chasing orion — pluto. & thurman. [blitz]
Apr 10, 2019 4:05:17 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Apr 10, 2019 4:05:17 GMT -5
PLUTO ROSENTHAL
Pluto Rosenthal had always been told that he was a god, with eyes as brown as the old forests from before and thoughts so wise he could very well be Athena’s right temporal lobe. He lived in empires crafted so intricately from his mother’s tongue and danced to odes and hymns she sang for him. The neighbors revered him and the maidens were setting up for a lengthy queue for whenever Pluto would decide to open himself up to love.
But the secret was: he already had.
Thurman Laws was the mortal he’d been warned not to love because mortals always stole a God’s divinity. Yet, Pluto Rosenthal couldn’t resist those doe eyes and soft hands and the poems he’d compose for him in the span of mere seconds. Pry Pluto’s ribs open and there would be Thurman’s poems he’d eaten whole stuck to the bones. Gouge his eyes out like sapphires and there would be a vast collection of images that the irises had captured of the man, each one as beautiful as the next.
Gods were rumored to had defects — like Achilles’s pink heel — clinks in their armors in which the arrow could easily pierce through and Thurman Laws was Pluto’s defect.
He stared at the other through dark lashes, tracing the line of his jaw that was made even sharper under the bold starlight. The night held a sky so clear that it could had been mistaken for a mirror, with clouds and stars astray across its expense.
The other had suggested stargazing, and albeit Pluto’s hatred of the night bugs and mosquitoes, he’d come along — like he always had, like he forever would. A loss of his divinity didn’t sound as grave as losing the other boy. “Hey,“ he whispered, nose brushing against the crook of the other’s neck.
“Pick a constellation for the two of us.” Above, the multitude of stars presented themselves to the two; he wondered which one Thurman would choose, the brighter or the farther, the shorter or the longer. “So that wherever we are, a part of us would always reside up there,” a palm dragged itself idly across the bright, coruscating patterns that swelled and shone, “in the sky.”
But the secret was: he already had.
Thurman Laws was the mortal he’d been warned not to love because mortals always stole a God’s divinity. Yet, Pluto Rosenthal couldn’t resist those doe eyes and soft hands and the poems he’d compose for him in the span of mere seconds. Pry Pluto’s ribs open and there would be Thurman’s poems he’d eaten whole stuck to the bones. Gouge his eyes out like sapphires and there would be a vast collection of images that the irises had captured of the man, each one as beautiful as the next.
Gods were rumored to had defects — like Achilles’s pink heel — clinks in their armors in which the arrow could easily pierce through and Thurman Laws was Pluto’s defect.
He stared at the other through dark lashes, tracing the line of his jaw that was made even sharper under the bold starlight. The night held a sky so clear that it could had been mistaken for a mirror, with clouds and stars astray across its expense.
The other had suggested stargazing, and albeit Pluto’s hatred of the night bugs and mosquitoes, he’d come along — like he always had, like he forever would. A loss of his divinity didn’t sound as grave as losing the other boy. “Hey,“ he whispered, nose brushing against the crook of the other’s neck.
“Pick a constellation for the two of us.” Above, the multitude of stars presented themselves to the two; he wondered which one Thurman would choose, the brighter or the farther, the shorter or the longer. “So that wherever we are, a part of us would always reside up there,” a palm dragged itself idly across the bright, coruscating patterns that swelled and shone, “in the sky.”
