ashes to ashes, dust to dust, deck to deck and just to just

Quaestor Amalthus isn't exactly someone Minoth would describe as having a "punchable" face, but then Minoth wouldn't often describe anyone as such. Maybe it had to do with his overall long-windedness, or his unfortunate bout of inborn pretentiousness (he didn't think he was better than other people, as a rule, but he did like his own way of doing things best, usually, especially when not subject to interrogation for clarification, and he'd by this point overcome his resistance to the admission of just where that trait originated), or the simple truth that there were and are always so many better, even sometimes more succinct ways of expressing the same basic idea.

A face that looks like Sour Avocado tastes.

A face that inspires the utmost of discomfited apathy, like you took a breath in and forgot how to replace it, but don't care to remember anyway, because what's the point of living, when you've seen that face?

A face only a mother could love, and she didn't (Minoth also likes to lie, recreationally, where convenient and profitable, for turn of phrase, but he'd never bring this one before Amalthus).

A face I won't describe, because it's not worth a second look.

The plush, pinched visage of a human Aspar.

(He's yet to find that more succinct description, but he's sure it exists.)

Of course, he'd never actually do it. He can't. It'd have disastrous consequences. He'd worsen his whole situation tenfold. It'd put the seal of doom on an already dismal life.

...would it, really?

He's taller than Amalthus. Always has been. Broader, bulkier, and far less punchable because his face takes so many detours to carve out its essential geometry. So...better-looking, too. An aspect that getting punched would only enhance, on his part, and on Amalthus's, kick a man half kneed. Not to mention the fact that he doesn't live anywhere near his Driver, anymore.

Whatever. He won't do it. Not worth the trouble.

But he does think about it. You know, because that's the safe, smart, rational thing to do with rational thoughts. Keep 'em around, rotate and ruminate and laminate and baste, just for the hell of it, because you can, because you think somehow that'll get 'em to go, eventually.

Whenever he's feeling down, or distracted, or dotty, Minoth muses to himself, what if I just...punched Amalthus in the face? Not unprompted, of course. I wouldn't amble over to his personal space and just pop him one. I'd be provoked. Cool. Capable. It'd all set itself up perfectly.

Amalthus would call me over, but like it was an item on his to-do list, so he'd forget he'd called as soon as he'd done it, and I'd take my sweet time getting there, because I'm my own Blade and I don't have to do a damn thing I don't want to do, and just when he recalls that he's made this imposition, and takes a gander to see, where am I, so slow, so impudent, that's when I get him. One, two...

"Ow! Minoth, that hurt!"

Amend that statement. Whenever he's dreaming, Minoth's mind wanders on this topic, and apparently he'd gotten enough solid winks in to develop the drama all the way to its logical conclusion: socking Addam in the face when he'd peered over to wake his friend up.

How funny. What a strange coincidence. In fact, so strange and so funny is it that Minoth begins laughing aloud; Addam, scrubbing at his freshly reddened face, takes almost no hesitation before joining in, though he doesn't know quite why.