[ @inkscrawl for Raphael]
Sunlight is bleeding bright against the stirring of the pollen. Soft motes swirl lazily in the wake of life as it flutters and strives: the loud unending mumble of creatures unseen behind the darkening edge of the forest. Something beats a wing, just once, and a mist of nothing blooms for a moment in the endless expanse of light. Two men sit, half obscured by the grass, eyes watching well-trod worlds that the other will never see. The moon will come soon, to dance and weep above them. Until then, Harry settles back against the strong, broad body of his friend, enjoying the warmth of his arms as they curl around his own, holding the edges of their book. Raphael’s sight seems to dim in the long evenings, so instead the tales are spun in sounds and song.
Harry likes it this way. Weaving words for him, reading gently into the night, held steady in his arms. Tonight though, the pages are running out; the play drawing to its triumphant close as he reads.
“As th'art a man, Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll ha't. O good Horatio, what a wounded name (Things standing thus unknown) shall live behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain...”
Harry hesitates, stilling his hand where it had been softly rubbing against Raphael’s crooked knee. He tilts back his head, nudging his loosened hair against the scrape of his chin. “You remind me of Horatio, Raphael.” Just a murmur. “A man too often left behind, his heart locked firm in his sensible breast.” He sighs, the cruelty of an endless life, so full of constant loss weighing hard against him. He wonders whether Raphael will miss him, when the time comes that he can no longer battle the inching of hours that govern his life. He pulls on Raphael’s forearm, to lower the book, not wanting to finish the play tonight.
“Tell me again about the sun, Raphael?”
