Quiet Firestorm.

The Quiet One
Ran fingers along the ruts of
His teacup, grasped the handle

(Where would he put one down
In a place like this?
On a pale deathly chest?)

He always had a teacup
Though she never thought to ask
His poison

"They say that you drink from the Devil's cup"

It is derisive, ironic
And the words curl in the air
Like her mouth

(She pants the words
Almost, and observes the wreckage
Of the fight)

A quiet head tilts back
Completely, moving with the rim
Downing something, she never knew what

Eyes closed
Neck long
And returned, placid

A fluid motion
He never looks away
From that point on the floor

(He doesn't look at the bodies
He just looks down
As if through the very earth)

"Don't be silly, Lightning, it's my cup, no need to be snide"

The smoldering one
Pulls himself out of a pile (corpses)
Lights a cigarillo

"You never let us have fun, do you? Always finishing up with your boring shit"

An eyebrow
Not in haughtiness
Not in vanity

He lays the teacup down
A pair of hands wring themselves dry
And picks it back up

The lit end of
The cigarillo folds into
Itself, extinguished

Lightning laughs
Now (battle) it's done
She finds time for joy, giggles

"We were having such a nice time, you know how we do"

The eyebrow lowers
And the point on the floor
Of Quiet One's focus shifts

He looks up and eyes
The walls, and them
You could swear you saw the briefest of smirks

Even tones
But forceful
Not straining himself

"We still have work to do."