the lilac of bruises — achilles. & flint. [ ᴡᴇ ]
Jan 7, 2019 14:10:32 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jan 7, 2019 14:10:32 GMT -5
Broken skin and broken knuckles — there's ultra-violence between his white marrows, always humming and alive. He keeps it veiled and vaulted underneath a thick layer of skin but on some days, it lashes out, either at a pretty boy's jaw or a bottomed-out scotch glass.
Today is the latter, and the glass has been reduced to crystal splinters. It sits on the wooden floor like stardust, like powdered diamonds.
He thinks about sprinkling it over Flint's head as some twisted version of celebratory confetti.
Achilles doesn't know what they're celebrating about; he isn't even listening to the other's words, merely watching the subtle dance of his mouth with its roseate edges.
He's living a celebration everyday; each hour is a new year and each minute is a festival. It's better to celebrate than to wallow in intricate thoughts about trivial matters, about boys who rest on the floor like broken dolls after a brawl.
The victories in his wealth have always been hollow, he just refuses to acknowledge it. There's nothing else to romanticize about in boys who crave death other than the obvious.
There's an ache in his temples, the agony ranging on a spectrum between a bee-sting and a stampede, and it isn't even 3 p.m. He groans, rests his forehead on the diner's table, and basks in the afternoon sun, hoping the heat would alleviate it with some wrapped sense of thinking.
He's never been so sharp in the head, just a boy with obsidian bones, an unbreakable spirit and a handful of secrets to keep away from the world.
This is what a sad brag must sound like.
“Please stop talking, Flint.” A groan and a hiccup swell past his pout. “You made me drink that shot and now you're abusing your sobriety.”
Today is the latter, and the glass has been reduced to crystal splinters. It sits on the wooden floor like stardust, like powdered diamonds.
He thinks about sprinkling it over Flint's head as some twisted version of celebratory confetti.
Achilles doesn't know what they're celebrating about; he isn't even listening to the other's words, merely watching the subtle dance of his mouth with its roseate edges.
He's living a celebration everyday; each hour is a new year and each minute is a festival. It's better to celebrate than to wallow in intricate thoughts about trivial matters, about boys who rest on the floor like broken dolls after a brawl.
The victories in his wealth have always been hollow, he just refuses to acknowledge it. There's nothing else to romanticize about in boys who crave death other than the obvious.
There's an ache in his temples, the agony ranging on a spectrum between a bee-sting and a stampede, and it isn't even 3 p.m. He groans, rests his forehead on the diner's table, and basks in the afternoon sun, hoping the heat would alleviate it with some wrapped sense of thinking.
He's never been so sharp in the head, just a boy with obsidian bones, an unbreakable spirit and a handful of secrets to keep away from the world.
This is what a sad brag must sound like.
“Please stop talking, Flint.” A groan and a hiccup swell past his pout. “You made me drink that shot and now you're abusing your sobriety.”
