moonlight

munday meme

☑ ; the easiest thing about roleplaying your muse?

soren: i think for sure, any kind of shit disturbing for him comes easy to me now? coming up with plots/actions for him is easy because it’s always just.... What Would Make This Worse and then take that and multiply it by like 10,000. i think at this point, i’ve got the hang of it, almost. 

sol: probably the way she sees everyone? it’s generally just... looking down on them LOL but with her, it’s easy for me to pick out things that she would be disdainful or like ugh about tbh

theo: ???? i feel like i struggle a lot with theo still. the easiest thing i think is keeping that kind of innocence there with him, sort of!

♚ ; what’s a personality trait you have that you’re proud of?

my aGRRESIVE PERSEVERANCE WJEWKEJG if i put my mind to it, i can get shit done and my brain is v Determined when it is. it tends to happen a lot in school or things i don’t like doing where it’s like.... i fucking hate this but if i say i’m gonna kick this assignment’s ass i’m gonna do it and two weeks in advance wegwkejgg

➳ ; a personal goal for this year.

It’s nobody else’s fault that the horror on Nico’s face is easier to remember than the wonder on his brother’s, than one of joy on Soren’s when they fly up to the stars. But something burned so deeply into one’s heart is hard to erase, not unless he destroys it, lets someone else swallow it whole. Does he care for his wings? He doesn’t know - he thinks they may be cursed, after all, have never brought him anything good until this boy in front of him.

The touch is subtle but he leans into it anyway, tilting his head towards Soren, as though it’ll mean something, anything. “He loved me,” he whispers, a simple truth but it weighs too heavily on his lips and he adds, “and I don’t know if anyone else ever will. It’s not about being fixed.”

But how do you explain love to someone who doesn’t want it? How to you tell a boy like this that you’re tired of waiting, tired of running away and back, over and over again?

Still, he runs his fingers through silver-stained hair as if to say ‘yes, always,’ as if he ever had another choice in the first place. Under red skies with their feet in the water, they let themselves talk about a life outside, together, of penthouses with glass ceilings, of cozy huts in the depths of South America.

Would you bring me with you?

Love, I’d never think to leave here without you.

“Would you still want me without my wings? Would you even remember my name then?” (Wouldn’t it be easier to let me go back to him?)

Words are sharper than thoughts, words are meant to bring them back into reality even as they empty their third bottle of wine, red staining his shirt as he opens up another one. Laughs again, not wanting to hear what Soren has to say because he knows - he knows.

“It’s fine. I’m not - I don’t want to be pitied. I don’t want - I don’t want to think about the what-if’s anymore. I can’t get the moon or the stars for you and I don’t want you to hate me for that.”

wants to ask, is love that important? could close his eyes and pretend he understands what the other speaks of when he says the words with the kind of fragility he could snap with canines, feel it under tongue. doesn’t know love as a soft-touch thing, how lincoln holds it in his hands, flutter-trembling. could try to be the same, when fingers graze cheeks leaning into touch, pretend that he, too, could be a word held like a treasure. could be mistaken for one in this moonlight; if they both didn’t know better.

(could try to be the same, know better. when teeth graze neck, when sunlight makes him fool’s gold swathed in linen, know better than to stay. know better than to pretend it could be worth anything)

“would you do anything to feel loved, lincoln?” closes his eyes, fingers tracing jaws, tracing lips. “give up a part of yourself for it?”

boy sighs at the touch, lets himself pretend it comes from a simpler time, wings skimming lakes, waters to knee - before this, blood on lips. before scar next to jawlines that he can feel fingers avoid, eyes lingering. could still taste the idea of running away on his lips, before it was lincoln running from him.

“would you think i wouldn’t? would i be easier to love if i was fixed?”

you’ve always been a damn fool, lincoln bennett. wishes he could say it, wishes he would care if he did, the other already opening another bottle, already knows what answer he wants to hear. knows he will. knows he won’t change it, not even for him. takes the wine bottle after lincoln and lets it run down throats, leaving visions blurrier, touches entwined in hair, brushing skin. makes himself close enough to have eyes wander to lips, too close, not enough.

“You’re not?” Lenore answers him in turn, and even though her gaze is teary, there’s a playful smile on her face all the same. She knows more sharp teeth from Soren. Both in smiles and in leers. Has known teeth on skin and loved him just as dearly, especially now. (And knows, too, that this is about as much as he is capable of giving her.) 

She wipes under her eye, trying not to smudge already smudged makeup, and gestures to the eyeliner sitting on the far corner of the vanity. 

And there it is, that smile she loves so much. Fingers trace over messily scrawled letters on the card, stopping at her name, she quietly counts aloud the number of n’s until she reaches the final, “Four. You put four n’s.” Says it with a smile in her voice, because how could she not love this boy?

And in the same way someone so relieved becomes a dam breaking open, she starts crying. “I’m going to keep this forever, you know that, right?” Holding it to her chest with one hand, she reaches with the other to pull him close to her, “I’m sorry I’m crying, you know, it’s just—”

How can she put her ache into words? “I’m sorry. Thank you. I love it, I love it so so much.”

he scoffs and rolls his eyes, playful in how smiles never leave lips. “how poorly you think of me, dear lenny. with a mindset like that, you’d be thinking i enjoy eating people or some shit next.” a half-joke, rare thing where boy knows how to laugh at himself without making it a wound, or moreso of one. thinks he might be alright at it, this kind of half-healing.

he picks up the eyeliner on the vanity, thumbs wiping at her cheeks and catching the trails of messy makeup streaming down faces with tears. is too familiar with this, that saltwater on her lips caused by him but this - this is a little different from last time, no savouring the hurt she wears. no need for it, at least for now.

“was it four n’s too many? or just enough? ‘m gonna have to see some ID one day just to make sure how many of ‘em there really are in your name, ‘cause ‘ve just been guessin’ based on my mood for the day.” grins, takes tissue from the table and starts to wipe at her eyes, gentle in a way that’s almost love. “‘s nothing. don’t have t’keep it - ‘s not much, i know. not like yours, with the glitter ‘nd grammar ‘nd shit.”

but she pulls him close and he lets her, lets her cry into shirts while he plays with hair between fingers, soft humming of a lullaby neither of them know. “‘s nothing. didn’t know selkies could cry that much - don’t’cha need to save some of that saltwater or something?”

(Maybe it doesn’t make him safe anymore, but perhaps these developments still make him home. Perhaps him more like the home she’s always known, grown used to, thought of home more than anything where she didn’t live in fear. Children that naturally learned that home was a place of bruises - how do you turn away when it’s there again and you’ve convinced yourself you’re stronger than you were then? Can face it this time?)

The look on her face know is natural, natural in its laughter, natural in its fake disgust toward him (though real too in thinking of some of the people). “What happened to our rule that we can only sleep in my room? Yours is still quarantined,” but doesn’t move from her spot, and perhaps she doesn’t because she doesn’t plan to sleep a place he is, would leave her own room if he was there, she knows, doesn’t admit it to herself in this moment, let it be a feeling. “You’re not sleeping on a couch if I’m here.”

And laughter fades away with the sound of a song, when she’s not looking at him, and she becomes all frozen, all goosebumps along spines, feel like something stolen when she gave it to him, sang them to sleep with it. “Maybe it’s mine - did I kiss you on the cheek today, or yesterday and it’s just showed up now. Maybe it’s a year old.” She can’t look at him, doesn’t have to with braids being pulled out - thankful. “Neither, we’re still in stars, still have tents on every moon of Jupiter. Maybe this one on Europa.” Think of blackout trains, but she wont’ fall asleep.

is it still a home, if it hurts like this? are you supposed to be afraid of the corner by the stairwell, of the silver that lives in the next room? are you supposed to be afraid of your own death in a place of comfort, nothing but blankets between you and teeth?

the problem, you see, of making homes out of people is this: bone marrow seems like a good place to rest heavy hearts until you realize what kind of festering lives under skin. what kind of hunger has been a normality long before you came along, tried to sate him with human things when we both know he was never such. half, at best. and on your deathbed, perhaps not at all.

“shall we move to yours then?” he asks, quirked, knowing the answer without needing to ask. “no couch? floor, then, i suppose. what kind of host would i bet if i didn’t at least offer you the best - or at least the best i can in a room like this?” laughs a little, more to himself than anything. continues humming as he changes, stripping beds of their covers and replacing blankets for warmer ones, knows how cold she gets. knows how tails won’t be a comfort against it anymore.

“maybe so. can’t keep track of all the kisses anymore, no? ‘s hard after a certain point.” he sits down on the bed, pats on the spot next to him lightly. “europa? i like the sound of that. where next, then, when jupiter’s run out of moons for us?”

codecerberus‌: 

A dream, this feels like. And Carter wishes that there could be so much of this, that the boy loses count of it by hand. The tangled limbs, the aurelian glow of Paris, and stars to wish on; he would bottle it up for the three of them, if he could.

But for now, he chuckles at Soren’s allusion, a crooked smile where a stern line normally would be as he chimes in, “Keep running with stolen baked goods, yeah.” But when they’re as trapped as they are, don’t young, lost things deserve to misbehave? 

He follows his friends’ gaze, now training on the bright light up above; he swears it’s looking right at them. And the boy hums, for he’s never had many wishes. None except freedom, except – “Well, I wish that.. we’ll keep doing this, this cheesy sticking together thing, until we’re old and worn.” Cue a nudge at both of them, and he wrinkles his nose as if in mock disgust, but they should both know this isn’t true. “Now, you two sappy kids go next.”

@fcxxes​

If there’s a reference to Carter’s words, she doesn’t understand it, just turns her head just so to see the both of them at once. Smiles because he’s smiling.

Words, beginning strong before trailing off, to become part of the night, something quiet, “Of course - you always make a wish, even if you don’t think you, even if you don’t remember it.” And there’s almost shock to hear Carter speak like this, but not true surprise, she likes to think she always knew his heart. Tell the two of them she choose this friendship, not forced upon them by circumstance built out of train cars and circus tents. She choose them, and would again. With all she knows now. Relive it, for all its hurt surrounding.

She crinkles her nose with Carter, “You’re not supposed to tell us your wish, remember,” a poke to wrinkles noses, “But I think we can manage that to not make it just a wish,” and she does go along with him, “I wish to see the day your hair goes white like Soren’s, but Soren, if your hair goes grey, what if it just turns to black since it’s already white?”

@codecerberus​

for all the shooting stars he’s tried to become, he doesn’t know what to wish for. doesn’t know what to want that he can’t have between his teeth by the end of the night, if he could help it. doesn’t know what to ask for, not when his life has been a taking.

“stolen baked goods and some wine, maybe. that’s the kind of life i wouldn’t mind having for the next while.” could close his eyes, could dream of it, could see nothing. doesn’t, then. hears carter’s wish and lets it settle on skin only to be blown away by parisian winds again; a fleeting thought at most.

another night. for now, he won’t speak of it, won’t ruin another good thing with that mouth of his. later, he knows.

he laughs a little at emme’s question, eyes crinkled-soft as limbs shake with movement. “maybe. why, are my roots beginning to show?” sighs to the stars, feather-light. “i never thought to think about it. that far, y’know. if i could have a wish, i’d give it to you. i think you’d make better use of it than i would, anyways.”

Vicente could forgive everything that had happened since Vegas, the chaos, the fighting, the fires and the cold, now that he knew it was coming to this. To play in the Louvre. Once again Metzger reminded him why he had joined in the first place, a chance to explore creative heights that he might not have gotten too alone. 

And he could only begin to imagine what was higher than that, but for tonight he would revel in the present. In terms of days it wasn’t that long since Vicente last sat behind a grand piano, but when he first took his seat and ran his fingers over the delicate ivory keys it felt as though he had a lifetime to make up for.

From where he moved on top of the piano Soren was so close Vicente could reach out and touch him with minimal effort, he was rarely more than an arms length away when they were both in the same room, but it might break the rhythm of it all.

When Vicente first joined he thought it might be a problem when he had to play the role of accompaniment, thought it might be a problem tonight, but really it was the best seat in the house. 

He was watching the keys when a leg stretches out over edge of the piano, breaking the thin barrier to musician and it feels almost like a transgression for having dared looked away in the first place, but the smile on Soren’s face when he looks up at him is a soft one. He returns a gentle one of his own, eyebrow raised in curiosity. 

Then he pressed down on the key and Vicente understood completely. “I can make harmony out of anything” And to prove it he kept playing, maneuvering around the attempts to create dissonance of his delicate playing.

“anything?” quirked eyebrows, words whispered just for them. takes it not as a challenge, but a curiosity. steps on keys harder now, lets the clash of them echo on the stage, knows they will look for the sound and see only him.

(this must be a conditioning of some kind - to see hear some sort of horror and see only beauty. make grace with silk-chiffon skirts and moon-dipped shoulders a thing that crawls under your skin without knowing why. make that kind of radiance a discomfort; reasons why you look away from the sun, why you can no longer see the moon with same kind of wide eyes)

boy is dancing easily now, atop the keys and feeling weight shift on the keys, feeling the cool ivory under feet. lets arms reach for artificial light, lets collarbone catch it, flooding out of the dip of shoulderblades, of cheekbones. could be underwater, with how movements are swift, fabric floating in the air. could be some kind of apocalypse with how keys are pressed together, sharp against the ears.

“and if there were only splinters left, dear vicente?” he leans down to whisper to the other man, stops in his movements to do so. a held breath, a peace to the piano’s screeching cries. “can you make music out of a ruin?”

smiles in a way that is pearled teeth, boy a thing of purity in white, so easy to believe. you do, almost, if you were more naive.

The tone of voice gives her a sudden flashback to Vegas, where it had landed them in a jail cell, and she isn’t quite sure what the expression on her face is right now. A mix of incredulous, concern, resignation, for she’s once again thought that when he invited her to go explore the city, they would take a walk like normal people.

( But they have never been what was considered normal, have they? )

“ I’m shorter than you, ” Half complains, half deflects, hoping that perhaps he’d abandon the idea, however slim the chance was. Experience has taught her that dissuading him once an idea has popped into his head is a hard task. “ I would get to the top faster if I used my wings. ”

Frowns, even though it was now half tempting. Winning would mean a higher chance of keeping them out of trouble, though wouldn’t agreeing to this already land them in it? She was pretty sure climbing a national monument wasn’t quite within the legal boundaries.

He doesn’t give her much time to think, and he’s started when she realizes what he’s said. “ Wha —  Soren! I didn’t say yes! ” Hisses out, wondering if anyone’s spotted them and dialed 112 already. Hands reach out to grasp his pants, unable to reach his arms with her height. “ What if you fall? ”

the panic in her eyes is all to familiar, almost comforting now. thinks she should be used to it, is glad she isn’t - there’s that smile on lips that is almost reassuring if it weren’t for the promise of teeth underneath, whether red-tipped or merely leering.

“no wings - that’s cheating xue, and that means an immediate forfeit.” eyebrows are raised, smirks lopsided things. “and we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

small hands stop him from taking the first step, though they both know it would be easy for him to push her away - it’s what he does best, grinning - humouring her by staying, if only for a half-teasing. “and if i do? either you catch me or you tell metzger he’s down another acrobat, no?”

he shakes off her grip, hands already clawing the sides of the building, quickly climbing above where she can reach. “meet’cha at the top! that is, if you can even get there - might leave y’behind if you’re too slow now, dear xue. god knows where i’ll run to then, hm?”

(he knows, of course he does. that’s why his laughter echoes, both lovely and mocking)

“…google quotes and drunk preachers in the streets.” It’s a deadpan joke of sorts, one that perhaps suit their former life, blending into alleyway shadows and the haphazardness that is everyday society. But the boys still grin, as genuinely as they can despite the burns trailing along Soren’s skin. And for now, that is enough.

( but laugh all they want, their talks still return home; to violence and bloodshed, and what it means to tend to one’s wounds. Or allow them to grow into dull scars, in the kumiho’s case. And it’s a puzzle still, why the two always come back to this )

( … then again, who else he could he discuss it all with ease, but Soren? )

“I mean hey, why not?” Carter jests back, a wry smile toying with his lips. But contemplation replaces this for a moment as he continues, head canted so he can see his friend better. “Do you prefer the applause of one; of someone you know – or hundreds?”

An easier laugh rolls out of him, a shrug following. “Oh, I’m talking more than a couple of years, though. Imagine I’m fifty and still running. That’s a bit, ugh.” A cringe punctuates his statement. The boy does see himself as a feral thing. He does see himself as a survivor, a fighter. But what of those who don’t give their heart a break? What if one loses the meaning of just stopping to live?

Carter sighs, almost dismayed, wishing that that his friend wouldn’t romanticise broken things. But everyone has to cope somehow. And if it never hurt Soren, maybe it doesn’t matter. So he hums, almost reflecting him this way, murmuring, “I guess so. But.. don’t lose sight of the boy wearing those scars too.”

“and which one are you, dear carter? perhaps with enough vodka you could be the latter, but that’s a theory for another time i’d like to test.” he quips, lopsided grin toothed and half-biting. all play. it is like this, always - blood-smeared and sharp, claws and teeth and violence - make it a habit, say it is just how creatures like them are birthed to be. grown to become.

(ask, can it change? can we try? wonder, is it because we merely feed off each other’s bloodshed that we are still so red-eyed and sharp-fanged, or do we fool ourselves into believing it is merely nature and not each other’s teeth, making bad habits a reminder?)

“hundreds.” he closes his eyes, tilts his head back and lets silver hair fall back. “thousands. one doesn’t echo quite enough for me.” dark eyes open slowly, half focused, half void when he speaks. “and you? one, or a hundred?”

he stops to blink at his friend, wide-eyed pause, eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion. tries to imagine himself older than this - fifty? what an age, boy thinks. didn’t even think such a thing existed for him. can’t imagine why a world would want him for so long - why anyone, even himself, could live with - in - this skin for such a time. doesn’t think this body was meant for it, no. grins, “i don’t think i’ll be running that long with you, dear carter. how frightful it is, growing old. at what age do you think this body will have enough of this? the world, of me?”

they make a melody like this, some poor harmony - all dissonant. it is fitting. he smiles crookedly at carter, hands on chin and all sugar-sweet when he speaks. “scar, boy - it’s all the same, after a while. sometimes i forget i’m not born with them. sometimes it feels like it.”

It is an ongoing practice, reminding himself not to put any hope into those touches, learning to smile and let it go when lips brush his skin. Pretending for one more day won’t kill him, and he memorizes all the ways he can stop his heart from grieving what was never his, lets Soren take whatever he wants.

Life is short, a wise man had told him not too long ago. Too short to do things halfway.

His body tenses for a moment at Soren’s words, barely-there whispers and Link wants to tell him that he’s not trying to punish him - but knows just as well that it wouldn’t entirely be true. He’s only human, after all, is it selfish and cruel for him to want Soren to suffer with him, too, even for a little while?

Only - he doesn’t know how to make him hurt any more than this. If this is punishment, is he in pain? Does he want him to be? Does he deserve it? And for a moment, he can’t help but think he might, with how easily those words slip out of him, of Vegas and a wedding and a promise to be forever, of a suit he should have kept.

He turns his head to meet the other’s eyes for a moment and offers him a smile, not quite happy, silently tells him - it’s not fair for you to say something like that now - but no real words leave him for the next few minutes, only manages to press his cheek into the rough fabric of Soren’s pants, turning back around, back towards the skyline.

“He asked me to come with him.” He says, eventually. “Said he found someone who can fix me. I couldn’t even say no. Didn’t know if I wanted to say no.” No tears come this time, but his jaw tightens at the memory, knowing that if Marcella hadn’t come to take him away, he might have followed him out. Would’ve, should’ve. At least he wouldn’t be here then, at least he could stop bleeding.

Still wobbly, he pushes himself up and takes the wine bottle in two trembling hands, doesn’t know why he feels guilty about telling him. Wants it to hurt, almost. Hurts him instead, remembering that the other won’t care.

does it hurt?

say yes, boy digs his fingers in deeper, makes his words sharper. waits until it bleeds, unspooling veins. say no, and he’ll find bone, find heart to sink teeth into until it is a yes again. does it hurt? does it hurt? does it hurt?

it should, he thinks. mouthful of bone and lick the marrow. say blood under gums leaves a sweet taste.

so maybe they are both selfish, cruel things. maybe one is learning. there is a silence, a not-smile, a look away from him. maybe one is learning; this gentle art in hurting, butterfly-blade sharp upon fingertips, fluttering. isn’t that all love is?

isn’t it? there’s something about the way lincoln looks at him, what those words mean - it is a more familiar thing. not the one deep in the base of bone - warmth, sunlight-flitting that he is used to with him - no, now it is a duller thing, knife between ribs. it reminds him too much of teeth-shaped bruises on necks after mouths pull away, of fingers red-hot imprinted onto hips.

it reminds him too much of scars, half-healing. thinks now, oh. this is more like it; this echo-after bitter taste.

(is it selfish? is it cruel? isn’t that why they stayed?)

“do you want to be fixed or do you just want him?” asked softly, light fingers just barely-ghosting lincoln’s lips. “if it was anyone else, would it have been easier for you to say no? or did you tire of your wings already?”

he watches as lincoln takes the bottle, waits for him to finish before bringing it to his own lips. waits for it to blur corners of vision, leave him loose-lipped and mouth staining red from something they both can live a little easier with.

“bet you i can scale this thing faster than you can climb up the stairs.” he’s grinning, all fishhooked lopsided, wind in hair and mischief between teeth when he looks at her. the building before them is looming and quick eyes are already scaling; finding footholds, finding security.

thinks he can win, probably. wonders if he can pick up a couple of swear words in french when the guards come chasing.

he places hands on the side carvings of the building, feet already looking for ledges, looking back at the smaller girl with a half-laugh in his voice. “how about this - winner gets to pick what to do for the rest of the night, hm? a pretty good deal, right?” he’s tilting silver hair, letting it catch reflections of passing cars, of city lights. makes his eyes look brighter, almost more starshine than boy.

“better start climbing, xue - we’re starting in… three, two, one - go!”

Hands still as Soren speaks again, eyes turn towards the cloth in his hand, now stained black and red. But there are still things that can’t be wiped away and he hates how easily he says those words, like all of this is just a passing moment to be forgotten.

“I don’t want to play pretend, Soren. I’m - I’m tired.”

Promises mean little if they’ve already been broken, he wants to tell Soren, or do you mean to keep all the empty promises made under moonlights, promises whispered into chests? And that it’s meaningless to mourn what he’s already lost, foolish to blame others for the mistakes he’s made.

At least it had been real, what he had before he ended up here, behind cages, within walls. At least then, he didn’t have to brace himself every time he walked into the room in case he saw something he didn’t want to see - at least then, he’d been loved.

How many times has he slipped out of his bed in the morning and told himself that it was all for the best - how many times has he fallen back asleep thinking about that night in Vegas? Eyes flutter to a close when he is kissed, thinks he can almost taste the fire on those lips but the warmth disappears just as quickly, and god, if that doesn’t embody everything this strange affair has been –

“It’s not your fault.” He shakes his head, finally lets his tears fall, heavy as they hit the floor, and he hates himself a little more in that moment because this was supposed to be a breakthrough, his last chance at moving forward and into something better, but he’s still just a boy with an imaginary chain around his ankles, too scared to step outside even as the other is telling him to go.

“How much of yourself can you give me if I beg? You asked me to stay – remember?” You’re the one who told me who wanted something real, even for a night.” Words accuse but he finds himself leaning into Soren’s touch, eventually leans forward and buries his face against his neck, familiar, haunting.

“You know it’s never going to be the same,” he mumbles, “will the stars look at us the same if we go out now?”

“hm? tired of what? this? me, already?” there’s a melody to voices that’s river-smooth, eyes half-lidded. “what are we playing, if not pretend? what is this, if not a pretense for something we both don’t have?”

love, lost. love, never had. of course he knows no better. of course loving him is a knife-swallowing trick, all glass in throats and him, asking for more as you bleed at his feet. it is what love is, to him. of course he would not recognize, understand yours. when he closes his eyes and make-believes a better reason for all those scars, that is the closest he’ll be to love that he’ll get.

(at least you were loved. he thinks the same, looking at you. by someone better-worse than him. by someone other than him. you would deserve that much, one would think)

(no one should have to love a teethed thing)

he cradles boy to his chest, lets him bury himself into a scarred neck. can those things become a safe haven, or merely a reminder when we open our eyes again? no matter, no matter, he hushes. kisses lincoln on the top of his head, doesn’t take any of the blame and takes his tears instead. drinks it up, doesn’t know why it leaves him with such an empty kind of ache. 

“you can have whatever’s left.” said honestly, said, knowing there isn’t much to begin with. hardly fair to him, truly. “do you think i’d know the difference between what’s real anymore? they all look the same. you. me. everything. maybe ‘ve gotten too good at this.” smiles, and it’s all bitter, words a heart-swallowing.