War has dirty thoughts about Pollution.
IT IS IN HIS NATURE, Death tells her, TO DEFILE EVERYTHING.
War reminds him she is a Horseperson and how Famine and Pestilence never could have affected her, the same way she never affected them.
/
She passes him by somewhere in Middle East, where the whiteness of his person is in stark contrast with his surrounding; nobody notices him, too busy fighting for their lives, for their country, for their god, for ideals – trash piles up in his wake and corrosions spread like fire; he doesn't seem to notice her as she takes a break in her job to observe him, the dreamy expression on his face, the way his skin glistens in sun.
(in her mind, his face is twisted with lust and pain and his poisonous touch doesn't stop her from breaking him, bending him, turning him into blood-thirsty savage).
/
When she looks back at Famine, his eyes are much colder than before, and his posture rigid, as if expecting an attack – or preparing one – and it downs on War that he may know exactly what she is talking about.
(He interacts with Pollution more than she does, and she wonders how far that cooperation goes)
He utters a civil goodbye, pays for drinks, and leaves. War amuses herself by watching a bar brawl, but her amusement is short lived, really.
/
When she closes her eyes, she sees white – white hair, milky skin, and pale, pale eyes, and thinks it unnatural that pollution incarnate looks so pristine, so clean.
She grabs his arm once - she is surprised at how slick, how greasy it feels, how easy it slips away (it shouldn't be surprise, she knows, but it is) - and realizes that white is such a dirty, dirty color.
/
War has dirty thoughts about Pollution.
FORGET ABOUT IT, Death tells her. NOTHING GOOD WILL COME OUT OF IT.
War wonders if he can be affected too, and it makes her laugh.
/
They meet very rarely – their jobs do not really tend to intersect, not the way it sometimes happens with Famine, nor does he follow her like Pestilence sometimes used to.
War isn't sure if it's a good thing or not, because the less she sees him, the less she thinks about him, the less it annoys her.
The moment he smiles dreamily and cheerfully waves as he goes his way, her walls shatter and she sees all too vivid images of his lean, toxic body covered in blood and begging for more.
/
Yes, Famine admits later, he affects me sometimes, too. Around them, people are growing hungry and looking for a reason to start a bloodshed. War stirs her drink and looks lost in thought.
He doesn't realise it, does he, she says at last and Famine shakes his head.
EVEN IF HE DID, Death says, HE WOULDN'T CARE.
Neither is surprised.
/
She tries, once.
He gives her blank look as she hits him, cuts him, pushes him down and tries to claim him. His blood is like mercury, thick and not really flowing, his mouth taste like rust and decay, and he is slippery beneath her. His expression is not dreamy, but it's nothing like she imagined it to be – it's cold, detached, undecipherable.
His touches are filthy, and he does not succumb to her violence.
He burns his way in and fucks her hard, until she is sure she will break, corrode, decompose; that's not how she wanted it, not how she imagined it, and she doesn't know what to think of it.
He leaves, without a word or second glance.
Next time they meet, Pollution offers his usual spaced-out smile like nothing happend.
/
War has dirty thoughts about Pollution.
She adamantly ignores them, just like she ignored the I TOLD YOU SO.