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 who walks among the famous living dead, ezrah
years old 65 posts PM
downtown at midday was hell. people poured out of high rises like a flood of roaches, filling every eatery in the vicinity to the brim. without a car, he couldn't go very far. not that he wanted to in the thick layer of snow that blanketed the city. at times like this, musa preferred to hide in the dark corners of the morgue. but if he didn't grab lunch now he would spend the next twelve hours on an empty stomach.

he was beginning to regret it. sitting in the middle of a cafe, his hunger suddenly evaporated as he felt the beginnings of a migraine. the light in the lowly lit cafe seemed too bright, and everyone was definitely talking too loud. discombobulated snippets of conversations drifted to him, none of them very nice. it seemed fate wanted him to spend the rest of his shift on an empty stomach after all.

shoving his untouched sandwich into the overlarge pocket of his coat, musa got to his feet. praying to a god he didn't believe in, he hoped he would be able to get back into the familiar walls of the hospital. he'd had worse, obviously, but that didn't make his current condition feel any better.

fresh air hit his face like a spiked bat and musa felt better for a second, but one look at the street took away any relief he might have had, as the sun turned the snow an offending shade of white. he cursed under his breath. it was one of those days.

ezrah mirzaei

years old 5 posts PM
snow was a real bitch.

it had a way of making the world beautiful and romantic. it’d nestle in corners and blanket the world in a layer of marshmallow fluff. it made everything look brand-new, untouched from the world. virginal. clinical. cold.

it’d make every surface moderately wet and cause the fabric of virtually anything to cling like velcro. it’d make his fingers red and his nose burn. when he’d breathe it would cause a unique burning sensation, as though he was freezing from the inside out.

ezrah hates the snow and everything it stands for: the cold, the burning, the weird biblical overtones that blanketed the world. when he notices the white little bombs fall from the clouds, he is immediately overcome with the compelling urge to step into the nearest doorframe…

… and directly into the path of one musa al-zahabi.

he shuffles awkwardly, unsure of how to stay both out of the way of the snow as well as not getting too into musa’s personal bubble. his lips press into a fine line as he considers his next choice of words carefully.

”i’m, uh, just trying to get by for some coffee.” though hot chocolate would be more fitting.

&musa al-zahabi.

years old 65 posts PM
still squinting against the too bright space, the voice comes to him from a figure silhouetted against the sunlight. shielding his eyes against the light rays that bend around this person, musa feels like he should be hearing a choir of heavenly voices accompany this guy. or something.

it takes much too long for him to realize he's still standing in the door way of the cafe. a tap on his shoulder reminds him that there are also people looking to get out. "sorry," he mumbles, feeling like a giant lumbering oaf as he side steps both parties.

a harried looking man in a pressed suit leaves first. musa absently wonders how he could walk down the street like that, as if the cold didn't even exist. what a weirdo.

another follows swiftly, seeming in a hurry to catch up to the first man. musa doesn't have time to think about it, as their shoulders bump when he rushes past. despite summoning all the composure he's learned over the years, he winces as his migraine takes a particularly sharp spike and instinctively leans to the side.

legs moving on their own, musa doesn't know how he manages to make it to the curbside before pushing his hair back and upending the remnants of his breakfast.

ezrah branwen

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