30thousandlostwords

[30thousandlostwords]

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Person A: “Why are there human skulls in the kitchen sink?”

Person B: “I’m cleaning them!”

Person A: “…..In the kitchen sink?”

Person B: “Where else am I going to clean human skulls?”

Person A: “….Literally anywhere other than the fucking kitchen.”

[30thousandlostwords]

"Why are there human skulls in the kitchen sink?"

Max stood in the doorway to he and Jazz's shared bedroom, his eyebrows raised and an expression of disbelief painted all over. His oh-so-lovely boyfriend was sitting at his desk, tentatively applying layers of make-up down his throat. A layer of scales ran up the side of his neck from his collarbone and spread to his jaw, but Max knew that his extra care wasn't to cover that, it was to make sure that the rest of his contour blended well.

Jazz didn't even turn to look at him, answering without missing a beat. "I'm cleaning them."

It wasn't as horrifying an answer as it should be. There was a part of this world that Max had long realized he would never understand, and he didn't spend much time questioning anymore. Jazz himself was a sort of sea nymph with connections to all sorts of other ghouls and ghosts. A human skull with some of the flesh still attached was child's play compared to the centaurs he'd begun to see in the park, or the sirens stretched out upon the rocks in the bay.

Why Jazz needed a human skull, he didn't know. He was sure he didn't want to know. Despite that, he was fairly certain that the skull was scavenged rather than hunted; Jazz didn't particularly like bloodshed and hated violence. Where he had actually gotten it from was another mystery.

But he did know that the skull was in the kitchen sink, probably having contaminated the pork Max left out for dinner.

"In the kitchen sink?" He glared at his boyfriend, knowing Jazz could see him in the reflection of his mirror. "Was that necessary?"

Jazz finished padding at his neck and reached for another colorful disc, rolling his eyes. "Where else am I going to clean human skulls?"

"Literally anywhere other than the fucking kitchen sink?" Max fired back, keeping his stern glare. "The bathroom sink is open."

"Not big enough."

"The bathtub?"

"Not sanitary enough."

"Sanita--!" He broke off, sputtering. "Why is sanitary a part of this equation? They are rotting human skulls. Sanitary is the last thing on my agenda for 'where I keep my human skulls.'"

"I'm not keeping them," Jazz pointed out with a smile on his face. "I'm cleaning them."

"When did you plan on cleaning them?" Max asked, his tone growing more and more exasperated as he spoke. Why did this have to be what they argued about? Why couldn't they have normal relationship problems?

But a normal relationship meant ignoring the bulk of what made Jazz, Jazz, and he wasn't sure he wanted that.

The nymph shrugged, continuing to apply his make-up. "Whenever Faun needs them."

Faun was a warlock friend of Jazz's who always needed oddly specific and usually morbid ingredients. She was nice enough, Max thought, but considering her constant involvement with the macabre, he wasn't always her biggest fan and she scared him more often than not. That being said, he encouraged Jazz to be close to her, because he knew he needed friends who were from the Otherside like he was.

"Right. Considering Faun's schedule, that could be six months from now. Why can't you clean them now and put them somewhere on a shelf?"

"Because the recipe calls for freshly cleaned human skulls."

Max couldn't really argue that, as much as he may have wanted to. "Can I move them? To the standing freezer, maybe?"

Jazz pursed his lips, as if in thought, though whether or not he was concentrating on the suggestion or on his highlight was questionable. Then, finally, he nodded.

"Great, okay. I'm going to go move the skulls. Yeah." Clearly trying to psych himself up, Max started for the hallway.

"Maxy?" Jazz called back, looking over his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'll be out to help in a moment. There's, like, five."

A gentle smile on his face, Max replied, "It's alright, love. I can get it. Just taste test my ice cream for me when we go down to the pixie parlor tonight, okay? So we know there's no nasty magic infused?"

"Deal."

Person A: “Why are there human skulls in the kitchen sink?”

Person B: “I’m cleaning them!”

Person A: “…..In the kitchen sink?”

Person B: “Where else am I going to clean human skulls?”

Person A: “….Literally anywhere other than the fucking kitchen.”

[30thousandlostwords]

"What's Max's favorite color?"

Maximillien Schneider's twenty-second birthday was in three days. Desperately, his boyfriend Jazz and his best friend Sage were trying to pull together some semblance of a celebration - something special, but not overbearing, because Max hated parties, which made the whole debacle that much more difficult.

Sage was currently poking through row after row of decorations. They'd gone to Wal-Mart as a last-ditch resort for something reasonably priced, though that was turning out to be the least intelligent idea either of them had had in quite some time. Somehow, everything here was still overpriced and even worse quality.

The question had taken Jazz by surprise. A favorite color? Did Max even have one of those? The two had been dating for nearly a year now and known each other for five years longer, yet the kindergarten conversation of color had never come up.

He furrowed his brow in concentration before finally giving up. "Max doesn't like colors."

Sage snorted, their expression wrinkling. "Black is a color, right? He wears a lot of that," they offered, pulling out a black-and-white tablecloth and matching streamers from the rack.

"Only because it gives off the right amount of a 'stay away, I have daddy issues' vibe. Black isn't a party color."

"Shh! We can't call it a party or he'll crawl back into his basement! And black is totally a party color if you do it right."

"He isn't here," Jazz argued, reaching for the items in Sage's hand. They were better at design than he was, even though it pained him to admit it. At least he had the superior fashion sense.

Sage rolled their eyes, standing back up and beginning to look for balloons. "Like that stops him from hearing things. The dude's got superpowers. I mentioned that I was surprising him with coffee from Cuba when I was in Cuba and he magically knew exactly what his gift was before I gave it to him."

"Coffee smells, you know."

"Bull. It was wrapped in, like, five layers of wrapping paper. No, your boyfriend just got bitten by the worst radioactive spider ever. What do we think about clear balloons?"

Clear balloons sounded like a great idea.

Imagine Person A being asked what Person B’s favorite color is, and all they can say is “Person B doesn’t like colors”