graceless — adam. & beryl. [clue]

The name ‘Mr. Taupe’ resonated through the lonesome and derelict chambers of his heart he had thought to had been locked and inaccessible. That name was dead, burnt to ashes in the fire, and hearing it again was like seeing his former ghosts once more. Adam was the walking corpse of a once magnificent boy, the Icarus with the salt-stung wounds who crawled out of the sea alive but tattered. The wings protruding from his back were barely flesh and all bones, bleeding decay, and he felt a stark contrast between him and Beryl Fillis as they stood widths apart from each other. The dead and the young – side by side, hand in hand.

     Paradoxes, Adam mused, are humorous.

“It’s simply Adam now,” He stared at the other’s fingers splayed on his shoulder, and then settled his gaze back onto the other’s countenance. The boy was craved beautifully, from his slender fingertips to plump cheeks. If he was truly being haunted by the ghosts of his former life, Beryl would be the old Adam Taupe: grandiose and radiant. “But, I am fine with any name that you deem fit, Sir. Fillis.” Conquering Beryl Fillis would be the same as conquering his own ghost. Red lips returned his smirk – but Adam’s was hungrier, laced with greed and intent, fangs spread out like a beast’s.

His memories had become a large ball of yarn throughout the past few years, hopelessly entangled with each other, and Adam did not know where the starting and ending thread was. So, he was left to pick at the frayed bits, the loose ends, and the broken seams. He nodded at the other’s mention of their shared moments, despite not remembering any traces of it whatsoever; out of courtesy or deceit: he didn’t know which. He had mastered the art of pretend, of veiling his lies so tastefully that even the sharpest eyes couldn’t catch it.

     Beryl’s doe ones, streaked with warm
     bronze and amber, certainly would not.

“I do remember, though digging through the past is like treading in quicksand.” Chin lowered, feigning a mourner’s posture. In the last few moments before breaking the stance, he did mourn his losses but averting his gaze back upon Beryl softened the blow, insulated the jolt of pain. This boy and the handwritten invitation to Mr. Nox’s mansion was taking a step closer towards the glorious throne Adam once had.

Eyes drank in the red of his cheeks, the eagerness of his fingertips as they danced down Adam’s arm, and he caught those stray digits before they could retreat. His own fingers caressed Beryl’s, before interlacing with them. The moment power fell into Adam’s hands, again, he would never let go. He did not plan to let go of Beryl Fillis’ statuesque hand. The heated distance between them reduced, and the prey inched closer to the growling belly of the beast. “Do those fantasies live in your head, still? Because if so, I would love to nurture them.” Adam fashioned a grin and let his hunger show through the sharp teeth.

“Beryl Fillis, you can still be that prince,” he whispered, “and I could be the world for you.”