. He liked to scoot by drawing only a minimal amount of attention.

But when Sid was around, with people parting around them like a rushing river around a stone, metaphorically, Deith was trapped. Like an animal. It was less conspicuous if he just went along with what Sid wanted, metaphorically looping arms and chatting amicably with thinly veiled threats until they were away from prying eyes and their faux camaraderie turned into punching, kicking, and biting.

But this was a two way trap; Sid was just as stuck as Deith. When he fired back with a proposal... well, more like a proposition of his own, momentary surprised graced his face before settling back into that charismatic smile.

Well, if Deith wanted to go there with him, he wasn't going to step back. Oh no, he was going to step into the punches. A little pain was good for him.

"Ah, me? Well you know me. I don't look for action so much as it just comes falling into my lap. Here I was, just asking you if you wanted to catch up over some burgers like old friends, and you start talking about action.."

He winked, leaning forward just enough to get into Deith's space. "But hey, if you're as good using your mouth as you are at running it, I won't say no."

Sid chuckled, not letting the quip get to him. He was a talker. A rambler. An unfortunate trait in a drow. But he loved it. His smart mouth got him into trouble, and that's where he liked to be. Sure, being safe and liked and the party boy was fun. But this was a special kind of fun, a private enjoyment that he'd deny having. Saying you threw massive parties was one thing. Saying you hailed down someone you hated to punch them until they cried was something else.

He doubted Deith would cry, but god, if he did, then the Hunters Priapism would shake him to the core.

They walked together with the crowd, Sid's hands in his pockets and his heart beating against his ribs. It felt good.

His ears twitched as Deith spoke up again. "Eh? Well, I mostly said it to taunt you. I'd prefer drinking to eating. It sucks to wrestle with a full stomach. Drunk wrestling, on the other hand, is quite fun."

Did he mean sex or fighting? Both, probably.