ᴀǫᴜɪᴛ / ʙᴇsɪᴇɢᴇ

                the night goes on around the bubble they’ve created, past their atmosphere. the sound of traffic feels to overpower any prayer. it takes only a few, long thought through though quickly accomplished strides before he feels at an appropriate distance ( for them ). 

                he stands nearby though he fidgets slightly on the spot only to face about 120 degrees to that of the other man. he stood for a second, staring at the sky through the rooftops,  hands deep in his pockets and levering his body into place. he stands there, still. the only noticeable movement is the slight unstillness of his lower lip, softly quivering while rising and falling to the rhythm of his breaths.

                                  ‘ you didn’t come here for me, did you? ’                                                           his smile was for effect, and his soft chuckle was for character, he realized.                 

                   that’s how it is between them : their lives are woven together with CHEAP threads, roughly strung & poorly made, the tapestry of their relationship founded on wasted words & counterfeit smiles, needless pleasantries. his gaze stays down ( he isn’t afraid to look divinity in the eye, but this is different ) .

                   the wind threads quiet fingertips through his hair, places long strands across his forehead with artful precision ; he touches him like a lover, the wind, pinks his cheeks & sends shivers down his spine, kisses his skin with careful tenderness. his breath is cold against his lips. he aches.

                   the streetlight keeps flickering. he wonders if it’s his fault, whether his grip on his energy had faltered in his woeful state. maybe it’s sidao. maybe it’s the both of them. maybe he needs another glass of wine.

                                   ❛ no...  i don’t think so.

                   then :

      the night settled heavy on his hair, humidity pushing it down across his forehead, ruffled strands splayed and reaching for his eyes. he’d seen him through the window as he’d walked across the lobby - the decision had been a last minute one that had only occurred to him as he pushed the door open and let it close gently. he was slow in his approach and soft in his words.

                    ‘ are you waiting for someone? or do you need a lift home? ’  

              gentle moon’s glow adorns his features, painting him marble & gold : he turns his head with calculated poise, wicked eyes & a smile that could start a war, grecian tragedies perched upon his fingertips. he bites his lip with spurious innocence & averts his gaze, a pale strand falling across his forehead ( on purpose, of course : his artful dishevelment is endearing, or so he’s been told ).

                    NIGHT’S SCATHING CARESS rests upon his skin with bittersweet ease, doesn’t burn, doesn’t cut. rather, it beckons him closer, appeals to the stars in his veins & the funeral songs on his lips ( his cigarette hangs foul from his mouth : quiet ruination ).

                    in the darkness, he is vulnerable. his magic runs deep through his veins, buzzing on his skin louder than ever ( not uncomfortable, but not quite pleasant. it doesn’t drip from his fingertips with ease : it must be flicked off his fingers, you see, coats his hands like saccharine honey ), & he holds hands with night as if it were in his very nature ( it is ) ; yet, it is in the darkness where he feels most human, where the weight of others’ woes & sorrows lifts from his lungs until he can finally breathe, where divine-bless’t veins turn red  - cut him, and he will bleed.

                    the streets are quiet, yet the damp concrete speaks volumes, tells tales of sins & wicked doings ; he doesn’t want to hear it, not tonight, not when his own thoughts haunt him like cheap ghosts & his tongue tastes like words left unsaid & convenience store wine. 

                    it takes him a while to notice he’s being spoken to, much less to acknowledge it. for a long moment, he watches his discarded cigarette on the ground, watches as the weak smoke rises into the air. he steps on it a moment later, gaze darting to him for a moment, before turning blankly to a nearby streetlamp ( it flickers soothingly, reminds him of warmer winters ).