[P] so now we have come to a great battlefield

[Andras]

and i was a hand grenade
that never stopped exploding

His heart is crouched like a beast at the altar, slobbering as it prays with its claws in the floorboards. It confesses that it hadn't expected Pilate to laugh so the way it breaks over the sharp lines in his face in a way that smoothes them, for just a moment, knocks the breath out of its lungs. It has to beat so hard just to breathe that the clergyman hears it, the congregation hears it, and the choir sings along to its drum.

It doesn't sound so much like a hymn. 
Its sound can't be anything holy at all.

Pilate grins the way Andras grins, like every tooth is another threat to spit out with the others. If he were the introspective type, Andras might remark on the savage curve of his mouth, sharp as a sickle, or the look in his eyes like his heart says yes just as loud. Andras is not the introspective type. As the space closes up Andras thinks only that it must be a crime, that he is equal parts hate and want, and when one winks to life the other just rises to meet it.

Don't what? Pilate purrs. Andras grits his teeth so hard he's surprised the whole grin doesn't fall out of his mouth. He'd spit his own bloody teeth in the dirt if he could relive it for the rest of his life. 

Andras leans forward. "You tell me." Each lens of his glasses shines cruelly in the light until it too is eaten up by the closeness. Andras wonders if Pilate can see his reflection in them. He wonders if he would like what he sees: the reeling, the ghost of something like ichor, straight from the heart of a god.

His magic hums against his skin. He has so many questions and none of them seem to matter. Andras tips first his head forward, then his body. His smile is as dark as his skin. "I look busier than you." he says. They are close enough that Andras can see each scale on each dormant snake.

He repeats: "What do you want, Pilate?"

@Pilate <3