I smile and joke with him, his face the grim counterpart to mine. He is pale like the moon, and I am as green as jade. There is a rush of /something/ when I touch, stroke his ears— but that is only the hint, a faint brush of a moth’s wing to when we are back to back, when we are fighting, when we are coated in the blood of our enemies, when I am reloading my gun and when he runs his hand along the length of his runeblade, making it shimmer and glow and crackle like a whip of thunder.

I roar with ferocity and he is my silent counterpart, his own ferocity, his own killer instinct simmering under the surface and we strike. We leave bodies in our wake, and our handiwork is clear. It is when we rest (but he is not quite resting, after all— he is dead and the dead need no rest) and compare the gore on our armor that I feel something more between us. It is a bond beyond whatever I had known before.

I felt as if this man was the other part to my everything, and that in battle? We were truly unstoppable.

I think this as I peer at him, studying the burning blue of his eyes. I want to ask, but I can’t find the words and I’m sure it won’t make any sense to him like it does to me.

So instead I brush my knuckles against his jaw, ignoring the coolness of his flesh. I expect him to pull back, but instead he remains and seems to consider the action’s meaning. He is asking me, but my mind is elsewhere.