like dandelion dust he moved light & gentle, allowing no sound until his nimble arms were suddenly around the harbinger's waist, his exertion-flushed face buried in his back.
"don't tell me you were leaving already," he chastised quietly, making no move to let go anytime soon. "i was hoping we could spend the rest of the day together, you know i don't like to be disappointed."
he knows that embrace as well as his own heartbeat, the way those arms shape around him, carve themselves against his own frame like marble. untouchable, unbreakable. not to be repeated in any other patterns ever again, no, for it's their embrace and the way they fill hollow spaces in what's meant to be considered a whole. but, truly how does one remain whole in a world that pries away at one's skin, one's bones that grow gradually more brittle for every hardship and the very beating heart that pleads, again and again, to be left alone as not to bleed itself dry.
lyney does not need sound, for in the mind of a man so besotted with the idea and the sole truth of the magician's smile he's already there. if not in person then in thought and spirit, in haunting memories of gritted teeth and pleading eyes caught in the flickering flames of a fireplace that never knows peace. like the embers engulfed, they too burn away in one another's arms. there is no mouth to flame, no blinded by light, merely the mutual want of crumbling against one another once the flames have died out; like water to flame, childe does what he can to ensure he can indulge in this for a little moment, as fickle as it might be to hope for something so beautiful, so tormenting, so delightfully, painstakingly raw to last.
perhaps this, these arms, is where he will once return to bleed dry?
"soon enough," but there's no relief or joy in his response, no, barely an agreement.
yes, he is indeed leaving.
yes, he is trading fire for ice, allowing himself to harden ten times over the moment those feet sink back on forbidden holy ground. the motherland of all, those born from winter's grasp and taught to live, live, live even if there's no will; fight, fight, fight. he has long adapted that pattern, that scorching frost etched into his very veins from the moment he first inhaled summer's crisp air. here, he thaws, and here he melts away in arms that carry spring; he wants him.
wants the way a simple soul does in how it turns in the arms and slips down, down into the embrace of the shorter male with a returned grasp around lyney's waist. he's not rising, no, he's kneeling, frame to the floor with his head laid against the magician's chest; that, there, is the song of the fire he knows so well and has traced with his lips countless time. a warm, loving rhythm that plays sweetly against his ear, ginger locks sprawled against darkened attire; oh, winter's grasp is so cruel, he yearns not for the motherland alone for the warmth for the hearth. when one has found the same fragment of joy, why abandon it? why settle for embers and ash carrying the face of ghosts and youthful days he has long lost claimed to?
"i would spend my every waking hour with you, if you'd have me," but this one is playful, just as the arms around him tightens slightly. it isn't spoken out of sorrow but out of childish want, the sort that has the harbinger's head turn so he can look up at lyney. past those red locks that was across ocean blue, the ones that blink slowly as he allows himself to kiss his chest. " don't you see ? you already have me on your knees ... unwilling to leave, unwilling to move ; oh, what am i to do without you in snezhnaya ? who will keep me warm? keep me humbled? no one ... i'll be a lost cause without you, lyney ... my lyney..."
alas, perhaps these particular dramatics need to be cooled down.
