Me too, me too, [says janus, in a silly, ditzy kind of voice, easily excused by alcohol and the ambience of the moment. it's nice, dancing with only the burden of intoxication garlanded all over one's limbs, and less with the weight of history. it's true. their heart is going fast. not labored, just quickened. like they'd get before the hunt, or when they see someone moving in a way that speaks to suspicion from their roof perches. janus is always a predator. whether in the worst or least terrible way depends on what you think about murder.

they want to ask about juno's scars. they want to inquire about the tall man in his memories, the one whose name he'd hidden by dint of raw will. they want to talk about how strange it is, that the one issue that symbolizes-- if in a somewhat reductive way— most of the things that janus struggles with in figuring out their sense of identity, is one that juno's hardly bothered by at all. yet he's a troubled soul. janus wants to know what bothers him.

they don't ask. not now, anyway. 'a lady never reveals her secrets.' it sounds like something juno would say, perhaps in jest.]

You know, apart from gender politics, I've been wondering about what else is different between our worlds and times. Technology, obviously. But say. Parties. And, [they are so stupid sometimes, they know, but it's only reckless in a harmless way,] kissing.