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-----Backdated to December 12th/13th, following Dead Moon Rising and Patefactio
There wasn't a need for a thermometer, or for the numbers that came to mind. He didn't need to estimate the time of death, or the rate of cooling for a corpse. He didn't need to question that rigor would probably start in about an hour, at the muscles of Alois' face and neck. It would work its way down through the body as the muscles become larger, working down and out the same as the blood had vacated. Quenton kissed the breathless, lax lips again, then pressed mouth an chin along in ugly red smear and pressure to the slack corner of jaw. Pressure would not incite a reaction, no more likely to draw lover back than the pawings of a dog or cat who's mate lay casualty on a roadside. December of last year. I saw you in winter from my bike, pulling corpses from the copses. How you shied from the cars of the lunch rush, rasped your voice through the first crush of hands. Have we only known one another a year? As work partners for months, as men and lovers for one, and enemies for longer, and ...what have we been now. I have rawed your throat in other manners since. I have kissed you even in this changed and mangled body that caged you.
The blood was trying to congeal and dry, stiff where capillary action had drawn it up into lounging clothes. Quenton finally shifted to stand, lifting body to the washroom. Footprints were silent, visual screams on the floor, worse in that they were singular in coming and would remain so in going. It was no carry from bedside exhaustion to water's rejuvenation. Alois would not complain of the water always starting out cold. The gore would not wait, so he set the water to running and lover in the bottom of the tub. Quenton washed them both, stripping clothes off at the last once most of the red water had run clear. Bared, he set to the work of the flood and walls- bringing water hence and first. Then a mix solution of 2 tablespoons of ammonia with 1 cup of water again and rinsing again, blotting repeatedly with cleaning rags. It worked better with the blood still damp from sheer quantity. A whole man poured out in minutes.
A task of morbid, quiet patience for another hour before he placed on the lessened stains enzyme detergents sit. What hours were in between would just be more time for the proteins to break down. He hazarded a look at the sleeping form in the bath. You will not complain of much now.
Quenton dressed anew, left, returned with small supply necessities like spade, axe, mattock and pick, bottles of water. Mechanically these were all arranged, with collection of all the black clothes and sheets from the cabinet, and shears into his hiking pack. From the washroom the small bottles of cedar oil, tea tree and sandalwood came. It was no formal embalming list, lacking palm wines, myrrh, cinnamon, juniper and much more. But funerals are for the living. Even yours, my love. This must be in most ways hidden, private. Not even of Earth. Risking so much with investigations and cops I cannot do for the simple repose of a corpse you've gone out of. We must be practical, I must be cold and sealed as you will be.
Rigor was started, which made leaving the apartment to transform worse than staying in, so Quenton let practicality be the crutch of the decision. Thraen stood in the apartment a moment later, empty eyes that looked out from the tub neither reacting nor noticing this final secret between them revealed. The pack was taken onto back, the gardening implements tied together and slid into places between pack straps and bearer, then the corpses hand clasped firmly.
And one plus corpse vanished in a breath and a button push to the stars.
