Desoul ‘02

Marrion was insane. France had decided quite soon after meeting the newly turned vampire that something had been off with the changing. Yet somehow he’d been the only one to notice. It was logical, he told himself, for everyone to pick Marrion’s cousin as the mad one since the change had given her two very volatile personalities. But. The man was dancing in the kitchen, spatula in hand, while a pancake sizzled on the stove. And not only was he dancing, no. He was singing. And the song he had chosen as he little act was quite clearly not made for a male vocalist. These were not the marks of sanity.

France moved cautiously, peering at the laptop screen to see just what Marrion was listening to. He had to admit it probably wasn’t too terribly bad, as long as one could tune out Marrion and his caterwauling. Because for all of the brunette’s abilities, none of them were even remotely artistic. Unless you counted dancing, France admitted as he glanced back at his roommate. Even with cooking utensil in hand, Marrion looked better dancing than most.

Shaking his head quietly, France shrugged off his coat, tossing his wallet to the end table on his way to the closet. He was just reaching for a hanger when the temperature at his back changed, signaling that his arrival had indeed been noticed.

“Your hair’s wet,” Marrion’s tone held a mild sense of amusement, and France merely sighed, hanging his long trench before turning around.

“It was raining.”

“Which means you went up to church again.”

“Perhaps.”

France didn’t bother lying about it, and Marrion didn’t try to get an admission from him. The rain wouldn’t make it below the top plate to where they lived in the blue district, and the only reason for France to leave the lower level was to go to church. There were none underneath the plate, a discovery which had shocked France ten years ago when he’d moved below. But there were dozens just a short trip up, and so he’d decided early on to ignore the inconvenience of the guards baring the way to the upper class neighborhoods and continue to visit church twice a week.

“Perhaps,” echoed Marrion. “I never understood your obsession with churches…” He’d turned his back, moving back to the kitchen to check on his pancake while the track looped again on the computer.

“You’re an atheist.”

“True. But I’m an open minded atheist,” pancake flipped, he leaned against the doorway to watch his friend, “I figure there’s got to be something there for you to be so obsessed about visiting every Wednesday and Sunday.”

France only sat on the sofa, pushing the newspaper to the side to be dealt with later, “I’d say deliverance, but you’d only laugh at me.”

“I would,” he grinned - that was the closest to a joke France ever made, “So I’m sure you won’t waste your breath saying it.”

“I won’t.”

There was a long lull, during which Marrion returned to the confines of the kitchen, putting the last pancake on the stack and turning off the burner. France had just pulled off his shoes when the man’s voice wafted in from the kitchen, “But I’d really like to know, France. I mean, why‘s it so important?”

The pale man looked up as Marrion slid a plate of hotcakes in front of him, hand out to accept the syrup. “Same reason you keep making food. We don’t need to eat.”

“It’s different. Church and breakfast have nothing to do with each other.”

“They do. Why do you cook?” He handed the syrup back, picking up his knife and pausing to wait for an answer.

“Eh…” Marrion thought about it, “Habit more than anything else. And it’s something to do. I mean we’ve got all of eternity… cooking takes the edge and a few years off it.”

France permitted himself to smile, looking down to his breakfast and cutting it up. “I go to church out of habit… And because of the confessionals. It makes eternity seem just a little shorter.”

Marrion looked thoughtful as he speared some food from his plate, “Confessionals, huh? ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I picked up a cute little thing in the club tonight, took him home, ravished him, drank his blood and had a jolly old good time doing it.’ “

“Did you?”

“Not tonight, no. I wasn’t hungry. Besides,” he chewed, “I wouldn’t have finished in time to make you breakfast.”

France tolerated the slightly sticky kiss Marrion placed on his cheek, glancing at the laptop as the song looped yet again. He had to admit the singer’s wailing cry of ‘help me’ was starting to grow on him. “I would’ve survived.”

“Ah-ah-ah, but what’s life without my pancakes?”

Looking down at the imperfectly prepared breakfast, France sighed. “Not worth living I suppose.”

Marrion stared at him, surprised, before giving his knee a light squeeze and turning back to his own plate. “Y’know, sometimes I wonder about you, France.”

“Yeah,” France pushed his white hair from his eyes, “Sometimes I wonder about me too.”