indefinite hiatus | looking glass

tagged by :  @thecosmicsen ty! tagging :  anyone

     tsume almost rolls his eyes - almost. it’s a near thing, but he distracts himself with the flutter of gossamer wings, the tinkling of words like birdsong. odd, that he hadn’t noticed them at first, but they huddle close to this man, steer clear of tsume. that’s fine with him.

     his dialect is odd, soft, just this side of whimsical. tsume tilts his head, jewelry clinking together. he doesn’t sound like he wants help, and tsume rolls his shoulders in a shrug, palms up.

     “ not if you’d rather take a mugging head on, ” he replies, watches the burst and resulting dim of fairy lights. it’s hypnotic, and he’s careful not to look too long. “ it’s dangerous here this time of night. what are you doing out? ”

A mugging head on? As in this man, strapping and sturdy and very terribly hooligan-like, duff him up? Aster flabbergasts. “Now I say.”

He wouldn’t. Would he? No. He warned him after all, didn’t he? Here in the dead of night with the rain-dewed cobbled streets, the flickering lamp posts, and the back-alley cat skittering deep under a trash mound some place in the shadows? Aster takes a ginger step back but not too far. He stays in the moonlight. Always.

     ‘ then where do we go ? ’ wait, we — ? now that he thinks about it, when did he get thoroughly roped up in all this ? aster is made up of too much whimsy. it’s a dangerous thing, really, to get swept up and lost in all that pixie dust and strawberries. he glances to sugarplum, as if she would ever answer him, as if she would ever trust his teeth to guide them through the night. but there’s a plea in that liquid-gold of his gaze, reason with your mad, madman. 

     ‘ the cinderella tale, it’s fantastic and all. ’ scurry home at midnight, but there’s no glass slipper and as he recalls, the wedding involved murder plots and sisters struck blind. it’s not for him. at all, really. ‘ but it doesn’t bode well for you no matter what, right ? and i can’t stay here until daylight, either. ’

He presses a finger to his lip. "Mhm, yes. That’s the posish, isn’t it? Rattles the thistles, and all that," he twitters. Aster waits all of three seconds and doesn’t stand it any longer. "It just so happens, old chap, that I've just the thing. Ingenious, they say. My heavens, a pinch of the ‘Moonglass special.’"

Where are they? Right. The main foyer now. He knows he's seen it here somewhere. A tubby old man, tomato red and one pull of the tie from bursting, was tiptoeing all before it, swiping glances left and right to make sure nobody was spying an eye as he patted down three stands of hair over an incurable bald spot. Aster surveys around. His head swivels like a meerkat out of its burrow. His eyes, gold in the night, spark, and he plucks something off the wall. 

"Consider the curiosity tickled, Nour," he peeps up, then, off-hand and unrelated. "You’re in the guild, aren’t you? Wetting the pearls, just about? If you were to, oh, dabble upon me, what would you taste, you wonder?”

     trust me. those are the silent hanging words between the three of them. it’s a big ask, nour knows. bigger than eat me and drink me. those are easy, they ask him give into temptation and taste nour tender on his tongue. where he’ll settle them with flowers and gardens and orchestras playing loud. but here, with mother moon grinning knowingly and dark tendrils pulling at aster’s sleeve wanting. it’s a question of teeth : nour’s or the other-thing’s. 

     he couldn’t know about the shadows growing in the distance, after all he has no magic to offer. not even a beating heart, not a blossoming sun in sight. empty and echoing that blanket of midnight. the monsters he knows are of his ilk, undying and never living and haunting hungry. they bend the knee, or would do, if they knew the depth of nour’s blood. he’s never known fear in this life. 

    nour nods, eager and lips pressing together saccharine-sweet and pleased at the corners of his eyes. spindly fingers hold a little tighter, ‘ yes, safer with me than on your own at this hour, don’t you think ? and it’s close by. we can busy ourselves with that talk of melody you started. don’t think i forgot, i’ll make an orchestra performer out of you yet. ’ he tugs the hand in his again, pivots on his heel and pulls aster in the direction of his rented flat. 

He never expected it. Being pulled a different direction. Their footsteps tap against the floor. Nour’s: feathersoft and imperceptible. Aster’s: the echoing click-click-click. They're getting closer to where he can see the deepening black. Plum worries. He blinks, looks to her, then back again. Dark and darker. He balks.

"No! No!" he yells.

Suddenly, he yanks away. 

"Yes, well, um- Over the moon, I am, Nour. A whole daydream, that is, Lord yes. A teaspoon of the stuff, really. But, well. A smidge late, wouldn’t you say? Twelve o', and all."

There he goes. Aster tottles a bit back, see to saw, his antsy smile open and his hands clasped together. What would anyone think? Strange man, maybe. As though Moonglass, for all his stardust and woozy, drip-drippy prattling, wasn’t already. But he couldn’t take a step further. Where were they going? Outside? In the vast expanse of unending midnight and black? To his terribly inevitable doom? Isn't that where he's going either way?

late night wandering sentence starters (accepting)

"No?" Aster asks. He makes a face like of course and tuts. “Puts the coral to one’s cheeks, doesn’t it?" 

The moon is terribly full. Someone took a pair of scissors and cut a hole into the night, and now there's entirely too much of the silver stuff everywhere, spilling out onto the empty cobbled streets. The rosebushes. Into this man's far, faraway eyes. He has a priest’s collar, snowy white. Aster sees it glow in the light.

Someone’s died very, very close, two holes to the neck. Their eyes glaze empty.

"I expect you’re wondering, ‘Who is that fellow out in the late? Possibly a toothy thing sniffing for the ruby?’ Possibly, Father. Very possibly,” he mucks, going on as though he’s making a case for himself. Aster is careful not to step out of the clear wash of moonlight. "But see here: Not a tooth to be found.” 

late night wandering sentence starters (accepting)

Aster stands close by a bit like a giraffe gazing into the distance. Nour is right. Through the window, not a single speckle of a star. No dusting, no glimmering, no shooting- Wait... No. Never mind. Does Nour fancy the stars? Go wonder-eyed at the winking sight of them, wondering if there’s a powdered-sugar world out there where he can forever sip at his favorite meals? A suitor for Monday? A child on Thursday? Another suitor? 

Aster should point out the dangers of having balcony doors open at this hour, but, truly, it was very quite stuffy.

late night wandering sentence starters (accepting)

He blows air from his cheeks. "Ohhff, true enough. A bit of the sniffles, the night and I." And he will not elaborate on that. 

Who is this creature with the inky black hair? This boy who's waltzed into his existence without so much as a pip or squeak? This creature, this young thing-- It must be dangerous for him, too. Put side-by-side, which of them would a dribbling, hungry beast of the night rather gnaw on? The willowy, flop of hair and pixie dust or the sprightly, young thing whispering nighttime warnings? 

Has the boy gone suspicious about him casing the front of a closed tailor shop? Has he called the bobbies? The cavalry? Are they on their way? Lamps burn, fire magically cracking inside, and keep Aster in bright light.

late night wandering sentence starters (accepting)

A voice. Aster stops dead on the spot. His head swivels left then right, finds nothing. Again, and there. A man. He steal another look-around, sticks a finger to his own chest, and mouths, Me?

Who would watch him besides terribly angry kings from Dreamylands and rheumy-eyed kittens mewling for soggy morsels? Have his pixies stolen something from someone they shouldn’t have? Did the cook at his favorite pub catch him dumping tea in a flower pot? Is it the jealous husband convinced that Aster must be seducing the sweet, old missus because, blast it, she took his arm to waddle across the street?

The man is far too serious. Silver-haired. Scarred. 

     there are no princes, no dragons. and nour isn’t a maiden in a tower waiting to be saved by a handsome knight and on horseback. ( though, it is a romantic notion. to be handled kindly, saved from all the drab and drear of a life not of his making. it’s not so bad an idea, to play at the flower-braided, tearful maiden. ) but, he argues, there is fantasy to it. dark and grimm but fantastical, still. there’s a shiver in the clamp of his jaw, thrill at the cut of his teeth and something like cloud-euphoria. 

     ‘ away … ’ he thinks, writes just underneath, ‘ but just for a night ! i won’t steal, take you whole. you’re sweeter this way, with your pretty sugar glider here. ’ he watches them dance, sugarplum’s huffing and puffing, and aster’s endless panna-cotta prattle, tucks his violin away and lingers curious.

     nour takes the hand gesturing him closer, easier to be lead by the leash. he thinks of school boys, giggling running out of gates excitedly. they shouldn’t, they’re expected to be behind their drab desks and scratching lines into the wood. the way that aster shouldn’t be out during mother moon’s daunting hours. and nour shouldn’t titter, he knows, it’s dangerous for aster, this blanket of night.

    but … but ! isn’t nour blessed by the silver of night ? starlight dancing envious off his skin and mother moon shining proudly in glints off the ivories of his hair. right, he forgets he’s the toothy thing that poisons their fairy tale. i wonder … he tugs aster’s hand as they walk, blinks up at him, all liquid-gold and innocent-white, ‘ your nightmare-things, would they cross into the territory of creatures like me ? ’

Aster's hand is bony and boxy, all knuckle, knob, and fingers. 

He never expects Nour's, and he takes it, anyway. 

"'Mare-things'?" Aster asks, eyes heavy-hooded and hair bounding. "Oh. Yes, well. Wouldn’t know the first thing. Not every sunny hour does one come eye-to-eye with the moon-and-star variety --- Night and day, we are. Different halves of the clock. No, no, a bit A and M, this one." Whereas Nour is the P.  

He doesn’t know. And how could he? Bless his heart, he has never once in all his long, periwinkle years shared a realm of existence with a toothy thing, much less waltz into their home. They would surely singe and catch fire in a cloudless spring morning and he would undoubtedly disappear in the entirely cold, unlovable arms of nightfall. The odds are against them. Like star-crossed lovers and terribly droll Romeos and Juliets. Tragic poetry. 

Plum flits close, like she's not entirely sold on this. She half-expects Nour to sink his teeth in and empty Aster all out the moment she has her back turned, pretty-pink lips and curls be damned. Maybe he will.

What had the pamphlet read? Pretty-poppy-hoppy. Aster shortens his strides, the echo of a clock bonging in his head, and catches a shimmer not too far in the distance. Not much longer. Nour tugs his hand, then, and he looks over.

     it’s easy to forget that he has a beast and it hungers endlessly, pricks at blood-scent and prowls in need. it’s easy to forget when chords shiver under his fingers, when he writes poems for lovers, when rose-lips curl painted pretty-pink. he moves delicately and doll-curls settle neatly against his back, hands thin and feather light when they hold. so they settle their heads against his chest to listen for heart hums, try to follow the line of his lips to taste his breath tender on their tongues. 

      sorry, he’d think, i haven’t got all that. not that he cares deep for a man held just to sate a ravenous ache. not that there are apologies enough for things like him. right, some things are better admired than held. 

     and some things are built to lure.

     mimic all the gentle things that some so adore to cradle close. other times, they bright and boyish things that they dream of putting out, suffocating in their palms. it doesn’t matter, really, he has bigger teeth. but … he looks at aster, watches him consider drowning just to see starlight glint off growing ripples. 

      ‘ i won’t hurt you, ’ a promise. a pause, he tilts his head, ‘ well, it only hurts for a second, really. ’ aster is a sweet thing, that prances lighthearted and singsongs endlessly, that should sit neatly in the palm of one’s hand and giggle mischievous with a puff of glittering pixie dust. nour promise of delicate teeth rings true. ‘ but you don’t have to make your mind up about it, and definitely not tonight. ’

“Nour. You absolute tooth rot. If I were to be... tippled upon- well. Tipple away.”

Aster plucks a tune. Plum blinks. Any other man would have wobbled off the piano bench, heart stuttering sloppy in his throat. Any other man would have been stricken. Any other man would have thought no. Of course not. It isn't syrupy sweet to say you wouldn’t hurt someone. And the fact that Nour would let him decide when to be bitten, sipped, and lapped up was not, and never will be, a fairy tale fantasy. A dream come true.

Never mind the fact that he’d turn to a vampire. 

Never mind the fact that he can’t be a vampire.

A low bonging and a toll; a clock striking. Aster goes rigid and Plum's mouth falls open. He lifts his finger. ”Now- Now, look here, Plum. One might have let... slip the glass slipper, yes, yes, say no more, but you must admit --- oh, tommyrot, really --- you have gawked and gone ever-so-besotty over dear No-"

Her face glows angry and the glint in his eyes waver. Yes, of course. His glowing wrist. Midnight.

       nour settles the violin on the seat next to him and the bow sits light next to it. the echoes of their last notes ringing in his ears, it could be refined. maybe he will write it proper, if he can remember it by the time he spills over his sheets at home. really, he thinks if his heart could hammer, it would pitter and patter with the rise and fall of their duet. it’s almost something to mourn, that his breath can’t catch. 

       ‘ eat you ? only if you wanted me to. i never take without permission. ’ and it’s true, he’s never needed force. lacking in man’s violence, his fingers trace gentle and teeth prick hazy. he thinks of mother moon glinting off a still lake, sparkling tender in a dream. drowning, aster’s right. waves rippling out along that mirror of water with steps slow. it’s warm, at first, licking comforting along ribs. and it’s easy to loose footing, to get tangled in weeds.

      ‘ you can sink into me if you want to, i’ll let you, ’ he continues, a hum of thought in the back of his throat. but he knows the night isn’t kind to aster and there’s nothing kind in the cradle of his teeth.

Not unless you want me to. Want me to. Yes. Because so many wanted it before. Because they must have walked in the moonlight with him, blushy-cheeked and smitten, filled with much too many dreams and sugarthings. A song, a smile, a dance. Drink me, they'd hum, sighing nothings against his neck. 

He would. 

The last of the song has faded now, there only in Aster’s head. He straightens.

"No, no. No, no. Not one for the wet and ruby, I'm afraid. A bit -- viscous and whattle, so on and so forth,” Aster half-laughs, somewhat off with a head wobble. Nour’s hum has finally reached him, too soft, too steady. A lullaby, maybe, only there’s no waking from it. 

It was a star, diamonds surrounding and pearl and swaddled in blonde locks, had it not held up a piece of hair, she wouldn’t have noticed that it fell out. Though had it fallen? With no clatter from it hitting the ground, she reached up, hand trailing down from her head, and then her shoulder, and then her side and then something caught her eye. There it was, floating away from her. 

Quickly, and without much consideration, she chased after. Brisk, and she couldn’t take her eyes off of it. She couldn’t find the words, she felt crazy, she was confused.

And then suddenly there was a man before her. A specific lack of her pin and whatever wind carried it over. It left as quickly as her benefit of the doubt did for this stranger. But she can’t accuse without some oddity because how could it be taken from her so far away. Narrowed eyes pinned on him, she pursed her lips.

“It’s a bit windy, wouldn’t you say.”

Aster wore confusion well, just for a second, then blew a raspberry. "Oh, you know. Could sweep a fellow off his feet, the ol' ‘puff,” he said chummily about the wind, eyes starry-bright and speckled gold. "One might have Mary-ly Popped-in, given a brolly and a good gusting or two."

Sugarplum’s terrible wincing bubbled in back of his mind. Really, he could pretend to be following along due to manners all he liked, but he couldn’t imagine in a daydream or three that this lady, eyes narrowed and lips wary-pursed, missing her hair pin, would have ever found the joke terribly amusing. She was very suspicious, very clearly. She moseyed over here, after all. But what should he do? Expose the damnably tricky fingers of his pixies? Face Plum’s wrath of not defending the pack? This lady’s wrath of being caught followed by an awfully regrettable scene? No, no. He’d have it returned with her back turned. The sensible thing.

       nour listens carefully, keys twinkling bright under aster’s touch. he learns that melody, hums it quiet in the back of his throat once he’s caught on. his bow pulls along strings, just in whispers at first, veiled and muted. but that violin is always yearning by nature of it’s master, and it slips deep and dark, wanting. nour wants and wants and wants — eyes flutter shut, white flashes full and flush against the height of his cheeks. 

       he has always bent the will of words under his fingers, straightened rhythms out of jittering, twisting what-ifs. even as a boy, and he remembers it still. fingers sore against strings, and hauntingly hungry notes turned mesmerizing. pretty like romantic tragedy or mournful like flowering lilies. when blood runs cold but the heart hammers loudly : closer, closer. 

        and aster … nour hears that nightshade, like cacao and honey. his lips perk at the corners, rose-petal and pleasure, so you have me all figured out ?

It starts bittersweet. Here is the slow crawl of an echo... the eternities between each key. Here is Nour and the whisper of a violin… And Aster slips away like a man coaxed into oblivion, the song falling through the cracks of his fingers. This song is no longer his. It never was. 

Faster, now. The water is rising. His soul sounds like searching. Like a ghost, forgotten, starving, hunting, and nothing can fill its intolerable emptiness. It's beautiful in the way loneliness is beautiful. Beautiful in the way snow kills everything. Faster, the striking of the keys, the pulling of the bow, and it’s closer. He feels it deep in his chest heavy heavier Good Lord he can’t swim to the surface and at once he’s engulfed in the wanting, drowns in needing, and open your eyes in the dead of night and suddenly you’re sticky in sweat and eye-to-eye. The ghost has found you. 

The rise of the violin, then the falling-

Done. 

Nour smiles, and smoothly, Aster’s fingers drip from the piano. The song dies away.

"Ah. Well. There, you see? Thick as thieves, we are. One feels as though the cat has been ‘let loose,’” he says like all of this was a secret. Like no one was supposed to hear it. Like Nour’s smile was normal, and somehow, it was. "Frightful haunt, really. Wonderful in the manner of... oh, rainclouds and Edgar Poe.

       he’s made of daydreams, and night ones and everything in between. all the pretty proses, twisted in romances about beautiful boys and their darkly dreaming melodies. and maybe there’s a prince, and maybe there’s a pixie. well, there’s definitely a pixie. all mirror-glint and fluttering wings, worth a melody, worth two. they echo and clatter in his head, all lonely and half-hungry. right, he needs aster here for these, he can’t do without. 

       there’s no argument, he sets the violin case down and delicately untucks his del gesù. fingers trace over the horsehairs of his bow, rosin-kissed and thinking of that sleeping soul of his. nour knows it won’t twinkle bright like those piano keys, he’s already chosen something more dusk-like in this violin, all haunting forests and red wines. ‘ play me something, let’s see what we can make, ’ he tucks away that phone then and sits on a front-row chair of the orchestra. violin poised under his chin, he nods, nose pointing at that piano under aster’s elbows.

Let’s see what we make.

"Oh, well- ‘Dreamstuff,’ I should think,” he says of-course-ingly, hair bobbing with a nod. 

Aster touches the piano and falls victim to him own daypondering. What song will he be, do you know? a question asks of him. Yes! No... Maybe so. Nour is cotton white and he is starlight. Nour is sweet like jam, sticky on your fingers. Nour is soft like bedsheets, freshly warm, and nothing has ever passed his lips, not song nor rhyme nor stupendously late bedtime stories, but tonight, through a glowing screen and the tips of his fingers, he is poetry.

Nour looks like a memory, too, he thinks. A ghost. Like he spends every hour of the night entirely and irrevocably alone. 

Yes. That’s the word.