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He's gold tipped and tinted

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He’s gold tipped and tinted, even when he sleeps; a spiraling star wound and twisted and spun round Bruce’s heart.  He cannot be trapped and he cannot be tamed, but he can be led and he can be taught to channel all that energy.

There’s too much sometimes, bleeding out through tips of his hair that’s tousled so perfect it hurts to linger too long.  He’s always been that way, so brilliantly bright that people can't but help to fall prey to the laws of attraction and throw themselves into orbit around him. 

It’s something even Bruce himself is guilty of.  He’s ventured too close and could not let go, binding the fracturing beams of that boy’s smile to house.

He’d fashioned a prism to catch each stray beam, bending them and shaping them until they bounced uniformly from plane to plane.  Room to room, they lit and warmed everything in their wake.  It’d been—and still is—a marvel to watch as he entered a room, gathering the heat of their gazes to reflect one magnified a thousand times over to cosmic proportions.

And each mirror had been poised to gather every flare, ray and infinitesimal particle, and send them rebounding about the house because Bruce is selfish and could not—cannot— bear to let go.  He’s afraid of the dark and cold of his moon.  He craves the sun.  He’s dark without him.

But, the prism could not hold him forever.  There was only so much space for a scintillating sun. 

So it shattered, releasing every last ray and beam and star of him in a cacophony of lies and tears and harsh words that echoed in a series of screams through the broken halls.  He’d rocketed out like a comet and landed far, far away from the lonely moon.

The manor had gone dark then; bits of broken glass glinting dull in what little moonlight there was left.  Bruce was alone again and for a time it was alright.  He’d relearned his own orbit, gathered his own satellites, and spun on.

Then one day the lights bounced back, refracting into such a dazzling array of colors Bruce had been temporarily blinded.

He shined, more brilliantly than before, reaching far off into new galaxies.  Now there was no prism that could hold him, and the house lit up like a gibbous moon.

They swarm him—the satellites.  They take to his warmth and his kindness, catapulting themselves into his gravity.  He makes his rounds, taking care to divide himself equally amongst them—a ray, a color for each—but when he gets to Bruce he holds out his hand with a smile and they retreat to the dark side of the moon.

 

He’s gold tipped and tinted in his sleep; a celestial body in Bruce’s bed.  The curtains are drawn and the lights never see use, plugs pulled free of their sockets; the room is a barren moonscape.

No light reaches here.  There was never a need, for Bruce wakes with the sun, and his sun is right here.