#christophe

Sat on the bottom of his bed, Chris jotted away in one of his journals; stopping only occasionally when he thought of what to write next. As his writing got slower — inspiration steadily dwindling out — he eventually let out a sigh, and set the journal face-down on his lap altogether.

For a moment, his eyes scanned the room in synchronization with his thoughts; thinking and looking over every thing in the hopes that inspiration would return to him. But between the jar holding up the dying rose on the vanity ahead and the sheet music resting on the music stand in the corner, every word was lost about a maze with no map to direct themselves back to Chris; not even a mere directional instruction.

It was times like these, where he had to stop writing entirely; instead moving from the physical scribbles of ink to the intangible sound of voice.

"My angel of music," he called softly. Silence was the room's reply, though it did feel as though the walls were listening; always, in his mind. So he continued: "Hear me now — this dream of mine; an imagined tale from last night and years beyond; a hope and yet a fear for what will perhaps never come…"

Chris glanced down at his journal in hesitation, thinking back to the next part he had written.

"The dream I have each night, as you hold me in your arms. The days spent imagined — my kiss to yours. And how I long— the longing- for our hands pressed — tightly— together. My yearn for your heart to rest closely next to mine."

In his journal, the rest of the page then ran empty. Resisting the urge to pick the book up and stare into the depths of that blank maze where the words were endlessly stuck again, Chris tried to push forward by saying what came to mind first: the music stand.

"Angel…" Music. "My ears do so crave to hear your song once more; as do I urge— no…. As my voice too urges for a duet…. But not — alas; for from the start, it was only a dream and could be nothing more. Only a dream, no more; and no less…."

He looked out into the room once again. "What do you think?"

It was a much shorter ending to the poem than he'd imagined, but it felt like a good place for it to come to a close. Or at least he thought it did.

He sighed again; though not at the repeated reply of silence from the room. "Every time I express these thoughts in my journal, I fear I only write a fraction. Every word means ten times its definition, and yet even that is too little for it to mean what I need them to. 'Angel, I…'" With a frown, he grabbed his pen once more, and began to write.

Only it wasn't a continuation of the prose that came before, rather a much simpler rewrite just two lines below it.

If the ending was going to end up much smaller and simplistic anyway, then he might as well have rewritten the entire thing to match in the first place.

"My dearest, I dream of the night where you hold me in your arms; imagine the days where we might kiss. I yearn for your hand tightly in mine; and for our hearts next to each other, to rest. But that is all a mere dream compared to our reality. Here where the world wakes, I can only long for what has a chance to become. And so I hope that one day our songs will meet again; voices entwined as our hearts beat onward — hidden; yet side-by-side."

He paused. "Perhaps even that is only a dream…. So many long nights without your voice; as of late, my mind can hardly stand it. You plague my thoughts and yet you are gone. It's all too familiar."

Thoughts of his father entered his mind as he sat there, breathing deeply through the pain as he tried to push the thoughts out from his mind again.

Some days it was more bearable to think about than others; but no matter the time, the remembrance of his father's grave was 10 stabs to the chest all at once. It wasn't a pain he could die in either, rather one he felt in slow motion as the emotional blade dug through his flesh into the deepest depths of his very heart, and then wriggled its way out; its jagged edges getting caught on parts of his soul and ripping it into bits and pieces as the blade prepared for the next jab.

And that was just one loss of others. His mother; his childhood friend; and…

Chris opened his eyes.

"I miss you; and…" Scanning the messy words in his journal, all the phrases he could say were lost again; every inspiration having been put into the new poem. "I pray I can hear your song again soon. …. Please, God above, let me hear your song again. Allow me one more moment to dream; the nights where you hold me in your arms; the days where we may kiss. Your hand tightly in mine, and our hearts resting next to each other in synchronization. Allow me one more night where you are my love, angel."

Chris laid back on the mattress of his bed and closed his eyes for the last time that night.

"Please; my love…"

He held his journal close to his chest, mind wandering and heart still yearning; all the while never aware that from within the walls, they were listening.

———

Idk if this specific moment is gonna be canon-canon, but it totally happens.

These two stalk each other all the damn time lol