giovinnyi x cryrus things you said with no space between us
send me a ship (accepting)
“Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” - Richard Siken, The Worm King’s Lullaby
In this dream he is looking at the stars. In the dreams he is always looking at the stars, but absence makes the heart grow fonder. In the dreams there’s always a mountain, but in this dream there’s carpet under his feet instead of snow, a window instead of the wide open sky
[Cigarette?]
In this dream it isn’t Saturn or Mars or Jupiter or Charon. Giovanni offers him a crooked smile and a pack of smokes, his dark eyes glinting with something that might be amusement. [Just one, for old times’ sake.]
He’s had this dream before, or maybe it wasn’t a dream, maybe that was something Giovanni said on his last business trip to Sinnoh, lounging in his Jubilife hotel room, window open, shirt six buttons undone...
Cyrus breathes very slowly or maybe not at all. He leans out into the night air, the cool metal of the windowsill cutting into his thin arms. [I don’t smoke.]
The lighter clicks. A hand smooths down Cyrus’s back, fingers lingering in the indentations of his spine, the hollows between the vertebrae. Giovanni leans out the window next to him, blows smoke into the night sky, gives him a sidelong glance.
Cyrus remembers this moment. The smoke, the stars, the hand on bare skin. This is the part where he gets the teasing the needling, the reached your emotion quota for one night, Cyrus? I think you’ve covered them all, exasperation, annoyance, lust--
[What are you going to do?] is what Giovanni asks instead, and Cyrus is caught off guard enough by the question that his composure flickers, surprise filtering through the facade and onto his face. He extinguishes it in the next moment.
[I don’t quite understand what you mean,] he says, carefully calm and composed, and then Giovanni
points out the window
and Cyrus sees blue sky and orange earth and a waterfall flowing upside down. The Distortion World is cold and quiet and empty but Giovanni’s hand is still warm on his back, and the sound of his breathing fills some of the void. What are you going to do? He doesn’t know. How long has it been? Giovanni snuffs the cigarette out on the windowsill, sighs, shifts closer, and somehow he’s gotten between Cyrus and the window, somehow he has his other hand pressed to the space where Cyrus’s heart should be. There’s a hollow there, there’s nothing beating, and maybe he was born this way, sick, he means--
[Doesn’t it get to you, being alone here?]
[I’ve always been alone.]
These aren’t the dreams he should be having. Giovanni’s eyes are dark and his smile is rueful. [Come back to bed.] In this dream, he does.
