APOLOGIES, HOW FOREIGN they still taste upon his tongue that spits nothing but bitter lies, how cryptic those two words are once combined & since he never knows what to do with them, his only option is to tell him not to say them. he doesn’t feel like there’s anything he should be sorry for, not after all the shit he’s been putting him through, knowingly, SELFISH to the core, leeching him & yet wanting to keep him safe from all harm the cosmos may inflict on him. he’s a little possessive of him & his burnt wings, it should be HIM to bring down the final blow, then ?
it should be ATLAS squishing him under his might, throwing him into the flame of the skies, beheading him with the sword of a knight ? he comes to his home like guardian angels do ; coming & going, their hands never touch, their nature injured by law, never to be set free. alas, all measure & all language you see is not enough to convey the tragedy. the half human’s edges become softened seeing him so unwell. his gentility is as ironic as atheists at their dying hour calling to an unknown power, ignorantly craved but craving him nonetheless.
it’s an ordinary gesture, a hug & yet knowing he trembles under that clothing makes Peter feel naked too. it makes him feel like a mere man with passive valor. he makes him feel like things he never thought he could be. like two ends of a compass they meet ; they are each other’s final destination despite it being for different reasons. after their greeting, he closes the door behind him & puts a leather gloved hand around him because he thinks he will FAINT at any moment. he knows that he might take it differently & he still doesn’t do anything about it.
how his heart twists knowing he kills him so ! how it makes his jaw clench as he leads him to the living room. he stares as they awkwardly make their way & that gun is gone for him not to be found any time soon. maybe tomorrow he’ll give it back. it angers him… it angers him that he still cares about him even in this situation. he cares about him while he himself is falling apart & being blown in this wind like choleric leaves of the ancient. Atlas will carry his body, but his heart is too d’ast wide for him to bear. it’s a heaven’s zone glistening with broken shards of shadows. it’s a beautiful mess.
❛ are you okay dude ? listen you’re pale as a ghost. let’s get you some water. forget about the bed for now. ❜
the sound of waves distracts him, like a drum beating in the distance, a coming racket of noise. faster. the water rolls brutally over his carcass and the deep throbbing of his heart stings beneath sharp and rigid bone, his blood splashing against the thinning marrow. DON’T ---- the heavens cry. please stop me, he replies.
his lips twitch as peter moves him about swiftly, shaking limps awkwardly fumbling about, barely registering the touch of fingers against his back - that is, a lashing whip of heat that makes sure he doesn’t tip and fall to the ground. to the abyss, where his tears sink every time they fall, salting the ocean he so keenly tumbled toward, like digging his own grave. the sea knows no mercy, like the sun and its selfishness ; the water is selfish, and he is selfish. all volume and no shape. to want to be molded into everyone else’s ideal. to be everyone else’s. and anyone else. above all, to surrender.
atlas takes the weight off his shoulders, but his chest still aches, his skin a fine tremble from falling off. he feels himself sway, watching the room spin though nothing moves, and he stills. his eyes flicker, a splash of color, a change in hue that DIES the moment he steps back and away from whatever SAFETY this knight had thought to give him. he wants to hide from peter, and quite suddenly he finds himself turning just the slightest bit away.
“ must be ---- getting sick, or something. ” entirely unconvincing ( what type of cure are you searching for with a GUN ? ). his voice trembles, breath weak in the quiet room. he doesn’t want to admit how scared he is, how terrified he’s not suppose to be ( he’s not suppose to CRY in front of his savior but oh, does he want to, and does he want to show peter just how badly he can’t be saved ). he can see ghosts alright, watching his own pale silhouette from the glass behind peter’s head. death is coming, he can feel it coming for him, again and again.
“ i need a -- i need a drink. ”
dededos
prguitarman
romaincrisis
gummygunk
discoholicmusic
stormborns
dailybridgerton
