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He falls on top of Blake, face to his still and blood-wet chest. A lovers' posture. This is the closest they've ever come to it. This bad metaphor, this false translation.

Or maybe the love he feels (that's what he started calling it after Blake was gone, love) has always been a metaphor for this.

There's nothing more perfect than death. Pure arrival, without the morning after's grey normality and queasy regrets.

"Finish him," someone says.

Use my gun, Avon would beg if he could breathe to speak. Let me feel what I did to him. Let me finally know.