⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a continuation from this post, for @voxvulgi .
𝐈𝐅 𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒, 𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐄 — no, like a music box, dancing and dancing until the gear stops turning, and the music draws to a stop. The room smells of perfumed sweat and stale sex — and already, Francis knows that he and Adonis both know the rules of this game. They play the part of criminals, and now must cover up the crime that was committed simply by existing, for daring to feel. For daring to —
His mouth is slightly parted and his expression dazed. If he dare say the word ‘love’ now, if he dare even think it — what might happen next? The script has been written out for them — and to go against it would either be very foolish, or very brave — but neither of them will dare step out of this room hand in hand. There will be no climactic performance in which Adonis leaves his home and his wife to pursue the unknown. Francis knows this, because he also knows that while the prospect of love runs deep, fear might run deeper still. The thought of falling from grace, reaching for his golden cage as he plummets from it flightless — it’s a terrifying prospect.
So, what happens should one wake up from a dream to find it still in his grasp, hovering just on the edge of waking up, of harsh reality. Can one exist in a world where they know that they’ve lost love? What happens if the glass slipper isn’t offered to the princess? What happens if the prince hesitates on true love’s kiss? What happens if they both decide it’s just too hard? What kind of story follows. Francis doesn’t want to know. He’s always loved fairytales far too much for reality to get in the way.
Adonis’s hand is soft against his, gentle as he’d been with the keys on the piano the night before, and Francis can’t help but allow his long, cool fingers to curl around the warmth that his lover promises with such a touch — even knowing that it’s a promise that cannot be kept.
He watches, almost still as Adonis — still unclothed, still beautiful — tries to slip into the veneer of ‘son to be proud of’ or, perhaps it is ‘the perfect husband’. And Francis should seize the moment and fight for love, as all great heroes do. He can still hear the music passing Adonis’s parted, kiss-swollen lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each note tugged from him. He can still see the way that he’d shone in the dim light like a god. Francis can still feel that body pressed so intimately to his — taste his skin, feel his body give in as it had fallen apart in Francis’s arms. Where he belongs.
Adonis makes his plea, and Francis can feel his chest heave with the weight of his heart. His chest has been too heavy for such a long time now. He’s carried the world for so long, and he just wants to put it down. To put it down and go back to bed — to cradle Adonis and smile rather than shed tears that they’ve found something divine that feels like the greatest secret of the Universe.
His hair is still a mess, wild with blond curls and it feels wrong to have to play a part before he’s had a chance to put himself together. He just wants to hold the man crying so desperately to just let the mask drop. Adonis has only just stood up, and Francis reaches up, pulling him back down and cradling his head against his chest, against his wrecked heart — because he’s already been so vulnerable that there’s no turning back now. “I see you,” he says, pressing his lips to a mess of hair, “You don’t have to be sorry. For a moment, we were somewhere else; but now we’re here. I will keep this close to my heart, and you will be safe.”
