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scattered sheets of paper in the wind; [ x ]

"One night he lost even more heavily than usual." —— JOHNATHAN SMALL, The Sign of Four

he would stumble into the streets, the strings keeping his limbs up and stiff cut loose for the night.

he was too late. too --- slow. he hadn't been able to save kratides.

the walls support him and he slides onto the ground, eyes colder than steel and emptier than his chest.

a dismal sky that was coloured with grey watched him.

#moralaesthetic #ic; moralaesthetic #v; tobacco smoke and fog

" -- Basil."

He pauses, and for the barest moment he is not entirely certain what to say. He is aware, of course, that he was supposed to have had dinner with the painter the previous evening, and more aware still that he had, quite without notice, abandoned these plans in favor of going to the club with Lord Henry.

Sometimes he cannot help himself; Lord Henry says the most wonderful things and is endlessly intriguing. Basil often says nothing at all, and when he does speak, it is nothing that particularly lingers on the mind.

He chooses not to mention the skipped dinner, and instead he offers up the most amiable of smiles, brilliant and beautiful.

"How long it's been, Basil! You must tell me what you are working on."

#moralaesthetic #[[ greeter ]]#[[ v: early canon ]]

#good #you deserve it

ooc. do i need to slap u

#moralaesthetic #I DI D N O T STA R T THIS F I R E

' what's it like to be alive? ' ( his voice seemed to echo through the half-empty room of the quiet house. there was a small moment of peace for the soul-keeper, in which he could rest, his arms were aching but there was still a smile on his face, even if it was faint. he knew it was probably best to leave the artist alone when he was at work, but he couldn't help himself, it was a question he had been dying to voice for so long--- )