BOOM HEADSHOT

Warmth. A stark juxtaposition to the frigid air of the cold desert nights that gnawed relentlessly at the flesh, seeping into every vein until the last shred of heat was wrenched from the body. Tendrils of light stretched across the landscape and pained the land in swaths of yellow, blue being pushed away to make way for the lighter cousins, orange, green, pink, finally yielding to the serenity of gold.

"It's beautiful."

The sound was startling, despite the chorus of birds that had provided a lovely accompaniment and eased the soul. The man turned slightly, only to catch the slightest of smirks, and a small tip of the hat from the figure leaning half-heartedly against the safety rail that wasn't as preventative as one might think.

The man couldn't prevent a scoff from escaping his throat. He turned back to the sight- a tricky maneuver indeed, when sitting on the very edge of certain death that was the infamous sniping post.

"You don't know anything about beauty."

"And you do?"

"More than you, at least."
Touch. The man looked up at the figure. Only rarely were the two of them conscious at the same time; even rarer were the instances in which they weren't arguing, if they did so happen to fall into each other's presence. Yet, despite this eternal quarrel, the air remained as still and calming as it should be.
The figure smiled, and leaned against the wooden edge of the sniping post. A soft prediction of that day's weather followed a few moments of silence.
Yes, the man had to agree: it was going to be quite warm, as was the forecast for every day in that area.
A sigh came from both of them, a strange act of serendipity that immediately set paranoid thoughts of mimicry to each. One turned to the other, scowled, and stuck his tongue out.
"Very childlike of ya'."
"Your mother."
Earth now danced with the light, a tango of dominance, one fighting with large, imposing formations to keep the darkness hidden from its nemesis, shelter it; and yet, antithesis still shifted backward, crying out silently under the chorus of fowls set to - and good at - their jobs. The shadows moved back at an awkward angle while trying to keep themselves from the light that wanted to steal it away, as often darkness was accused of doing when the light tired of its daily duties.