azrielkings

( yes )

"I am, too." Onix turns to the door. Nate's voice peculiarly clear. And wonder, then, if he is there to be heard or if he is the only who heard what he had just said. But there is no response with the others. Perhaps, gone. Though, unlikely.

"You shouldn't try so hard, then." He purses his lips, burying his body deep into the duvet. "You should---" He inhales, sharply. It's like a knife hiting the tiles when Onix is the only one in the room. Pain, silent, even when he screams. "rest."

There's a pregnant pause.

"You should too, then."

He doesn't hear anything then, after that.

But maybe… Maybe it is tiring. When he closes his eyes, Onix could only imagine how it must be, briefly. How your most quiet thoughts seem louder to the chasm. How monsters must be.

"I'm tired." And Onix closes his eyes. A tear dropping to the comforter. To the comforted. "Please."

--

OR! the scene where the vampires are in our Detective Onix' home. That cute scene where Onix supposedly asked liek "If there is vampires, then there are other kinds of creatures too...", the cute unicorn scene and i turned it to angst.

Onix is confused, fearful. Detective Onix is usually tough, stoic. He doesn't know feelings too well and I hope that reflected well as Im sort of new to writing and i wanted to... yeah. xD

He's not really witty. Bad at words and feelings. So "tired" means a lot. Tired can mean exhausted, and tired could mean sadness. Worn out. Tired means... Alone, too.

words: 481 words

---

it starts like this—                                                                                           threading carefully through the rain, buying coffee sachets at 7/11 stores in three a.m., and nudging him awake in the early rises of the sun streaks. it starts as easy as this— star-kissed happiness, dark hair foaming in between his fingertips filling his palms with its softness. the soft banks of the clouds just peeking through open windows. affection slipping past to easily between the two.  

It ends like this—

                                                                                         i forgot you’re staying over, but he always does. always forget so easily he’s coming over and viktor grins and yuri— the other blonde yuri would scowl, and leave, and the door locks. and it’s just the two of them, see. makes him feel so soft even though he shouldn’t. but viktor’s place always has this rain-streaked windows and see. see the light rushing fast—so fast and it’s drowning viktor so good, so nice. he’s all the colors of the rainbow, and there’s this glass heart beating for fragile in his chest, so easily sneaking past its cages. he’s saying, i didn’t agree to this. but maybe yuuri did. maybe he didn’t realize that it’s more than just that first time he broke the teacup and insisted he paid for its cost. maybe he didn’t realize that when he caused the wrinkles in viktor’s expensive linen that he did it on purpose. did it all to stay.

the kettle boils behind them, curls of steam rushing in to the small kitchen and viktor rushes past from where he’s standing—past yuuri and flicks the dial off. he turns. slow, gently. round, small toes squeezing, adam apple bobbing.

it feels like before.

(like—

                                                                                              empty streets after the fall of rain. raincoat blocking his eyesight, the sudden sun causing phosphenes in his eyesight. ting! ting! a marketplace door pushes open. someone runs and something catches the sharp and slender bone—

                                                        [crash!]

                                                                                                                                                   it falls too easy. the fragile tea cup. and maybe that’s when everything fell apart. when the chessboard decided taking the king was too easy and now the queen’s part of all this challenge. and that the rules have changed. they’re not meant to be. yuuri can see it in the easy on-set of a smile on his face, the easy apology slipping past his tongue. the way he laughs, and holds teacups that was so cliché, the way he likes a specific type of tea with a specific brand. the way viktor just wasn’t supposed to be.

but maybe that’s the thing. maybe that’s why yuuri had wanted to stay, had wanted---insisted let me pay for the teaccup—)

I. the bruises you give me are blue. after every kiss, my lips are pale and your sorry's are drained of any blood. you like your name on the tips of my tongue. you tell me that i turn your ugly name into something sweet. and you like that... i like it too

II. your name is sweet. your name is an oxygen tank but sometimes your name--- your name sends me tumbling to a cliff and no matter how many times i call you your back is in front of me still.

III. you like the oceans in my skin, the reds in my eyes and the purple on my cheeks. you tell me i'm a rainbow. you tell me i'm everything.

His finger prickles a thorn; harsh and sharp, its lethal tip crying in front of a gradient glow. Clear red jewels, not once lamented as it hit the ground, triggering miniature crimson pools. Artemis, isolated and cornered as she let the peaks of her arrow strike the truth.

There is only one truth in a multitude of lies.

Viktor holds an impossible in his hand. Homicidal arrows whisked from thin, frigid ice— Viktor soars. The blades of his skates carving figures— doves flying on blood soaked skies and sun-drowned galaxies, Artemis cries on puddles of habromania; the scent of a dying dream. The walls shrinks, the gaps in between the trees tightening until they seemed to be woven threads.

Viktor lands his first quadruple flip. 

He’s picking up the pieces, and he bleeds every time. Veins pressed over paper, dewdrops trickling down holes. It’s getting hard to remember why he’s picking them up and putting them together. It’s getting hard to remember why he’s working away from the rumbling storms.

His colleagues were split into Roman and Greek armies every time the clock strikes twelve. The workplace was a coliseum of printers, crumpled papers, tangled strings and yet-to-be-turned-over documents. He, he was on no one’s team. He stays on his desk, the sky on his back. He is Atlas. He bares the world, and he lets no one near. No one was allowed to interfere.

The sun walks down.

Viktor’s trying to remember why he’s here again. Mila, a rose-haired girl with a disorganized flower garden growing in her head, tells him it’s alright. But what was alright? He still has to submit the whole team’s expenses to the team manager (he may as well be the one in-charge of all this pre-planned chaos), and audit. He’s a workaholic, stuffing as much heat into his body as he could and wraps himself in multitude of jackets before nightfall. What was fine? He’s left alone to warm himself.

It’s cold at night.

It’s quiet too.