bathe me in blue moons — cade.
Apr 2, 2019 22:28:24 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Apr 2, 2019 22:28:24 GMT -5
► ► ►
"your hands are so cold," he says, climbs over the bed and presses them against the metal of the radiator.
it's right under the window, sputtering on and off like a song through radio static and you can feel the odd juxtaposition of being hot and cold at the same time; the shortness of a winter draft staving off a lifetime of body heat.
he pulls you to the floor and pushes your hair back, touches your eyebrow, your jaw, your neck, watches your shoulders shake from something that isn't the chill. he traces the slope of your nose and you can hear the lull of his voice when it drapes over you.
he is made of war, stronger than you'll ever be, with almost two decades worth of decay in his eyes. there's a broken lullaby in his smile and he's made a living off of people like you.
your wrist turns over and he's already there, brushing a thumb over the bruise that keeps shifting colours like a kaleidoscope, spills over the span of your skin and drips to the floor.
it hurts to look at.
"isaiah" you say, quiet in the slants of sunlight. there are stars in your vision and violets curling from his chest, blooming and burning and then blooming again. you don't remember lighting a candle but there's one on the table, sitting too close to the curtains, it feels like there's liquid filling your lungs and when you try to say his name again all that comes out is a sigh.
he must take it as some kind of affirmation, steady when he finds your pulse and leans forward, traces the knobs of your spine and
oh
this is familiar.
this is the scripture carved into your back, premonitions and fading skylines, everything that stays buried. the things we don't talk about, it's a broken inheritance, stardust spilling from slanted cursive, a crack in the universe that turns you black and blue and red, empty air, cat scratches two inches too deep -
you know this feeling, you think. you know this story, this is something familiar.
this is a blind eye, a knife in your back to match your mother's.
this is
quiet.
a sound like candle-wax melting.
"welcome back," he whispers into your palm, arms tight around your waist, "i've missed you."
there are thorns stuck to his skin, ice in your hair and flames licking at your backs but you can't scream because there's blood in your mouth and and this isn't real.
"calm down, cade," he says, smoothing over a scar that never healed quite right, "it's almost over." because there are tremors crashing through your body and he thinks it's just another bad trip but you know something is wrong.
there's a flash of colour, a kodachrome slide all fuzzy around the edges, an image of little girls giving out flowers and knees giving out to snow and linoleum.
it's the same feeling as when you tried to get clean for the third time, locked the front door to keep him out but he had just climbed in through the window instead, stepped across the floorboards in time to keep you from stumbling and cracking your head open.
there are flames touching the curtains now and you can see a blur of a boy, the harsh fluorescents of a rooftop, a sun burning, three supernovae and one fading star, four lines of liquid flame that made the air ripple the same way your reflection ripples underwater. you can see how the curtains catch fire and bring the same smell of something burning, cloth, hair, skin, fuck, stop stop st-
was it worth it.
you can see the blood on his hands when he pulls away, smell the ash and the pine on the air when you tell him, "it hurts."
and he pulls the red from his skin like flower petals, looks past you, takes his fingertips and brushes your eyes closed,
"you're dying,"
you don't understand
"it's supposed to hurt."
why are you doing this to me, you try to scream, but all that comes out is a strangled sound that gets hushed, something splintering in your throat, why did you leave me fuck you fuck fuck youfuckyo uf uc k yo
the sky burns and
you can hear the trees sigh.
light glints off of the metal bedpost.
maybe it would've been easier to just throw yourself off that fucking mountain.
because this is ice and fire and nothing you've ever felt before. no one could ever make up their mind on whether hell was hot or cold but now the next time you see your father you can tell him that it's both.
there's a vertigo spell, something cracking in the empty space of your skull and the window is open, letting the snow drift in where it settles between your fingers with a kind of burn that doesn't make it past the elbow, a numbness where the clench of your hand feels like someone's holding it.
"i want to go home," you say.
his hands fall to your chest and press down, searching for something, "you don't have one."
( you're a part of the winchester family now.)
you feel your breath hitch when he pushes harder, when he catches the hands you try to shove him away with, "i want to go home."
maybe you've grown in the past six days, gotten older in the same way water flows, slow, gradual and then all at once, becoming a little less selfish and a little more careful. you think of your parents, of learning to walk and then being forced to run, how they both must've thought you were long gone before your name got called, as if you didn't have the same survivalist blood seeping from your veins. you think of seven years of second chances, every story your mother ever told about the man who broke her heart.
you think of how cade riene was born to die.
because you were limitless once, surrounded by two dozen people who could never remember your name but will still sit on their broken little stools and watch their flickering little screens, clasp their hands together and say, he was alive once, you know, nod their heads slow enough that the room will just barely spin, grab their own shoulders for balance and tell someone on the other side of the street, i knew him.
but there's still an unmarked grave out there that you staked your claim on years ago, somewhere quiet, away from the brick alleys and the broken windows where you grew up. it's out of the way, land barely tread, and when the spring starts to melt it's the first place where flowers break through the snow. there's no one waiting.
it's fitting.
you will be forgotten in a year and all that will be left of riene is the ghost stories that junkies from three will tell each other before going down your alley.
and you've never been anything but a story. a handful of broken bones, circumstantial evidence and boot prints in the snow. you've never been anything but a liar. the echo of some kind of twisted revenge story; you've outlived your lifespan by so long that it must be in your genes.
you were weak then and you're still weak now, so cosmically significant that it makes your throat ache. a boy from three, a setback, who holds his breath and pretends to drown, stuck in a universe that contracts and collapses in on itself until there's nothing left.
"i thought you wanted t-"
"isa, please."
"alright." he says, and the weight on your chest shifts, sends vibrations into your sternum. "alright, i've got you."
and you fall apart so easily, break and burn and bleed, blink away the snow caught in your eyelashes. there's a tiny body of down fur and limestone claws resting over your heart, disgruntled and grumpy. arlo is there and that wonderful idiotic fuck of a cat only blinks at the shaky broken sound coming from your ribcage, loud in the sudden stillness.
you taste saltwater and cedar and a million other things that you could never put a word to, feel the weight of something closing in because you are the aftermath; something final. like the rain that washes away sidewalk drawings, a pulled curtain, falling down five flights of stairs and landing six feet under.
you are rosewater and stained-glass, shattered enough times that there are a pair of hands in your peripherals who know exactly how to put you back together.
"let's start over."
and so they do.
it's right under the window, sputtering on and off like a song through radio static and you can feel the odd juxtaposition of being hot and cold at the same time; the shortness of a winter draft staving off a lifetime of body heat.
he pulls you to the floor and pushes your hair back, touches your eyebrow, your jaw, your neck, watches your shoulders shake from something that isn't the chill. he traces the slope of your nose and you can hear the lull of his voice when it drapes over you.
he is made of war, stronger than you'll ever be, with almost two decades worth of decay in his eyes. there's a broken lullaby in his smile and he's made a living off of people like you.
your wrist turns over and he's already there, brushing a thumb over the bruise that keeps shifting colours like a kaleidoscope, spills over the span of your skin and drips to the floor.
it hurts to look at.
"isaiah" you say, quiet in the slants of sunlight. there are stars in your vision and violets curling from his chest, blooming and burning and then blooming again. you don't remember lighting a candle but there's one on the table, sitting too close to the curtains, it feels like there's liquid filling your lungs and when you try to say his name again all that comes out is a sigh.
he must take it as some kind of affirmation, steady when he finds your pulse and leans forward, traces the knobs of your spine and
oh
this is familiar.
this is the scripture carved into your back, premonitions and fading skylines, everything that stays buried. the things we don't talk about, it's a broken inheritance, stardust spilling from slanted cursive, a crack in the universe that turns you black and blue and red, empty air, cat scratches two inches too deep -
you know this feeling, you think. you know this story, this is something familiar.
this is a blind eye, a knife in your back to match your mother's.
this is
quiet.
a sound like candle-wax melting.
"welcome back," he whispers into your palm, arms tight around your waist, "i've missed you."
there are thorns stuck to his skin, ice in your hair and flames licking at your backs but you can't scream because there's blood in your mouth and and this isn't real.
"calm down, cade," he says, smoothing over a scar that never healed quite right, "it's almost over." because there are tremors crashing through your body and he thinks it's just another bad trip but you know something is wrong.
there's a flash of colour, a kodachrome slide all fuzzy around the edges, an image of little girls giving out flowers and knees giving out to snow and linoleum.
it's the same feeling as when you tried to get clean for the third time, locked the front door to keep him out but he had just climbed in through the window instead, stepped across the floorboards in time to keep you from stumbling and cracking your head open.
there are flames touching the curtains now and you can see a blur of a boy, the harsh fluorescents of a rooftop, a sun burning, three supernovae and one fading star, four lines of liquid flame that made the air ripple the same way your reflection ripples underwater. you can see how the curtains catch fire and bring the same smell of something burning, cloth, hair, skin, fuck, stop stop st-
was it worth it.
you can see the blood on his hands when he pulls away, smell the ash and the pine on the air when you tell him, "it hurts."
and he pulls the red from his skin like flower petals, looks past you, takes his fingertips and brushes your eyes closed,
"you're dying,"
you don't understand
"it's supposed to hurt."
why are you doing this to me, you try to scream, but all that comes out is a strangled sound that gets hushed, something splintering in your throat, why did you leave me fuck you fuck fuck youfuckyo uf uc k yo
the sky burns and
you can hear the trees sigh.
light glints off of the metal bedpost.
maybe it would've been easier to just throw yourself off that fucking mountain.
because this is ice and fire and nothing you've ever felt before. no one could ever make up their mind on whether hell was hot or cold but now the next time you see your father you can tell him that it's both.
there's a vertigo spell, something cracking in the empty space of your skull and the window is open, letting the snow drift in where it settles between your fingers with a kind of burn that doesn't make it past the elbow, a numbness where the clench of your hand feels like someone's holding it.
"i want to go home," you say.
his hands fall to your chest and press down, searching for something, "you don't have one."
( you're a part of the winchester family now.)
you feel your breath hitch when he pushes harder, when he catches the hands you try to shove him away with, "i want to go home."
maybe you've grown in the past six days, gotten older in the same way water flows, slow, gradual and then all at once, becoming a little less selfish and a little more careful. you think of your parents, of learning to walk and then being forced to run, how they both must've thought you were long gone before your name got called, as if you didn't have the same survivalist blood seeping from your veins. you think of seven years of second chances, every story your mother ever told about the man who broke her heart.
you think of how cade riene was born to die.
because you were limitless once, surrounded by two dozen people who could never remember your name but will still sit on their broken little stools and watch their flickering little screens, clasp their hands together and say, he was alive once, you know, nod their heads slow enough that the room will just barely spin, grab their own shoulders for balance and tell someone on the other side of the street, i knew him.
but there's still an unmarked grave out there that you staked your claim on years ago, somewhere quiet, away from the brick alleys and the broken windows where you grew up. it's out of the way, land barely tread, and when the spring starts to melt it's the first place where flowers break through the snow. there's no one waiting.
it's fitting.
you will be forgotten in a year and all that will be left of riene is the ghost stories that junkies from three will tell each other before going down your alley.
and you've never been anything but a story. a handful of broken bones, circumstantial evidence and boot prints in the snow. you've never been anything but a liar. the echo of some kind of twisted revenge story; you've outlived your lifespan by so long that it must be in your genes.
you were weak then and you're still weak now, so cosmically significant that it makes your throat ache. a boy from three, a setback, who holds his breath and pretends to drown, stuck in a universe that contracts and collapses in on itself until there's nothing left.
"i thought you wanted t-"
"isa, please."
"alright." he says, and the weight on your chest shifts, sends vibrations into your sternum. "alright, i've got you."
and you fall apart so easily, break and burn and bleed, blink away the snow caught in your eyelashes. there's a tiny body of down fur and limestone claws resting over your heart, disgruntled and grumpy. arlo is there and that wonderful idiotic fuck of a cat only blinks at the shaky broken sound coming from your ribcage, loud in the sudden stillness.
you taste saltwater and cedar and a million other things that you could never put a word to, feel the weight of something closing in because you are the aftermath; something final. like the rain that washes away sidewalk drawings, a pulled curtain, falling down five flights of stairs and landing six feet under.
you are rosewater and stained-glass, shattered enough times that there are a pair of hands in your peripherals who know exactly how to put you back together.
"let's start over."
and so they do.
--
{ chaos comes and
collects the youth. }
{ chaos comes and
collects the youth. }
lyrics from mormor's heaven's only wishful
title from king tuff's raindrop blue
table by fox
