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Oct 18, 2019 7:10 AM
tokyo ghoul, but not in tokyo
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Locally famous suicide spots are kind of depressing places to hang out, even if you're not...him. He doesn't like to spend more time here than he has to – especially because he always wants to talk people down, when he sees them up on the side of the bridge.

He can deal with it. Once food turns up, he won't be back for another month at least, and if he's never here...well, somebody else will get to it first.

He's sitting up on the railing, right now, near the end, sometimes glancing down the bridge or at the ground and then the water below, mostly checking his phone. Occasionally he flicks the butt of a cigarette into the trash can behind him. (When you've only got a few tastes available to you, and you've got regeneration...)

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There's a man headed in his general direction. The stranger looks more loitering than suicidal, though; he's texting, half an eye on where he's going, and only puts the phone away when he notices he's not alone.

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Not the first time somebody's hid their nice electronics walking by him.

He waves idly to him and goes back to contemplating the ground.

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The stranger regards him from a distance for a minute, with an air of mild concern, before approaching closer.

"Lovely weather," he remarks, inaccurately. He has a mild French accent, and perfect diction.

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Huh.

"If you like fog, sure." (With decidedly imperfect diction.)

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"There's a certain romantic appeal to it."

He leans against the bridge railing, crosses his ankles.

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"...yeah, I guess you could say that."

He looks out over the water.

"It's a little weird to be up here when it's bright, anyway."

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"You spend much time here?"

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...it's not really lying either way, is it?

"Yeah. Kind of a lot, lately."

He's been getting really hungry.

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"Guy like you, all alone?"

The tone's very gentle, a ball lobbed over the plate: it's obvious flirting, he knows it's obvious, there's just enough irony to let it fly by unremarked and just enough sincerity to leave the offer open.

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"Guy like you, picking me up?"

He's clearly not opposed, but he's skeptical.

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He shrugs. "I'm not looking for anything long-term, right now. A lot of guys aren't good at listening when you say that, you know? So. You don't seem like you're planning on ringing my phone of the hook a year from now, if you'll forgive me saying it."

A moment's pause, and: "Besides. You're pretty, and you're here on the bridge in the fog, and ... well. I already said I'm a romantic."

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Well, that's insensitive. And...he doesn't care nearly as much as he should, probably.

Besides, he

(smells amazing)

...is a "romantic", and pretty, and he really needs a distraction.

"Think it'll be worth it?"

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"Oh, I make a habit of being worth it."

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"...well, better than what I was planning to do with my Friday night, right?"

He swings his legs back over and hops off the railing.

(It's kind of risky, hooking up with somebody when he's this hungry, especially a total stranger. He thinks he can deal with it. Maybe he'll try to kill him, and he'll get to eat.)

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"High standards you've got there," he comments, amused.

Beginning to stroll back the way he came from: "You have a name, then?"

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“Have you not seen yourself in a mirror?”

He follows him.

“I’m Z. You?”

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"Jean." Affectionately teasing: "What kind of a name is Z, anyway?"

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“Kind I got to pick.”

Continuing to check him out, continuing to like what he sees.

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"That's a good kind," Jean agrees.

He's doing his fair share of looking at Z. After a minute of walking in silence, he holds out a hand to him.

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He takes it a little too quickly.

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Jean squeezes his hand and smiles at him.

 

 

His apartment's walking distance away.

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Good thing it’s not a long walk.

The moment they’re inside he practically drags him to the couch.

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Jean giggles and complies, running fingers through his hair and tugging gently.

(The couch is inordinately comfy.)

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He gasps a little, grins, and kisses him.

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(His mouth tastes bitter, resinous and ashy and not at all like a human's.)

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