Infinity upon a time, or so it would seem, there existed a peculiar group of men. Like a snowball rolled down a hill, every other eternity, or lifetime at least, a new member would join, fattening the snowball.

But, as most things do, it started with one.

In the beginning, this one man was apparently all alone in the world. It could have bothered him if he ever had the opportunity to know any better, but since he didn’t, he was relatively content.

All of time can be compressed into the blink of an eye, or one quick daydream, when presented with the start of something new. For this man, it was his meeting with two brothers.

The brothers were still new to this world, and the man served as their guide. He showed them many things, though they said they had nothing to give in return. He asked only for their friendship.

It didn’t last long like that.

One of the brothers was promiscuous to an obscene degree: some would say he existed only to lust and to reproduce. If you asked god if that was the case, he wouldn’t answer, but the omission would tell you enough.

This brother was named Zaine, at least at that point in his life. Zaine made short work of seducing the older man, named Adrian. This event itself would set the tone for what their later group would be.

The relationship was full of passion and one sided feelings, as would almost all of Zaine’s proceeding relationships. He did not think himself capable of romantic relationships, for the cardinal was all he knew, and all he craved. He did value the companionship of Adrian, though. Even after their physical bonds had been set aside, they could not seem to part ways.

The other brother, Zero, held enough secrets and mysteries to make even a weathered telepath such as Adrian feel pity, so he served as a confidant and leant his ear to Zero whenever the man requested it. They even had their own share of sexual relations, but their feelings did not stray from what they had been in the beginning.

These three carried on like this for close to a thousand years before the fourth would join.

A half-giant from the north, a warrior often called a one-manned-army, with a thirst for fighting and a noble heart. This man, Eric, was so famous for his exploits on the battlefield and sea that news of him spread to the three. They wished to see for themselves.

A half giant from the north, a warrior often called a one-manned-army, with a thirst for fighting and a noble heart. This man, Eric, was so famous for his exploits on the battlefield and sea that news of him spread to the three. They wished to see for themselves.rom the north, a warrior often called a one-manned-army, with a thirst for fighting and a noble heart. This man, Eric, was so famous for his exploits on the battlefield and sea that news of him spread to the three. They wished to see for themselves.

What they saw... was pure poetry. The giant wasted no movement, and each word he spoke was honest. His body and spirit shamed the three so deeply that each had some epiphany about their own darkness.

Now, it’s quite possible, that Eric could have lived out his life, then lived on as a myth in the stories of generations after his death, but this did not happen. He was denied a fitting end to his poetic life, because he was sought after enough by people with power that they forced immortality onto him.

Being that the other three men each had their own different brand of immortality... well, they naturally took this to be the work of fate, so introduced themselves to Eric and requested he join them.

Eric, a man with more manners that needed, graciously accepted to offer, but only after the death of the man who commanded him. Twenty-one years passed by, hardly noticed, and he kept his word to join the men.

Eric had no sexual apatite for men, so politely turned down any advances by the other three.

Once, Zaine attempted to force himself on Eric, and this ended with Zaine being brutally beaten by all three men for over a year. At which point, Eric forgave him, and Zaine learned self restraint for the first time. He also learned that limitations existed in this world: he couldn’t just stick his dick in anything that pleased him.

Eric was a forgiving and understanding man, but he was also a warrior. When he or his allies were crossed, he would not stop until all parties were satisfied; or, at least, dead.

Several hundred years later, the four had settled into a groove with each other, only to be interrupted by the final member of their group.

Adric, a teenager at the time, seemed to rival Zero with secrets, but was not offered the same hospitality by Adrian. That was for the pure and simple reason that Zaine had finally met the person he could be emotionally and romantically bonded with.

For the first time, Zaine would act as a hotheaded fool. Whenever he was around Adric, he lost all composure and would whine, complain, and even beg.

Adric’s relationships with the other men were equally amazing. They all saw him as someone to protect, even from Zaine.

Adrian kept his fondness a secret, as he did with Adric’s past. As a telepath, he was cursed to know more than he wished about everyone around him. For some, that made him ideal, and for others, it made him a threat.

Adric did not learn how much Adrian knew about him until he was planning to leave the group. At this point, he had discovered a perceived betrayal by Zaine, and so elected to return to his life before meeting these amazing men. Enough had happened by then to make that seem impossible. For one thing, he was now another immortal. For another, he had learned that the beings he hunted were just as much people at the humans he wished to protect. But, men in the throws of heartbreak, or a midlife crisis, will often do the unpredictable.

Adrian stopped him before he could slip away, and gifted him a book. It’s contents detailed every way to kill an immortal. At that moment, Adric was flooded with emotions he had no idea what to do with, so he embraced the man and begged that they might stay in touch. Begrudgingly, Adrian accepted.

Back to four now, each member other than Zaine remained in contact with Adric.

It was a little less that a hundred years when the next member left.

Eric, having found out he was to be a father, requested that none of the men seek him out, so that he could protect his child from them. While they would all miss him dearly, and feel his absence like the loss of a limb, they respected his decision.

The original three could hardly maintain themselves as things were. They went their separate ways.

Adrian slipped into one of his frequent fits of horror and rampaged for a long while. Zero decided to meet people that were not under the influence of his brother. Zaine continued his search for Adric.

But, don’t fret: the men would all reunite soon enough, when the wills of several young women forced these sad old men to learn about the world outside of their group, and learn how valuable their friendships were.

Hate has always been my go-to.

Good ol’ reliable.

What better to huddle close to one’s bosom and lay with on the icy nights, than a red hot hatred?

A passionate feeling which encases the self, and gets the old blood pumping.

But the days of my heart racing at the sight of you should be forgotten by now,

So I ought to let the blood slow

And cool.

Reach out, instead, a hand towards indifference.

He doesn’t lay with me in sordid nights of writhing sweat and tears.

No, he rather prefers to sit in silence.

It’s a calm silence, and chills the room.

But I wouldn’t want it any other way.

When indifference keeps company with me, your face won’t haunt my dreams, nor your likeness on a stranger give me cause to run.

If I rush too eagerly towards indifference,

He will inevitably roll his eyes and saunter away.

Like an artist that’s lost their pencil sharpener,

It seems I’m still missing the point.

I don’t have any say in how I feel, much less any power over stopping those feelings.

My shoulders sag as I sigh and let the reigns of control slip from my hands,

And indifference keeps pace with me as I walk away from you.

My blood is boiling,

And so is the kettle,

So just come in already.

How do you take your tea?

Spit in your face or just thrown into it?

Both?

Wonderful.

The words do not escape me.

They are here, at my hazy finger tips, on the keypad, and in my mind.

I’m more than capable of stringing them together for the hundredth time,

To express the sentiment to you once more,

In a different and prettier way.

But, as with the last ninety-nine times,

It’s not that I doubt your awareness of this feeling:

I don't reiterate this concept in the hopes of making you or anyone else clearer on the matter,

For I'm far past shadows of doubt that everyone is well aware by now

What I mean when I call you my friend.

The reason I've rewritten it so much, and expressed it so feverishly frequent

Is that it so often springs anew in my mind,

Just to what extent you mean to me.

And I'm compelled once more to put it in writing,

The way we communicated for years before speech.

This language is lacking, I often find,

And does not consistently carry the weight of what I feel,

But I know you'll make up the losses with your understanding of me.

Each word I've misused or punctuation misplaced, you can alter as you pick up the spiel of this drunken fool's soliloquy.

Once more I preach your praise,

So forgive me for repeating myself,

But you are my friend

And you mean so much to me.

If you wish that I suffer,

Expect me to thrive.

If you hope for my success,

Then surely I will fail.

I’ve ever been the stubborn type.

You, the source of this petty gripe.

Cutting off my nose, all to spite

My face.

So long as you don’t get what you want from me,

I’m content.

Unless, of course, you want that conflict,

In which case I agree completely.

The ritualistic tugging at your shirt collars

As though burdened by a phantom choker

Trying to breathe.

Or at least make each breath freer.

Maybe your neck is just that sensitive?

Was something oppressive pressing it prior?

Inhale easy now.

You are unbound

The lips that used to caress this rim,

Leaving the sticky imprint of chapstick,

Are long gone.

But I remain.

There were caffeinated mornings

That I took for granted,

And idle chat

That I can’t recall,

Staining this place.

Like the spill from that fight,

Lingering on the table.

No matter how much I scrub at it,

I still see the ring.

It outlines an empty space

For what should have been there,

Like the boxed ring under my bed,

Which should have held your finger.

And, like my heart,

This mug is empty now.

Playing with my cards facing up,

Only to lose.

Pathetic, right?

Or... brave?

Aren't those words synonyms at this point anyway?

I didn't even have a chance

To use the ace up my sleeve.

What was the point?

The meticulously maintained air of openness

Crafted for times like this

And you still called me mysterious?

What was it I didn't show to you?

Was it only the answers to every question you didn't ask,

Or was it the parts you would have never been given access to anyway?

You couldn't find the words to answer when I asked

And I couldn't find the curiosity to figure it out for myself.

Maybe that's it.

Curiosity.

I lost that around the same time I'd decided I was done with life.

And I neglected to pick it up again when I chose to continue.

It creeps in occasionally,

But I doubt that I ever have any firm grasp on the reigns.

Not wanting to know,

Wishing for a maintained ignorance,

Isn't that the classic indicator of one that enjoys what they have?

Ah, well,

It's gone now.

Can't say that I miss it.

Can't say I would look for it again.

But I guess,

Thinking about how I could have don't things differently,

I get a bit...

Curious.

Several steps ahead and still on the ground floor,

I guess that since I started off

In the basement

I should count this as progress

But, Christ

Why doesn't this building have an elevator