❝ I never quite realized…how beautiful this world is. ❞
when the sun goes dim, when its shine turns wan with darkness, moon hanging low as it drowns the world in a restless night, the mind all too often uses the heart as lamplight; sets it on fire, foolishly, in order to keep itself warm. his heart is a beast fed wolfbane; a withering thing that, although dying, shrieks in want. it terrifies him—makes him wish to crawl back into the putrid, blackened rot of isolation, of solitude, boundless and soothing; to decay in the silence of alienation which tranquilizes this turbulent screech. turns it limp. a corpse on the floor.
hideous.
he wants to run away. far—far enough to never be found. something within longs to weep, too; to wail until all the wounds close, until warmth is not the searing pain of a candle held so near a trembling hand. ( the voice inside him is relentless. cruel, with so many teeth. it hisses: you wanted love. now lap it up. years ago, he named it guilt, but it is some muted childish anger, too, and fear; all praying for the death of self. )
he wants to run away—instead, clenches his fingers tighter around theophilus’. grounds himself. it is a gesture most habitual; to reach in terror towards him, to ground his own trembling with his touch—oh, he always thinks of such horrible things, a snake devouring its own tail—until it is lulled into a distant calm, a vast hollow nothing at the center of the soul. in this self-hatred, he wants to say so many things, speak such blasphemous words: why do you stay, why do you waste your life, why do you look at me like i’m the light, why, why, why? what keeps you shackled to this soft, trembling body of mine, this bleeding spirit of something long dead? but settles on a momentary silence, on a strangled sigh, walking forward without a break.
vincent knows better than anyone else not to underestimate theophilus’ perception; he’s seen it firsthand, his intelligence, the sharpness of his wit. there are eyes staring at him, a deep, stunning violet ( he can’t quite remember, no matter how far he strains his thoughts—has it always been his most beloved color? ) but he does not dare turn, not quite yet. he quietly thinks of all the little things, making up the view of this night-consumed world; the smell of incense, the sweet clouds of warmth, the way his body, sickened still, shivers in the frigid wind… and how theophilus remains unshaken.
the pull of his hand is slight, near nonexistent, but he can feel it guiding theophilus’ step. ignores the soreness of his legs, the way his thighs ache with each step. barely there, numbed by will alone. ( he’s endured worse. far worse. ) in a tender gesture, vincent runs his thumb gently over his fingers, giving a delicate trace to each bony knuckle; he speaks with his touch, all but words, and with this he wishes to utter an apology—or perhaps a question? a request?
it does not take long. the small, man-built forest spreads in front of them; a lovers’ lane, by the townsfolk’s words. there are letters carved into each tree, words he cannot yet strain to read, not even aided by the dusk’s shimmering lights. names, he assumes. there are flowers bestrewn across, crimson red for most. early autumn. a garden not yet dead.
near-breathless now, vincent scours the area with his gaze, guiding theophilus closer to himself. he wants to run away. there is a tremor in his hands, brought both by exhaustion and an old, undying grief, which he chooses to ignore—and hopes for the latter to do the same. he is a sick animal. he wants to run away. the brisk, keen ice-pick built by the singing of the night’s frigid wind melts from within, overwhelmed by theophilus’ body heat, the way it envelops him in a soft blanket of love—he is a frightful jackrabbit hunted by a thousand wolves always, always, and he wants to run away, far, far away, into the endless forest, or heavensward, or onto the gore-slick floor of a butcher’s home.
he–
suddenly, there is the sound of a voice, his voice, and vincent’s thoughts still. he listens in intensely—their meaning strikes him as harsh as the sharpness of a dagger, its blade tearing itself into his heart: beautiful. it is indeed a world most beautiful, is it not? the breathtaking gifts of nature, warmed by light—albeit partially artificial—which grants it a heavenly glow, tasting of vehement ardor. a crack shatters his heart; but it is not that of grief, not that of pain, but of glee, of joy at the words, and for a split second he only nods, basking in the rays.
vincent unveils himself from the self-made cocoon of arms around his waist ever so slightly, turning around to face the one to him dearest—and for a moment, for the time being, he cannot hear anything but the whistling of air and the barking of dogs far into the world, all irrelevant. it is silent. the guilt, and the anger, and the fear, too; their seemingly endless song now beaten into the reticent hum of twilight.
there are different questions plaguing his mind, now: cordial, benevolent, stricken with love as he is. about beauty. and luminescence. it is brief, but he likens theophilus to the image of an angel as he stares into his eyes—how much he’d give to ensure they’ll never fall into stupor, to protect them from woe—until he realizes that there are pitiful little tears gradually spilling out of his own, sinking lower down the limp skin of his cheeks, melting the slight frost; tears both doleful and those of inexplicable bliss as he lets his bones settle into this fluorescent felicity of silent mirth. “ truly, ” he speaks at last—one word, first, to avoid a chisel in its sound. his hands climb higher up, until they’re on theophilus’ shoulders, cheeks, buried in the strands of his hair—a pleasant admiration arises in his soul; how beautiful he is, how elegant in this inhumane grace—and he raises himself to his tip toes in a rather pathetic attempt to combat the difference in their heights.
their breaths are now mangled together, dancing, dancing— “ yes, it is indeed a beautiful world. ” and one in which he might settle in, against all his fright. alongside him.
