[ how strange—to receive such a gentle kiss from him, to taste his rot and alcohol so thoroughly without some form of pain appended . . . surely it's trickery, or perhaps he's managed to somehow demonstrate that he won't be ruled by fear and this is the result; his thoughts grow slow, sluggish, for the kiss has him lightheaded, the indulgence dizzying,

—when was the last time he took a breath? the thought has him realizing belatedly this dizziness might not come from absinthe at all, but his own forgetfulness; in the end he's the first to pull away, reluctant as he is to be the first to give in, for the sake of catching his breath, though he remains close even still, arms still wrapped around absinthe's neck ]