"I think you're still the real James," I say softly. He barely reacts and looks down at the floor, where a small part of his pant leg has started to reach towards the ground. "You're just as you were before all this," and I lean foward a little. He hasn't moved from staring at the little drip.
"You're just James, and you know why? You still remember me." And he looks up a little.
"You're still you because every time I come, you ask me how I've been with this same cheery smile. You ask if I've read anything good lately, or if I've watched an interesting movie. You ask to see pics of my little sis' cat, John." And he smiles a little at the mention of the tortie.
"I know you're still James, because of every little thing that makes you yourself. To me, it's silly to think that you aren't the same. It's almost as if nothing changed - and honestly, nothing *did* change to me. You're just as you as you've always been. You're just James."
He's smiling and he's melting a little, even though the AC's down to about 40 F. "Ziz, I..."
I brush his face, now unafraid of a little goo. My hand feels a little numb, and he engulfs it quickly - but he feels warmer than normal. His whole body feels warmer than the outside air, which is quite unusual for him, to say the least. We were both under the assumption that his body's tempurature was dependent on his surroundings, and that he couldn't self-generate any heat on his own. I really can't see why he's warming up like this, given that warmth is actively detrimental to his body's structure...
James begins to avoid my gaze again, though he's staring at the hand poking into his cheek and watching the drips fall down my wrist. "Have I...," he starts and trails off.
"Oh? What is it?", I prose, my curiousity piqued. The viscosity of the sludge now becoming lower, my arm starts to cover in his sludge. I'm a bit startled, but neglect to move. His newfound warmth feels far more comforting than the cold room he detains himself within.
"Have I ever really told you...how much I love you," and James stares into my eyes, his face showing a dreamy look. Even though he's already half-melted into the same white sludge as always, he's still smiling at me, with his carefree eyes that don't mind that he's being wrecked by his own love...our love.
We stand up in unison, though imperfect, and the white waterfall courses down the sleeve of my dress shirt - I'd neglected to take it off after work, much similarly to how James always seems to wear his messy lab coat. Even though he doesn't have to. Quietly locking eyes, he pushes his chair away and stands in his little puddle that reflects the moonlight.
"You're melting because you love me, aren't you? Your face used to burn so red when you got flustered," I tease.