It is a dance of sort. Whence my form trod forward, he chanced an approach. Woolen clad footings stirred no echo from where both extremities supposedly met with grounds. Whether the surface was woods, hard concrete, Mother’s earth or soft rustling grasses was to be left entirely to men’s imagination and in this strange twilight where an existence of one man may not be consigned only to one axiom, the statement probably can never be more true. The sound stirred in mine, however, was merely a shadow’s haunting echo for a cat’s grace always is soft and silent.
Disregarding the lack of sound by which the other’s locomotion might be perceived, his movement was nonetheless noted. Akin to the wind currently toying through charcoal bangs and tattered cape alike was the manner one crimson cowl’s soft rustling bled into another — overflowing from mine to his where his form was once more led into mine. It is a dance of sort. Up until that particular instance of time, it had been mine to lead.
”None.” Was it owing to my own hesitation then that circumspect gaze should momentarily shift back, having sensed the weight of his chin on my shoulder? There, meeting the facade that could have easily be my twin’s, two effulgent pools of blood remained. “But men also make mistakes. Is a betrayal brought through good intentions and ignorance made any less evil?”
”Men are critical in their judgement — most of all, one directed toward self. Admittedly, I don’t feel human confronted with such.” Dismissing the argument entirely in one averting gaze, lithe build was on the verge of drawing away when a solitary motion of tongue tracing down the line of ear caused an abrupt cut in quiet exhalation, and perhaps if I have one, a heart’s rhythmic cadence. The discontinuation in one overflew into a small shudder that left midnight grip tightened upon the beast’s spine, a tension which was slowly eased with a release of air and hoarse basso.
“Don’t… do that.”
“…Why not?" His voice is a seductive whisper floating up the outer rim of his own ear, curling around this double and ensnaring him, much like the former’s arms. Sliding them around a lean torso, they tug the second to the first and hold him steady. Forehead dips to meet the shoulder in front, holding the form reverently. "Did I not…tell Rosso I was human?” A right hand slides up slowly, hesitantly, until it lingers beneath the cover of the other, just on his chest. The pastoral is not one to make unwanted moves; he prefers to ask first, to gain permission. This burden, these cloaks, they drag–and catch on everything. And still, he wears it. Sometimes, he likes the burden; sometimes, he wants to not forget. And then sometimes…he just wants to not remember. Such a v i l e creature is he, is he become. Demons, nightmares, u n w o r t h y. And yet some kids had thought him worth saving. Perhaps…he can convince himself of the same. “…What can I offer?” is the question, burning and simmering as his knees shake only slightly. “All of this hatred…to…throw it away for a time…what can I give you?” For who could love you, if not yourself?
sanguinesaint reblogged this from dellafine
dellafine reblogged this from sanguinesaint and added: