The lovers

1------------------

"Aaaarrrghhh you facetious fool, stop writhing around in righteously-false agony you precious nitwit you...!"

"You what! You drowned your sorrows too, why do you not feel my pain! It should be you here, suffering, getting my hopes up an all after all that hum-bug-palava!"

"That's what it's called now is it hum-bug-palava. Who knew?" the regal gent pour himself a drink downed it one. "Ha ha."

The other just as gentrified but not as sweet got up, slapped his friend right around the chops.

"You can't even hit me with your fists closed can you, you wretched human being!"

"I could if I wanted too, I just didn't feel like it."

The gent had taken a step away, the nights moonshine fell upon him as he furled his brow and tapped his fingers beneath his chin.

"Let's think for a moment what does a slap really mean. Now we've already established you do not want a fight, we know I am much the better when it comes to verbal sparing as I can exponent from previous altercations what you are about to divulge, so what the devil did you hit me for? What the deuces were you trying to achieve?"

He swung again. The gent dodged easily as the poor fellow swooshed to the floor.

"Because when you've been hit, you shut you chubby cheeks for just a moment and I can hear the birds sing and the robins dance."

"Who on earth are you kidding, we can't hear a thing around here that's why we chose it remember?"

"Fuck it! Chose it! It's ours!"

"Really, you're honestly going to take that line of repetition again."

He slips but still manages to drag himself from the floor onto the cobble steps that surrounded the gargoyle defended building.

"Are you going to help me get in or what?"

"You mean you're not comfortable on the dewey dew of the grass my old chum, my best pal, my flirtatious nincomplod..."

"You've picked that! Again haven't you?"

"I always do my dear chap, I always do...no no no watch the bottle...what would we do without the bottle?"

2----------------------

The whiskey drenched his soul in placid lifelessness where all was slow and calm and more that could ever be expected.

"You're staring again."

"Am I?"

"Staring at what, it's pitch black outside and inside for that matter."

"How long was I..."

"I don't know I didn't count"

"Well, you should dear chap it'd be mighty-nice to know if I have a cancerous tumour on the frontal cortex or I'm just a latent daydreamer. Never used to daydream you know, always too busy fussing over one thing or another, perennially busy enough to fill all the sun-filled days you know."

"And now?"

"I finished school and-and it all..."

"You're doing it again."

"Was I? Oh so sorry old chum, he taps him around the cheeks. How long was I out this time?"

"I told you I'm not going to count, no matter how much-"

"No, you said and I do believe this is quite factually correct, that last time you said you did not count. Nothing about the situation suggested that you would not cherish the moments by counting them down the next time poop went loopy-de-loop."