#atmopshere

This planet has no surface. These are clouds. And you fall into them. And something like different states of atmosphere. With a different layers - it is different. And even something like liquid in atmosphere with metallic hydrogen. Because of high temperature and pressure.

Such a bizarre pictures - this is wind. And it draws such patterns. And it has a strong magnetic field. And there are blizzards, storms. And lightings strike. Stronger than at planet Earth. There are huge hurricanes there. And it is to draw a beautiful patterns made out of clouds.

Dima Link is making retro videogames, apps, a little of music, write stories, and some retro more.

WEBSITE: http://www.dimalink.tv-games.ru/home_eng.html ITCHIO: https://dimalink.itch.io/

The song comes to an end and the humming stops, leaving the space feeling emptier than before, though no less peaceful. You are left to find entertainment in the sound of the renewed downpour outside and you hope to yourself that he will actually sing, for his voice seems to be made for such things. Instead he simply lets out a sigh, and with the soft thud of a book closing he turns once more to face you. No words are spoken nor are any moves made as he stands there, leaning against the altar and looking at you as if he’s trying to commit your everything to memory. Another chill runs up your spine, though this time it is not caused by some underlying eeriness but rather the look of something akin to love in his eyes. 

It does not help that he looks somewhat fey in the soft glow of the candle light, delicate yellows dancing on his pale skin and illuminating just how sickly he looks, his cassock doing little to hide how frail he is. Like a ghost in the house of god instead of a man, simultaneously breathtaking and taboo. Perhaps it was his sickness that had led him to become a man of god in the first place, having hoped for some kind of salvation. Or perhaps it was something more sinister, devious. Perhaps you do not want to know. You wonder if he would be truthful about such things anyway. Not yet perhaps, when the relationship is still so new. 

Another heartbeat of silence passes before Fyodor moves, quietly making his way down the aisle. So quiet in fact, that if you were not watching his approach you would never realise that he was there, not until it was too late and for a moment you are grateful that you are no enemy of his. He comes to a stop by the row of pews you’re seated on and with a soft tone asks to join you, for he would prefer to be directly beside you when enjoying your company.

“Please.” You gesture to the spot beside you, bowing your head momentarily as you do so.

He takes his seat, and after a moment of what appears to be hesitance he moves closer, delicate hands grabbing your own and gently pulling them between the two of you, turning you to face him in the process. You note that it is as if you’re holding ice and he lets out a breathy laugh in response, telling you that you needn’t worry, it’s nothing you should be concerned with. There is a momentary beat of vulnerability in his façade as he leans forwards, placing a featherlight kiss to your forehead before pulling away, that peculiar look returning once more.

“Pray with me, won’t you dearest?”

Though he says it as a question, something in the back of your mind tells you it is anything but, that you have no choice in the matter. You do not particularly mind however, for you know such a thing is important to him and that his asking you is a confession and display of something deeper, something that could almost be made out as trust. 

A nod on your end and he smiles the same as before, as if he doesn’t know any other way. The grip on your hands tightens ever so slightly before he bows his head and closes his eyes, hair obscuring his peaceful expression. You follow his motions, allowing yourself to relax and bask in the warmth such an intimate moment provides.