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Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
It didn’t occur to me that what we had might be love, between my thick-headedness and his adamant refusal to admit that he actually has feelings for fear that it’ll ruin him, there wasn’t much space for the idea of love to take root in our minds, but looking back, I can’t help but think that we’re a pair of fools.
Fitting, ironically.
He once told me about arcana and voices inside his head and whispers and promises of strength and advantages and how he needed to cultivate all those relationships just to ensure that he’ll survive (he said that he doesn’t really care for the others, but his nervous fiddling and jumpy gaze told me otherwise) and that I was part of the Fool arcana, which, at the time, angers me for some reasons unknown. I was probably jealous because he’s got these little special bonds with everyone else, save for the male SEES members, and I wanted to be one of them, one of the privileged few who shares a special bond with him. A quick shake of his head and a shadow of a smirk later, he told me that this way, I know that what we have isn’t fueled by his selfishness and his drive to be stronger, better. I was pleased, but that didn’t stop me from spitting out that I wanted to help him become stronger.
Sometimes, I wonder if they all knew that he’s just using them, and if they even care.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
We never went further than obligatory greetings and polite talks during the daylight. It’s strange, really, how we didn’t act any differently before and after. I guess it’s just one of those things that don’t have any place in the real world.
Deep into the night, we change.
If I were to tell you about one of our illicit trysts, I wouldn’t be able to. It’s not that I’ve forgotten the details, or that the memories became hazy with time, it’s just that time and actions are distorted. One scene blends into the next, almost overlapping and our fevered minds were too muddled with thoughts of more and not enough to measure time in anything other than little hitches of breaths and finally’s and the time between one jolt of pleasure and the next.
During battle, he’s all logic and cool intellect and careful planning and unrelenting savageness, and one would expect that he’ll be the same in bed.
He isn’t.
He’s all teeth and bites instead of lips and kisses and he tastes like sweat and musk and a strange blend of coffee and pie. He’s quiet as ever, but his walls are down (it always is) when he’s writhing underneath me with his hands curled around the nape of my neck and his eyes fixed on mine, allowing me to see them dilate and darken as pleasure starts to overwhelm him and also when he’s on top of me with that condescending smirk in place and his hands holding mine hostage and I was allowed a glimpse into what he desperately hides from the outer world. He doesn’t plead, doesn’t beg, he doesn’t demand anything. He seeks pleasure, release, an outlet for all his unvoiced frustration and nervous energy, and that frustrates me to no end, because I wanted him to want me as something other than this... thing for him to use.
He didn’t keep me on a leash, it’s just that I couldn’t help but come back to him.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time.
It wasn’t long before I started to mark the passage of time with the frequency of our rendezvous. Started about a month in, perhaps, or two. We always meet every nine days, five when something bothers him too much, and it’s an unfailing pattern, frequent enough to satisfy us, but not too often as to rouse the other’s suspicion.
The time we spent together was lost in a haze of raw need, mine feeding his, and vice versa. The tranquil afterglow never failed to fade too quickly for both of us, inevitable silent awkwardness taking its place.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I wished that his gravitational pull doesn’t suck everything in, leaving a void in his wake.
Whoever desired each other as we do? Let us look
for the ancient ashes of hearts that burned,
It was a fine, breezy day when I caught sight of him and that pink-clad girl, eyes downcast and his lips tugged into a semblance of a sweet smile, throwing a coy look at her direction, causing her to stutter and blush and to wrap her fingers around his. The tilt of his head screamed I like you and his shy demeanour added to that effect. He looked towards my direction, his eyes taking that slightly glazed look that only happens whenever I’m around.
The girl doesn’t seem to notice the calculating glint to his eyes, or the fact that every single one of his gestures are calculated, precisely executed so that her heart will belong to him.
I would be lying if I said that I didn’t leave the scene with a satisfied grin to my lips and an arrogant stride to my steps.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
On a drafty, cold winter night, he carefully side-stepped my advances, saying that he doesn’t want to cheat on his girlfriend.
After a relatively short, albeit full of drama, romantic advances towards the girl with fiery hair, he finally asked her out. She agreed, of course, what’s with the verbal declaration and whatnot, and I couldn’t help the rage that burned within me.
He was mine.
I sneered, my tone taking that offensive edge that I rarely used, insulting him, reminding him about how he used to scoff at people who act on their feelings, and how people like that are worthless.
I certainly didn’t expect the punch he threw at my direction, nor the cold, deadly gaze that stopped me on my tracks.
But then he pulled me to his room, snarling rules like don’t kiss my lips and I’ll kill you if you mark me above my collarbone and even don’t you dare try to put anything in me. I obliged, like the trained puppy I was. Anything, I remembered thinking. Anything as long as a part of him is still mine.
Later that night, with the afterglow short-circuiting my common sense, I asked him about what he’ll do if his girl sees those marks. He froze, not surprisingly, and calmly said that he’s not planning on letting her see any part of him that isn’t visible when he’s wearing his normal clothes, confusing me.
In the midst of my confusion, he gathered my clothes and shoved them towards me, urging me to hurry up, get dressed and leave the room, throwing a parting look and a sly girls dig guys who ‘save’ themselves until marriage at me before his door closed, obstructing his smirking face.
So that our dream might reply
to the sky's questioning stars
with one key, one door closed to shadow.
I could’ve sworn that I saw a glimpse of a golden gate and a statue guarding it right after he sealed Nyx away.
And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms
that push back the shadows so that you can rest—
I remembered the moment I recalled everything. It was as if a part of me had fallen asleep all this time, finally snapping awake just in time to fulfill that one promise. I raced up to the rooftop, harshly elbowing anyone that stood in my way.
Him.
I’ve got to reach him, before, before—
As the door banged open, its handle slamming onto the wall, I took in the scene before me. He was dozing on the living weapon’s lap, looking peaceful, ethereal.
That was the moment that I knew that he’ll be gone, soon.
Jolted out of shock by the other’s yells and laughter, I ran to his side, kneeling down, trying to wake him up. He’s a light sleeper, a fact that he hides from his peers just so that he’ll have one good reason to ignore their calls during the holidays. He wouldn’t wake up.
As I was about to tell the others that something’s wrong, something’s very wrong, I felt the faintest stirring from his direction, a faint whisper of glad you’re here and do you remember? And don’t forget me.
I took his body into my arms (what else could I have done?), curling my fingers into the hair on his nape, the wisps of his breath against my neck grew fainter.
The last of his breath tickled my skin as I was about to tell him I’m here, I really am and I do and I won’t and stay, with me, leaving a chill in its wake.