#rapturei

it is a love song that does not end, that refuses to end, a tune frozen in eternal unrest—for a moment they are hallow and well-loved, for a moment they aren’t forsaken and are so deeply, vehemently alive. 

my god, it hurts! to be loved, to adore. it’s agonizing because it is not, in fact, something he could ever, ever hate, ever deny—for it is not pain, not ache, no. it is a sort of self-taught terror of surrender---in order to be loved he must relinquish his sick beliefs, allow for his mind to, at last, welcome healing.

to drop the knife.

to cauterize the wound.

to unmake the threads with which he had sewn himself into a person, with which he weaned something and forced its wan soul back into the vessel.

he knows that. he knows that. deep down, vincent is aware of the fact of his vulnerability more than he’s ever been aware of anything else. and he welcomes it. when the touch comes, he welcomes it—when the sensation of theophilus’ lips touches his own, he welcomes it. let it be damned, his own wayward soul. 

there are hands on either side of theophilus’ jaw, haggard, ravaged by soft tremors of exhaustion and bliss and hunger, a pure, old hunger that is known only for growing if untended. he can feel the warmth radiating from them, their gentleness, their love, their unadulterated love clear as a wild river untouched by mankind’s corruption-ridden hands and for once, for the first time, there is no hatred to be felt, no fear. 

i surrender. 

this body is ensavaged, it is a cementery, a monument built out of animal bones chewed into a pathetic alabaster tedium, risen back from ash to life; i surrender. he surrenders his corpse-self, his grave-dug heart, his limbs reanimated from asphyxia into warmth and breath. that which escaped the lick of flames. that which melted the ice. that which survived and endured and bore and grit its teeth.

that which now belongs, alive as it has never been.

rendered near-breathless, he pulls away if only a little and cracks open his weary eyes---oh, my angel dearest, my pale halo lover, my warmth, my sun. vincent has never seen anyone so beautiful---he will never see anyone of near striking beauty, not ever. part of him wants to trace every single inch of theophilus’ face---to, once again, draw it out in his head, to create a map of ardor that leads his steps towards home each time he veers in fright into the steep cold night. but there will be another time. 

when the sun goes dim, when its shine turns wan with darkness, moon hanging low as it drowns the world in a restless night, the mind all too often uses the heart as lamplight;   sets it on fire, foolishly, in order to keep itself warm. his heart is a beast fed wolfbane; a withering thing that, although dying, shrieks in want. it terrifies him—makes him wish to crawl back into the putrid, blackened rot of isolation, of solitude, boundless and soothing; to decay in the silence of alienation which tranquilizes this turbulent screech. turns it limp. a corpse on the floor.

hideous.  

he wants to run away. far—far enough to never be found. something within longs to weep, too; to wail until all the wounds close, until warmth is not the searing pain of a candle held so near a trembling hand.   (   the voice inside him is relentless. cruel, with so many teeth. it hisses: you wanted love. now lap it up. years ago, he named it guilt, but it is some muted childish anger, too, and fear; all praying for the death of self.   )

he wants to run away—instead, clenches his fingers tighter around theophilus’. grounds himself. it is a gesture most habitual; to reach in terror towards him, to ground his own trembling with his touch—oh, he always thinks of such horrible things, a snake devouring its own tail—until it is lulled into a distant calm, a vast hollow nothing at the center of the soul. in this self-hatred, he wants to say so many things, speak such blasphemous words: why do you stay, why do you waste your life, why do you look at me like i’m the light, why, why, why? what keeps you shackled to this soft, trembling body of mine, this bleeding spirit of something long dead? but settles on a momentary silence, on a strangled sigh, walking forward without a break.

vincent knows better than anyone else not to underestimate theophilus’ perception; he’s seen it firsthand, his intelligence, the sharpness of his wit. there are eyes staring at him, a deep, stunning violet   (   he can’t quite remember, no matter how far he strains his thoughts—has it always been his most beloved color?   )   but he does not dare turn, not quite yet. he quietly thinks of all the little things, making up the view of this night-consumed world; the smell of incense, the sweet clouds of warmth, the way his body, sickened still, shivers in the frigid wind… and how theophilus remains unshaken.

the pull of his hand is slight, near nonexistent, but he can feel it guiding theophilus’ step. ignores the soreness of his legs, the way his thighs ache with each step. barely there, numbed by will alone.   (   he’s endured worse. far worse.   )   in a tender gesture, vincent runs his thumb gently over his fingers, giving a delicate trace to each bony knuckle; he speaks with his touch, all but words, and with this he wishes to utter an apology—or perhaps a question? a request?

it does not take long. the small, man-built forest spreads in front of them; a lovers’ lane, by the townsfolk’s words. there are letters carved into each tree, words he cannot yet strain to read, not even aided by the dusk’s shimmering lights. names, he assumes. there are flowers bestrewn across, crimson red for most. early autumn. a garden not yet dead. 

near-breathless now, vincent scours the area with his gaze, guiding theophilus closer to himself. he wants to run away. there is a tremor in his hands, brought both by exhaustion and an old, undying grief, which he chooses to ignore—and hopes for the latter to do the same. he is a sick animal. he wants to run away. the brisk, keen ice-pick built by the singing of the night’s frigid wind melts from within, overwhelmed by theophilus’ body heat, the way it envelops him in a soft blanket of love—he is a frightful jackrabbit hunted by a thousand wolves always, always, and he wants to run away, far, far away, into the endless forest, or heavensward, or onto the gore-slick floor of a butcher’s home.

he–

suddenly, there is the sound of a voice, his voice, and vincent’s thoughts still. he listens in intensely—their meaning strikes him as harsh as the sharpness of a dagger, its blade tearing itself into his heart:   beautiful.   it is indeed a world most beautiful, is it not? the breathtaking gifts of nature, warmed by light—albeit partially artificial—which grants it a heavenly glow, tasting of vehement ardor. a crack shatters his heart; but it is not that of grief, not that of pain, but of glee, of joy at the words, and for a split second he only nods, basking in the rays. 

vincent unveils himself from the self-made cocoon of arms around his waist ever so slightly, turning around to face the one to him dearest—and for a moment, for the time being, he cannot hear anything but the whistling of air and the barking of dogs far into the world, all irrelevant. it is silent. the guilt, and the anger, and the fear, too; their seemingly endless song now beaten into the reticent hum of twilight. 

there are different questions plaguing his mind, now: cordial, benevolent, stricken with love as he is. about beauty. and luminescence. it is brief, but he likens theophilus to the image of an angel as he stares into his eyes—how much he’d give to ensure they’ll never fall into stupor, to protect them from woe—until he realizes that there are pitiful little tears gradually spilling out of his own, sinking lower down the limp skin of his cheeks, melting the slight frost; tears both doleful and those of inexplicable bliss as he lets his bones settle into this fluorescent felicity of silent mirth.   “   truly,   ”   he speaks at last—one word, first, to avoid a chisel in its sound. his hands climb higher up, until they’re on theophilus’ shoulders, cheeks, buried in the strands of his hair—a pleasant admiration arises in his soul; how beautiful he is, how elegant in this inhumane grace—and he raises himself to his tip toes in a rather pathetic attempt to combat the difference in their heights. 

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a garden, bloodied, endless. wordlessly he watches the way the flowers curl around strewn sinew and gore, the sweetsick red that had been pumped through battered veins by hearts most blackened—hearts most cruel, most dazzling in their barbaric savagery. hearts of beautiful monsters, yharnam’s own children, now sprawled whimsically to be faced not with reverent praise but with ridicule. still, vincent’s steps remain shallow, careful; respectful. he swallows back the bile, disgust materialized, as he strolls forward, skips past a rock too high to step over—a tad quicker in movements than theophilus, despite the nigh feverish state of his mind. puerile inquisitiveness laced with disgust, a concotion of emotions that had led him where he is, where he may remain until his last breath—or the wretched city’s, whichever comes first.

his gaze he keeps down, blind denial still sleeping somewhere within despite the oppressive stench of deteriorating flesh. he wonders if theophilus stares at it in awestruck repulsion. wishes to feel his emotions. to crawl inside of him, into the homelike prison of his ribcage, and sleep until the world is nothing but blankness and lulling blackout.

yet once the white petals in his peripheral bloom fully into shades of dark, consuming crimson, his thought process comes to a halt. he only barely contains the instinct to retch—but he prevails, instead opting to turn around fully, watching his lover with eyes clouded by a mist of illness.   “   it’s a grotesque sight.   ”   vincent notes, his voice only loud enough to be audible to theophilus’ ears.   “   … but one most curious, or so i believe. the hunter had told me of this place. they hadn’t—touched, by all means, a single beast, and their bodies, desecrated in ways beyond what we’re capable of—regardless how cruel—sing litanies not of death by our hands, but… by each other’s… or something bigger. stronger. a creature preying on the monsters of the dark.   ”   once closer, vincent reaches out towards theophilus in a manner near desperate—for comfort, to ground himself. the adrenaline is gone. he can no longer bear to see.   “   they had once been men of the church, before their bodies turned into… whatever it is that they became, thus i theorize that… whatever it was, it sought revenge, whether conscious or not. i wish to witness it. test it. the hunter had agreed to track it down; kill it. the sight, still… a thing so…   ”   he draws off, looking away. so terrifying. so repugnant, the sight of beast rotting upon beast, stacked as if as to demonstrate a sort of… wicked exhibition; brutality and decay grow together into a display beyond aberrant, beyond horrid.

      mon plus grand espoir.   what a forlorn life he leads,   basing all remains of his will to live on this grand,   worthless hope,   engraved into an item he holds so dear.   ahh,   hope   ...   stricken with illness,   to the core rotten,   yet still,   his eyes gleam.   his heart beats,   however weak,   to accompany each cracked breath cut short.   the root of this town is putrefying within him:   its hellish gift,   the comfort of blood,   of a life a tad longer at the price of sanity.   many give into that particular promise,   be it desperation or greed.   blood is faith,   it is life and death,   the beginning and the end,   the blood,   oh,   the blood   ---   the sickening stench of it still clogs his lungs.   the pain once salient quiets down,   numbed by its morbid,   soothing embrace:   it spells out the certainty of death,   but its sweet rot remains the only thing that keeps the horror at bay.

      it is pitiful,   really.   but what isn’t pitiful in yharnam?   what isn’t pathetic,   what doesn’t convulse in its own misery,   consumed by the agony of this town?

      vincent’s eyelids have fallen tightly shut,   only convinced of theophilus’ presence by the comfort of his warmth   ---   granting relief,   something so close yet so far.   mon plus grand espoir.   my life,   my hope,   my angel dearest.   it takes him a while to register his words.   the tranquility of the moment,   the way the silence lulls him to sleep,   all of it consumes his senses,   sinking his consciousness underwater.   slightly cracking his eyes open,   he grabs one of theophilus’ hands,   intertwining their fingers together   ---   his own terribly scabbed in comparison,   littered with papercuts and bites,   pallid and thin.   gentle touch,   gentle as ever:   it’s the particular tenderness with which one treats their person most beloved.   ‘   i know,   ’   he responds with a soft whisper,   no longer denying love out of fear.   ‘   if all else fails,   i have you   ...   and you have me,   forever true.   ’