Characters and plot belong to their rightful owner.
Hollow
"Those will kill you one day." Allen comments one day as the rain pours down and a thin layer of cotton-candy like mist clings to the windows outside. There's a lamp lit somewhere behind him, casting an eerie glow on the room, exaggerating shadows and making things seem scarier than they really are. Allen doesn't mind. It's always like this with the older man. He's gotten used to it.
The walls are painted green – Scottish Waltz. Allen thinks it's almost poetic, but his partner only rolls his eyes and says that green is green, and that's all there is to it.
On a conjoined platform of two crates pushed together, there's a deck of cards, the black-and-white chequered backs flashing with orange as his face is reflected off its laminated surface. How many games have they played with this set now?
Allen shrugs. He really doesn't care what the older man does. He's stopped worrying a long time ago when it became obvious that Tyki doesn't give a damn about what Allen thinks when it comes to his habits and all things fundamentally rheumatic.
"I find my disposition disinclined to acquiesce to your request." The dark-skinned man replies after a moment, pulling the white cancer stick from his mouth to blow out an exaggeratedly long plume of smoke to the side. Allen hums.
"Fancy, fancy." He smirks, then, after a moment, says, "Whatever. I won't come to your funeral."
Tyki has the good graces to pretend to look shocked, letting the butt's ash fall from the end of his cigarette while he pretends to recompose himself. Allen thinks that Tyki might not give a damn, but doesn't say anything. Frivolous comments are just that – frivolous. Without a doubt, Allen knows that smoking is the least of the Noah's worries, being on the "To Be Killed" list of many Exorcists, himself included, but he knows for a fact that if there's one way he'll leave the Earth, it'll be due to smoke inhalation.
"I'll have that engraved on my tombstone, then." Tyki says good-naturedly, even though a sneer works itself onto his lips, making him handsome in a more devilish than not sort of way.
For the hundredth time, Allen wonders how they've ended up together, playing cards ever Saturday evening.
They only play when it rains, though, and even though today is really Thursday and the rain only comes so often, it's a Saturday and they're both here.
He studies the black-and-brown hair sceptically, sweeping over a high-set forehead that turns into neatly trimmed eyebrows and a pair of slanted yellow eyes. The nose is long and straight, and his mouth is twisted at a crooked angle, drawing attention to the mole under his left eye. Allen wonders what it is that keeps him coming back.
Their requiem is sung in the form of the metal church bells from the nearby town. Allen ignores it, instead, continuing his scrutiny of the dark Noah. Finally, he sits back on his crate shaking his head. He doesn't know if he's found what he was looking for or not, but he doesn't bother to do anything about it.
The answer will come in time, he knows.
Allen drums his fingers on his thighs, following a silent beat as another puff of grey smoke hits the ceiling, and condenses the window.
"Those will kill you one day." Allen says, and he steals the cigarette.