quiet , quieter – in the absence of the thunderous , the grotesque , the torturous . between the golden glimmer of heaven’s hour upon them – granting , adorning each with their very own halo to gleam , pristine within the liquid shimmer of an ethereal blessing – perhaps the holiest the blonde has ever been granted to feel within . in their eternal worship of exactly naught specific do they remain dwelling on – with confessions spilling alike the lifting petals at the feet of the crime lord’s very own gardens . words spinning their own constellations in their illuminated midst , leaving a trail of glitter soon to leave , soon to dissolve , evaporate leave them with the break of anew nocturne to be announced – filling the never to be sleeping city with bright gloom of reflective illuminations , blinking neon and blurring , roaring traffic echoing up into the mountains of a desolated patch of estate – surrounded by high walls and gates . oliver’s choice of words is unapologetic – sincere , declared free of usual sin to echo within the dripping crimson amongst their palms folded for prayer . this , truly , stroke a different tone – harmonised , glided and floated with ease albeit the blonde having expected naught of such to be a considerable possibility . instead of such agonising wrath chasing a tortured boy no matter where to set foot – does it smooth along as if digits were to brush across silken shirts , as if the whisper of spirits to carry their whispers with the holy breeze to lift his being , leave him the faint doubt of something empyrean to have anointed him indeed . their voice dances among the monochrome keys he had turned to enjoy whenever distressed spirit would grant him such pause .
ever so slightly , between the speech to jump and ebb – follow the rhythm of a familiar pattern to ring , graze the edges of low registers to dissolve within the sound of nature’s rustling leaves by the evening breeze to brush across their faces alike , set to witness the setting warmth in eternal distances never to be reached – the faint taste of regret lacing the boy’s tongue grows less as he lets it flick over dried lips ; usual habit to die hard within the depths of an anxious soul , lips pursing to a thin line – taste of tobacco lingering , almost paralysing ability to truly give a reply ( or – merely a comfortable excuse within very own system to settle on ) . it is pure romanticism , fuelling the veins of the blonde – a passenger has he always been , merely a witness to his countless deaths indeed ; less alike oliver , naught has he been granted a release , a chance to regenerate ( still a rather mysterious occurrence to the elder ) . it must have symbolised an agonising truth he so furiously shunned his gaze of – denied , ignored and crushed such existence of ( mere for the price of survival – not within own greed ! ) . despite such cards to lay openly disclosed upon the table – a topic he has killed over , has strangled and choked over – does the criminal leader remain within the calm headspace prior created , hues towards the horizon of an aeon bidding farewell upon the hour .
their question remains one – never to have listened nor thought of , never to have been asked nor hinted towards and so crown will turn , gaze to drift eyeing the immortal seating himself upon the polished marble of the railing – against the blazing skies upon and the whipping breeze of the dearly missed sea , in a distance naught seen . he remains silently , mere to watch – possibilities , half truths and lies to rush through a mind occupied , frozen and paralysed entirely by the inquiries left , carried by the smell of blooming eden beneath them . “ at the very beginning – uhh , perhaps i thought it would be easier , perhaps i did . “ , he denies such fact to inherit the painful truth indeed , scoffs and shrugs it off within the hesitation of words that leave lips within their attempt to explain – he had exactly intended such , had yearned and sacrificed – killed and stabbed , paid the highest price demanded ! merely within the hope to ultimately leave behind what had truly been left behind a dozen years ago . head sinks , had he not lived through entire tragedies , own executions in absolute silence ? “ however there is nothing on the other side . neither on mine – nor on yours , i dare assume . you are left – with what fate has destined you to be . “ , aware is he – of the gruesome , the grotesque sacrifice made by himself to inherit such macabre throne of all carved paradox .
even clearer does such depiction become – the moment other dives into further depths , pandora’s box opened by no other than the blonde himself . there is no other tool left for the male except to indulge within the attempt at faux smile – albeit reflecting amusement found within the unfolding tragedy at the feet of both equally rotten , equally lost souls . “ i wish you could . i wish you could . “ , almost muttered as if having slipped into absent – minded state . barely does attention shift , even as cigarette is removed out of his jewelled grip – forgotten had he the bitter smog to lift , evaporate within the wind , “ i was never given the chance to . i was never even given the chance to say – “ , crown sharply turns – until broad shoulders and suited back will face the higher seated figure . clearly – had the fool not have done such ; the overwhelming sense leaving the noose around own neck to tighten , cut off all remaining left unsaid – swallowing down – the rushing images flashing , in states of awakening as much as within realms of dreams to re – visit . sole consolation remains the breeze – soothing a burning sensation remaining within hues ; not triggered by the nicotine laced clouds , long gone . it lingers – alike ashes to blur sight and the closer prophecy unfolds by the explanation of other , do fists unconsciously clench , veins stretching against the skin visible despite hanging low and unoccupied next to a frame frozen alike carven statue .
“ sounds like a heavy description to carry . heavy , to fulfil . would you plant another for me – if i was to depart earlier ? made of opposites – then i shall continue to carry such . “ , it is the familiar , eternal surrender alongside existence – long made , long established . the acceptance of such utterly denied truth – always had been noticed and acknowledged within that bleeding heart of his to beat on quietly , slower – frame will turn on its heel to walk inside . his grand steinway , purposefully placed right next to the doors of grand balcony – curtains brushing the instrument’s smooth surface from time to time . wordlessly , does he perch himself onto the stool – and seconds pass in silence by a frame inheriting the eternally straight posture ; until it melts , until digits dance upon the monochrome keys and he lets go . liszt’s consolation – spilling with such frantic sentiment and yet gentle pace – that its force leaves the blonde – his back remaining turned towards the spot the other had seated himself in – to leave the wet stains on jagged face to simply flow ; to a singular drop dissolving upon palm .
THE AUREOLE bestowed on him by the soon to be slumbering sun is reduced to a milder glow , as puerile evening demands to overtake the celestial playground wherein the clustered glitter of distant constellations ought to come together in favour of leading home those who are lucky not to be strangers to the word. the skies are bleeding marvelous saturations of ruby now , epitomizing the romanticized highlight of the day's finale , much to his dismay —— if he could pin the sun on the horizon , if he could ensure this moment lasts longer , he would. nothing ever stops , though. the nicotine embellishment he had attained , too , begs to be freed out of the cage formed by two digits , lest the heat greets his ink-emblazoned flesh , kisses a foolish scar into the planes of gold there. ❝ the chance to say what ? ❞ belated is his cautiously expressed prompt , as midnight plagued orbs follow his companion's retreating silhouette , awaiting , before a melody imbues the castle with melancholy : thus , he chooses to turn away again , the breath he releases fragmented , as if it had been trapped in his chest for a while , knocking therefore impatiently at the gates of a pursed mouth. his exhale also bears the conclusive phantoms of smoke. he would not be very conscientious about littering if it were some unknown place , although considering the gardens bursting all tones of untainted life below would not appreciate the fiery guest , the boy diligently smothers the vestiges of the cigarette in the ashtray poised beside him , rather than simply throwing the rufescent shimmer off of the balcony.
oh , how lovely it would be , to lay on the ground beneath , to be surrounded by prismatic petals , to sink in the earth , as opposed to battling the loaded emptiness devouring his ribcage at an alarming pace. ( l'appel du vide ) ; intrusive are his reveries. were he to decide on a sweep forth , to slide off the railing , he could grant his idealistic yearning for peace just like that. perhaps , the impact might have hurt less than the torment the act of listening to tony's composition embodies. he is not tired , nor had any airborne specks infiltrated his irises — the vignette of his vision is , nevertheless , invaded by a blurry lustre. it must be the wind , or the pernicious fumes , or —— he feels his throat dry up. swallows the knot down , deeply. it stays , gnawing at the inside. or , maybe both. the freckled rogue eventually attempts to get rid of the crystalline sheen by bringing the back of an aureate palm to his countenance , chafing the skin a bit too harshly until phosphenes caused by the friction gradually start manifesting in his view instead. the crimson blessings of the reversed dawn are fading , for seoul is to be cradled in moon's hold. hesitantly does he shift to face the grand clavier , finding it hard to take in the sight of great pathos. the scene shatters his crackled , vacant facade , for it is too ironic , too painful —— tony may have mourned the tragedy of beauty struggling to reside alongside the savagery of the monochrome world , yet , ———
yet he exists.
he is ruinously beautiful. a soul so gentle , guarded by adamant walls he , himself , may never climb. ( a protective fort or prison ? )
how may he get through to someone whom had already drank out of the chalice of accepted fate ?
oliver is quiet even as he abandons his impromptu throne , each step forward costing him tremendous courage , for he does not know anything , forced to improvise under the pressure of failing or worsening the hiraeth infected mood , if he so desires to sate the need to be of help. once he stands behind the seated figure , he merely watches , as equally moonstruck as he is anguished , unable to move despite wanting to. it is almost hypnotizing , the way the silken pads of the criminal's fingers caress the keys , as a desperately tender lover would , coaxing out sounds so , so terribly reminiscent of loss. tentatively , his hands rest atop the slope of tony's shoulders : a feathery touch at first , as he is uncertain whether to carry on or not , only for his arms to then slip lower till he encompasses him , his embrace as pitifully weak as his baritone , ❝ tony , ❞ a plea. it is hushed , strained , for he is humiliated , too startlingly aware he is not good at words , albeit the suffocating weight of witnessing the shorter in such a state devastates the usually unfazed immortal beyond remedy. ( what can he do ? what can he do for him ? ) ❝ 'm sorry , ❞ his wintery lips hide a repeatedly confessed mantra in the regalia of the male's locks as his own dips , dejected ; ❝ please. ❞ ( please , god , let him be enough. let him alleviate the other's ache. ) is he clinging on him as a subconscious means of self-consolation , to seek warm solace from the indescribable agony , or to be of comfort to him ? ❝ when night comes , . . . you won't be alone. not anymore. ❞ the dusk can be endured in the company of a cherished person. and the sun ? it may wither behind the mountains , albeit it shall rise tomorrow , too ; always luring them in by a bait of promising the mortal realm is worth suffering in , worth their martyrdom. is it , truly ?
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