it's fading, fader.

i feel a filth in my bones.

[tommosloueh]

[notheartbroken]

[mr-styles]

(x)

[l-o-u-i-s-h-a-r-r-y-deactivated]

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

[onedirection-slo]

[notheartbroken]

[tommosloueh]

[louisunofficial]

[tommosloueh]

+

[tommosloueh]

[mr-styles]

[mr-styles]

[killedad]

Hands find their way to tuck in against his own sides, curled up into fists for warmth, with the long sleeves of his sweater slipped down over them and looser-than-usual curls attempting to obscure his vision ; it suddenly feels sinful — the very thought of saying anything. So he just sits there in silence, and wonders after the tear trails streaking his counterpart’s sunken features — wonders at the complete lack of anything he could pin as an emotion residing in the hollows of his eyes during the brief lapses where he actually sees them. Perhaps there’s something about tragedy that draws Tragedy into it, like some sort of reversed polarity attracting the like rather than repelling it.

It’s painful, watching him — like nothing Elias can begin to describe.

Yet he can’t pull his gaze away.

He should be back at his too-small apartment, pulling the sheets off of his mirrors in the wake of her, and eating now that his shared body has starved for three days, and yet here he sits with the taste of wine on the tip of his tongue, wondering after the fragments of something unfathomable. Answers are not what he is waiting for.

[frailveneer]

Tolerance is a strange thing ; the way it develops over time ; the way it breaks. Logically, at some point, the emptiness will give way to a numbness, will give way to the agony of it, again. Then again, again, again. Such is grief. It is not new to him, after all. This, though, is.

It isn't all about this particular little death in a handful of many. It isn't just about the astronomical loss that has misplaced his sense of self.

He had love, buried deep in the confines of his bones ; he had hate, hot and ever present just under his skin. All this time, no matter how often his desire to be empty had taken over him      it had still been there. Some thing had been there. Some one. One thing or another kept his feet anchored to the floor. Kept him flightless.

                                                  Milo was the last tether.

And now      now, Wyatt's been stripped clean of it all. There is no love, no hate, no desire for anything. He is cold, weak, tired. Exhausted in every sense imaginable and then some but it's strictly physical. Logical. He drinks to stay warm ; to spark some kind of phantom something in a haze of barely there hope that it will keep him right here. He's flightless because he chooses to be ; because his frail body and crushed resolve fight the instinct of flight. What does he have left to chose over weightlessness? What does he have left to fight for?

His head lulls to the side, thumb brushing over the stained label of the bottle in his hands just to feel the roughness of the dried paper. 

He should have been a bit more careful, when making wishes.

It occurs to him now, as irony would have it, that he's hungry.

[frailveneer]

Wyatt's not even a person anymore. If he makes it to the otherside of this, he's not going to be Wyatt anymore. He's not going to be the same person. Not even remotely close. In any sense. He will be Different. like he was after Bryce in high school Different. That drastic of a life change. A completely different person.

[killedad]

There’s something in the still of this particular silence that keeps Elias’ words from flooding past his lips again, and he remembers, he remembers being submerged in something that could be likened to it — not the same, though. Never the same. There’re some things that simple cannot be replicated, even if they are capable of finding a particular kinship with another. Another wave of vertigo washes over him as he leans out to wrap his fingers around the extended piece ; perhaps it’s not a dream, but something more like a precipice. Like witnessing a natural phenomenon from high above it.

His insides stir, and Not now is a firm thought in his mind as he wedges himself in underneath the table ; makes sure so as to not disturb the edge with any part of him aside from his lips on his wine bottle. Then he hands it back.

[frailveneer]

Hands move on their own accord, sleeve covered and weak, smearing half dried tears trails from his cheeks ; they're starting to itch. His temples are sore, too, but his functions don't carry that far. He doesn't remember when he just started letting them fall ; doesn't remember when they stopped. Doesn't remember much in the whole three days aside from the two empty wine bottles land haphazardly on his kitchen counter     and the silence. He doesn't remember the last thing Milo said to him ; doesn't remember any conversation they've had in the blur of months that have passed. But he remembers what he said the night Milo proposed.

                             Until death do us part. If it even can.

Even if he wanted to speak, he's not sure he actually remembers how to produce a sound. Not even a whisper. Even his eyes are quiet. 

Hands find their way back to their respective places ; one at his side, while the other retrieves the bottle again. His body shifts just slightly, stiff from the long hours of nothingness that's taken hold of him. Habit makes the list of observations in regard to his company but even this thoughts have lost their voice. Monotone calculations ; times new roman check lists.

[killedad]

Maybe it’s because it’s his go-to ; maybe he just feels it somewhere. It’s not right that the flash of movement has him suspended, like red-stained fingertips out of his peripheral are such a brilliant splash of out of place that he can’t help but stop short. Mother’s words flash through his mind, a stray thought running rampant : ‘ if it doesn’t involve you, then don’t involve yourself. ’

                         Elias, of course, has long since quit listening to her.

There’s a shift in the atmosphere, a change in the weather, as he drops down with curiosity’s set to his shoulders ; the bottle that matches the stains stands out first and foremost, and only after he registers that, the curled in form that grips it. The sight of him ushers on the distinct sensation of vertigo — he feels like he might be dreaming. Maybe he is.

‘‘ Wine is what I always go for too. ’’

[frailveneer]

He doesn't have any words to give ; there hovers an air of perpetual silence which might indicate something close to forever. Wyatt might never have words again. Not written nor spoken. Nothing combats this kind of agony ; this sort of desolation ; this emptiness, much less explains it.

                                  Stained red is all he has left. Inside and out. 

But the sound does sluggishly drag his gaze, surrounded by dark bruises, upwards to unfamiliar features like a phantom movement. Wyatt is a ghost. Less than, maybe. A shell. Hollow remains of whatever human used to own the spaces between his bones, his beats. Organs only function out of habit, and even then just barely.

It's these functions that curl fingers loosely around the neck of the bottle and extend it. Misery loves company as much as it loves wine.

[frailveneer]

Wine stains his lips and his fingertips ; is smeared across the side of his hand from where he wipes his mouth when it liquor spills over the corners. He's hidden well under the ledge of the table, limbs tucked and curled upon himself.

                              How can someone so small be so destructive?

This is not his fault. There isn't anyone who blames him, as far as he knows. This is not his fault ; Rolly was not his fault ; Bryce was not his fault ; Caroline was not his fault. Milo is not his fault.

                             But then why     why is it that anyone he's ever loved                              winds up in an early grave?