The heavy snow of the past few days had been churned to slush on the sidewalks of Elm Street by the boxing-day Sale seekers. The brownish mess is slowly being covered, though, by the fresh white flakes that are now drifting down out of the winter-grey sky. They fall softy, swirling only slightly in the light wind, like the remains of a celestial pillow fight.

A few flakes settle on the dusky features of Jon Oneiros, as he calls himself. He had been walking, but when the snow really began to fall, he'd stopped and faced the sky, enjoying the sensation of cold snowflakes melting against his warm skin.

The flakes that fall on his coat or scarf or hair take a little longer to melt into the water they'd been created of, but his face it dotted with little droplets of water from the falling snow.

Max was currently shopping for small gifts for himself, choosing now so as to take advantage of the after-holiday sales.

'Nothing here,' he thought to himself, moving to the exit. Along the way, he was nearly beheaded by a roll of giftwrap (75% off) being unskillfully wielded by a woman in her mid-thirties. Max grumbled to himself about rude people and how some gave no thought to others.

Lost in his grumblings like this, he didn't even notice the person until he'd bounced off.

"Watch it, there," he said angrily. In truth, he was more angry at himself for getting lost in his own head again, but thought this person might be better to take it out on.

Nero turns away from the alluring winter sky and glances down at the irate-sounding person who'd bumped into him. Surprise registers in his expression when he realises it's Max.

"Sorry," he says, the irony of the situation lifting the corners of his mouth into a grin.

Inside, Max was cursing like a sailor. 'Why him?'

"S'you," was all he said aloud. He shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing he had something to poke the Thing with. There was a pen somewhere on his person, but that would take too long and wouldn't hurt as much as he wanted it to.

Max was really starting to resent Nero.

The other man inspects Max's expression, frowning a bit.

"Yeah, it's me..." he reply, shruggging and shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "Small city, I guess."

One of the hands exits the pocket and does a quick sweep over his dark curls, brushing off some of the snow.

"Too small," Max remarked. Those eyes... ugh. Turning and looking at the streets across the way to avoid them, Max began to look for his next sales-hop.

"What are you doing here? You don't need to shop, do you?"

"Not really," Nero agrees, following the young man's movements.

"It's nice weather... so I'm out for a walk." He doesn't add that he's enjoying the way the snow reacts to a living person, the way things smell inside a different body, the way things look to mortal eyes. Max doesn't need to know that.

Max looked around in disbelief. This was good weather? With slush and snow and cold? Maybe he was just too used to the warmer climate back home.

"If you say so," he replied, a shiver running down his spine almost as if to illustrate his point.

Nero shrugs. "Probably just personal taste." He tilts his head.

"You're out shopping? Isn't Christmas over?"

"Yeah, it's over, but the sales are just starting. Didn't have any friends or family here, so I didn't get any presents. Now, though, the stuff all marked down a lot. So, I'm buying myself my Christmas gifts." Saying it out in the open made it sound stupid, and Max ended awkwardly because of that.

Even though he didn't really like this Thing, he was still curious about it. "Do you celebrate Christmas?"

The corner of Nero's mouth twitched up-- he finds the idea funny.

"Celebrate Christmas? No... not really." Yes, he definitely finds the idea funny.

"I'm not adverse to recieving gifts, though. Any time of year."

He doesn't comment on Max's manner of getting christmas presents.

"I was just wondering because Christmas is a very human thing and it seems you're trying to be human, and all..." he trailed off. It was kind of a stupid question to ask.

A small part of Max wondered why he was having a conversation with NewJon, but InnerMax quickly squashed that part of Max.

He blinks. "You think so?" And pauses.

"I never really considered it. I don't particularly want to worship another god... but then," Jon offfers a shrug and a smile, "Modern Christmas isn't all about the Christian omni-god, is it."

A thoughtful expression seems to have descended on his features, and by the way he's looking at Max, he's not being thoughtful about Chrsitmas.

The look was making Max uncomfortable. He gotten used to feeling uncomfortable, however, with his many meetings with the Thing.

"No, it isn't any more. All about the presents, really."

'Another god? This is a god in Jon?' He'd only heard it call itself Death, before.

"Well, maybe I'll give it a go, next year."

He rubs a thumb over his jawbone, still watching Max with a thoughtful expression.

"Humanity is hard to learn from the outside," he comments. This is one of those loaded comments-- it barely brushes whatever he's thinking about, but gives hints as to what it might be, like the one-word label on an opaque bottle of mystery substance.

"R-really?" Max asked, feigning calm. "Can't you just dive into a human's mind and copy it all down, or something? Being a -- a god?"

'A god? I've been yelling at a god this entire time? I'm so happy I haven't been smote...'

Nero frowns and shakes his head.

"No... it's not really that easy. Dreams are always muddled and death is a bit too late to learn how the thing works." He's speaking like he assumes Max knows who he is. Most likely if he paused for a moment, he'd realise the poor boy still doesn't have all his facts straight, even though he's getting closer.

"Besides, the way you think," and the 'you' here is a 'you humans', "Is so different from how we think." Presumably the 'we' is a 'we gods.'

Dreams? Eh? What's all this?

"Yeah, I guess death is a bit late..." Max still has no idea what he talking about, mostly.

"Are we really that different? I mean, one of us had to create the other, right? So why is it so different?"

The god who is calling himself Jon reaches down and scoops up some snow, moulding it into a ball with his bare fingers.

"Gods exist on a different level. We think in different ways. It's like trying to compare the thoughts of a one-month-old child to those of a well-educated thirty-year-old." he shrugs-- the example is imperfect.

"Besides... we don't usually have all this fleshy stuff," an icy, water-covered hand lifts briefly to gesture down the length of his acquired body, "To hinder us."

"Hm." Came Max's reply. It certainly was something to think on.

"So who did create who? Did the gods just mold us, or did humans create you to believe in? Mass believage, and all." He was probably asking too much, like asking the secret to life.

The thoughtfulness is cast aside for a moment in favour of a large, white grin. It's amazing how much he can make the smile look like his usual skull-like grin on Jon's well-fleshed face.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Yeah, it probably counts as asking too much. Perhaps he could get a straight answer out of the eldest god sometime in the future, but Death isn't about to say anything about it right now.

He thought so.

Max stayed silent, thinking over what had happened so far. 'A lot...' Now he wasn't sure what to do. Shopping had lost its fun, running into NewJon the way he had. The resentment he felt for this Thing had susided a bit.

It was now tolerable, to some extent. Still frustrating, but tolerable.

The grin drops, and Jon glances away. Glances back. Offers a smile to the mortal.

"Good question, though," he aknowledges, dropping the slushball back to the ground and wiping his hands off on his coat.

Max forced a smile to his face, probably looking less sincere than he meant it to.

"Thanks," was all he could think to say. No other questions jumped readily to mind, and so he stayed quiet.

Nero lifts his hands, inspecting where they are red from the cold kiss of snow.

"I have another question for you. Who was Jon close to?"

He flexes his hands, for all appearances savouring the sensation of frozen fingertips.

It was odd for Max to see someone so enthralled by sensations. Just looking at the reddened hands was painful.

"Umm... well, me. There was a girl back home, but she's moved on. Family, a few friends, but they're bumpkins." He began to feel slight pangs of homesickness, but pushed them down. He didn't want to go back.

He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then blows warm air over his palms.

"Well then," he says, rubbing his hands together to erase the touch of snow, "You were really the biggest threat in the first place."

That was an odd way to put it. Biggest threat. Made it sound like Max should have been eliminated.

"I guess so..." The more he talked to the Thing, the more Max seemed to slouch. The longer in Its presence, the smaller he seemed to get. If he didn't correct this habit, he could end up with some horrible back problems.

"Have you taken a body before Jon's? In the past?"

He shrugs, shoving his hands back inside his coat pockets.

"Briefly, here and there-- always with a purpose in mind, though, and only for a short while. I always ignored the experience, instead of--" he pauses, looking for the right word. "Instead of savouring it."

One hand emerges from his pocket and he looks down, watching his thumb rub against his fingers.

"It wasn't until lately that I really got curious."

He seems to be speaking as much for himself as for Ma, reflecting on his recent actions.

Having human ideals and all, Max thought it was kind of repulsive that he'd just taken bodies before, for a purpose. Like... a suit. He shuddered mentally. So then what was Jon? A leisure suit?

"What made you get curious alluva sudden?" he asked. He was pretty sure he'd gone into that you-get-no-answer territory again.

Nero drops his hand and glances over at Max, a grin forming on his stolen lips.

"A few different things. Go ask a mage who keeps up with the soap operas we tend to live."

His use of 'mage' is casual.

A mage? Is that what he said? Nah, couldn't be. 'Musta heard him wrong.' Max let it go, not really in the mood for more shocks. He ignored it, in proper human fashion.

"Soap operas? You mean like, possessed babies and serial killers stalking and killing and 'You slept with my evil twin half brother Eagle and now I'm pregnant!' kinda thing?" He put some feeling into the quote, his eyes going wide in mock-horror.

"Not exactly. The general flavour of the thing, though." He flashes a full grin at Max.

"Hey, you never told me your full name..."

"I didn't? Well, it's Max Rush," he replied, sticking his hand out in a friendly 'shake my hand?' gesture. Some habits die hard, especially those pounded in during childhood.

Nero reaches out and pumps Max's hand twice, his palm already warm again. Jon always did have a lot of body heat.

"I'd introduce myself, but I have a lot of names. Jonathon Oneiros will do, for here."

An almost apologetic smile.

"Yeah, I guess a... god... would collect a lot of names, huh?" 'Especially one like him -- it. Everyone has some kind of supernatural death manifestation.'

Max smiled back, genuine this time.

The apology leaves the smile to be replaced by a certain honesty. It ends up leaving his expression more like the original Jon's than any others yet.

"Yeah. We do. Listen, you want to go get a drink?" He jerks a thumb across the street at what seems to be a blank brick wall between Twelve Elm Street and Fourteen Elm Street.

He shifts position, body language indicating that a nice warm room with a seat'd be nice about now.

Max's gaze followed the thumb, baffled.

"Um... where?" he asked, wondering if maybe it had made a mistake.

'Then again, maybe not.' Stupid InnerMax.

"Ah! One second." Nero twists, reaching into his back pocket. Producing the slim leather wallet he carries there, he turns around again, flipping it open smoothly. Jon's slim brown fingers reach in and pull out a crisp white business card, which he hands to Max.

It says: The Triskele, 13 Elm in fancy gold lettering, and nothing else.

Were Max to look at the blank wall now, he would see a heavy oak door set into the faded bricks. A heavy oak door labellec with the number 13 in brass.

Max took the card, looking it over. Nothing special, except for the address. Looking up, he asked, "What's this for?" It was clear soon enough.

The door which had not been there was now. Max looked between NewJon, the door, and the card in rapid succession.

"Some kinda magic trick?"