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a bitter taste

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There's blood, here.
Bitterly expected.

The first kiss wasn't a fairy tale, and while he had given up on them many years ago Jeorge had hoped they had one thing right. Instead, he could only taste sweat and some other mans blood on Astram's lips. Desperate, a plea for something. There was still a battle field, they where still on it.

"If I don't make it, remember that alright?"

 

The second kiss, later that night, wasn't tinged with blood and death. It was marked by the faint taste of a poor meal and mead. It's not good, it's awful really. It's clear Jeorge hasn't kissed or been kissed before and Astram is more expecting then he should.

"That wasn't worth it. Just keep the first one."

 

The third is later, there's blood once more but there will be none later. The ones left cheer, it's over. Maybe he should cheer as well, before he thinks about looking for Astram, he finds him.
He looks half dead, staggered and not really standing. The regalia bottled down into a sturdy pole. A wound is gushing on his eyebrow and really, he should get it checked out but it doesn't occur to Jeorge.

Astram's blood is not sweet. It's bitter as all blood is but it's his. A final taste of opposing engagement between the two.

"What happens now."
"Whatever it is, it won't be here."
"You got better you know."
"Did I?"
"Always."

There's blood, long faded.