his feet are planted firmly on the ground but he feels as if he’s dreaming. with his neck craned skyward, romeo dalí looks at the purple tinged, constellation filled sky of the mageia house and stares in a flurry of awe and unworthiness.
this, a birthright taken for freedom.
this, something, too, that will leave in the end.
he closes his eyes to inhale the new scents of incense—deep lavenders, fresh citrus, sage—and he almost sways on his feet. it lulls him into a false sense of security, as if this place, hidden away from the world, could be home.
that thought terrifies him, sends pin pricks along his skin as if he’s just waking up from a too-deep slumber. and maybe that’s his new birthright. the irony of it doesn’t escape him.
he climbs the spiraled staircase until he reaches the top floor and slips into his dormitory. it feels strange having a room to himself, large and spacious, and the feeling it brings almost makes him feel claustrophobic. he inhales deeply before he throws open his window and climbs out and onto the roof. this, he thinks, feels more like home.
atop the roof, he already sees a figure. maybe he’s not the only one who can’t sleep, maybe he’s not the only one who all of this feels undeserved.
he says nothing as he takes a seat above his window, legs dangling off the side as he looks out over the grounds of the camp, of his new home. he’ll wait for the other to speak, first, in case silence is something they need, too.
