❨ aftertaste ▰ cecil&anselm ❩
Jul 4, 2017 2:43:03 GMT -5
Post by gamemaker 🍒 maryn hale on Jul 4, 2017 2:43:03 GMT -5
[presto]
[/presto]
[/presto]It's been weeks since he last woke up to find Anselm's body stretched out across the foot of his bed. It hadn't troubled him at first, and his sleeping schedule had gone unaffected — but as the nights continued to pass, he found himself tossing and turning from the lack of another presence in his room. Visions have never haunted him, and his throat has never once tightened in reaction to true fear, but he still screams into his pillow until he's lost in a storm of a satin and feathers. And spoiled as he is — rotten and festered and left to flower from the bleached filth that has always surrounded him — he doesn't know how to handle having no one to console him from all the tiny terrors that plague his mind.
He wakes with a start, sweat trailing down his face and fingers shaking at his sides, and he wastes no time pushing his sheets off of his form and sliding out onto the hardwood floor. He holds his breath and doesn't calm himself. No one had bothered to teach him independence, so he grew familiar and content with the silver spoon that's always been held beneath his tongue. He chokes on it, but that's okay. His father told him once that the weight of the Salvatore name would get easier to carry with each passing year, and he prays that turns out to be true. One day the pain will leave him, and all the fractures splintering the marrow of his bones will close up, and he'll learn what Atlas keeps secret. Not today, surely, but tomorrow's just as close as a century from now. Why stress over time? Each second is a closer step to his grave, and the roses are calling to him. He'll want them yellow. His casket should be trimmed in gold.
Trembling hands are tucked under crossed arms as he walks to his destination. He hesitates by a white door and his toes curl in protest when they meet the steady rush of cold air that glides through its bottom slit. ( 'It's warmer in yours.' ) He purses his lips, thinks to announce his presence and to make sure that the room's occupant is actually available for company, but he's never been one for chivalry in his own castle. He enters with a dramatic gasp, chilled feet scuttling across the floor and legs bending at an angle that propels him into the air with a short leap. He crashes against Anselm's quilts and his twin himself, squinting to adjust to the darkness and laughing just childishly enough that it conjures some much needed warmth.
"Ansel," he starts, shortening his brother's name to a version that flows better alongside his own. "You weren't kidding, were you? It's freezing in here." He crawls under the blankets without asking for permission, so stubbornly used to getting whatever he wants that he's long since lost the urge to ask before taking. "What's been going on with you?" he questions, voice still annoyingly chipper for how late the hour is, but softer than its normal tone of obnoxiousness. "I think I miss you, Ansel. Where have you gone? Where do you go when you're not with me?" He remembers a fist in his mouth, and he swallows the memory. The two of them have a bitter aftertaste that's better forgotten.
( You've got a bruise on your jaw,
and I've got tired eyes.
Want to weigh our tragedies? )
He wakes with a start, sweat trailing down his face and fingers shaking at his sides, and he wastes no time pushing his sheets off of his form and sliding out onto the hardwood floor. He holds his breath and doesn't calm himself. No one had bothered to teach him independence, so he grew familiar and content with the silver spoon that's always been held beneath his tongue. He chokes on it, but that's okay. His father told him once that the weight of the Salvatore name would get easier to carry with each passing year, and he prays that turns out to be true. One day the pain will leave him, and all the fractures splintering the marrow of his bones will close up, and he'll learn what Atlas keeps secret. Not today, surely, but tomorrow's just as close as a century from now. Why stress over time? Each second is a closer step to his grave, and the roses are calling to him. He'll want them yellow. His casket should be trimmed in gold.
Trembling hands are tucked under crossed arms as he walks to his destination. He hesitates by a white door and his toes curl in protest when they meet the steady rush of cold air that glides through its bottom slit. ( 'It's warmer in yours.' ) He purses his lips, thinks to announce his presence and to make sure that the room's occupant is actually available for company, but he's never been one for chivalry in his own castle. He enters with a dramatic gasp, chilled feet scuttling across the floor and legs bending at an angle that propels him into the air with a short leap. He crashes against Anselm's quilts and his twin himself, squinting to adjust to the darkness and laughing just childishly enough that it conjures some much needed warmth.
"Ansel," he starts, shortening his brother's name to a version that flows better alongside his own. "You weren't kidding, were you? It's freezing in here." He crawls under the blankets without asking for permission, so stubbornly used to getting whatever he wants that he's long since lost the urge to ask before taking. "What's been going on with you?" he questions, voice still annoyingly chipper for how late the hour is, but softer than its normal tone of obnoxiousness. "I think I miss you, Ansel. Where have you gone? Where do you go when you're not with me?" He remembers a fist in his mouth, and he swallows the memory. The two of them have a bitter aftertaste that's better forgotten.
⚊⚊⚊
{ oh, the storm is raging against us now
if you're afraid of falling, then don't look down }
{ oh, the storm is raging against us now
if you're afraid of falling, then don't look down }
