As a new game, Alix hid inside of the painting of a brilliant young artist, forcing Avis to rip him out. The painting, unfortunately, could not be spared. Alix liked to force his other to destroy beautiful things. Avis was wroth, but his anger was like a river, wild and untamable only to those who lacked ingenuity. Even as Avis stormed on about the waste, Alix could see how the red red rage had brought him to fuller desire than had been evidenced in a century. Alix nuzzled Avis’s wet fur and Avis made his way inside of him. Alix dug his fingers, nails and all, into Avis’s skin until the blood rose up and painted the tips dark. Their fucking was terrible and they cried in concert as their climax shook the very bones of the world. The skies darkened and seas churned for a long season. Many died who could not read the signs in the skittering clouds and the wet madness rising out of the loam.
Once Alix had taken the form of a pure fire and moved without deliberation for centuries. Avis found him, of course, and moved through him with a massive heat of his own. The two of them wrestled each other, throwing heat and sparks and sweat through the air in the form of ash and gas and stone. The sky burned above them and the mountain sweat with the ferocity of their lovemaking. Their mutable bodies crashed into rock and turned rock into quavering flow. The surplus of their careless embrace slid down the mountainside and burned everything it touched.
After a millenia or more of the chase, Alix—still breathless from being caught, still reeling with the force of Avis crashing into him—asked, “how long will you chase me?”
“For a thousand thousand years or until the moon turns black. Whichever comes first. And how long will you run from me?”
“For a thousand thousand years or until the heavens darken. Whichever comes first,” Alix answered.
The two ran naked through the spring, growing flowers in their skin and smelling like the wet loam which births new color. They grew bronze in the summer, sweating and stinking like the rawest parts of love, then sprouted fur in the fall and fucked through the winter, only to shed old skins for spring again. Time dripped around them as they followed their singular, interminable path.
“How long will you chase me?” asked Alix, when he grew apprehensive that one day their chase would end and Avis would stretch his legs to chase another.
“For a thousand thousand years or until the moon turns black,” Avis answered. And then he asked, when the idea of running alone through the long seasons caught his breath in his throat, “And how long will you run from me?”
“For a thousand thousand years or until the heavens darken.”
And then they ran, knowing nothing but the violent joy of pursuit and the piercing thrill of capture.