are the promises strong? [angel/parson]

are the promises strong? [angel/parson] Jan 17, 2020 11:21:07 GMT -5

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Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jan 17, 2020 11:21:07 GMT -5

A few hours into the dance, when the prying eyes fell away from me, I tugged loose the lacy collar of my coat and let it flutter away, a butterfly of white lace ushered elsewhere by the winter winds. My eyes traced it as the fabric soared from the window and then get devoured by the dark, there and not there in a matter of seconds. How lucky, I mused, it can disappear without any trouble.

There was already a throbbing in my head, its rhythm that of a pulsating heart, but I had only drunk a few drinks. Ever since the resurrection, I found many other parts of me wanting alongside the lower alcohol tolerance, parts of me that seemed to had been rebuilt and made anew but remained hollow and cavernous underneath, unfilled and left empty. Some days, I am less boy and more a ravine, more a yawning chasm of black. It was both a wondrous and terrible thing: how a person can feel their own, aching flesh and yet see themselves as a husk.

Sighing, I emptied another glass and turned on my heel, facing back the golden dancehall.

When I caught a glimpse of his face, I wished I hadn’t.

Memories of him existed only in fragments now—some sharp and vivid, others grainy and smoke-like—but the mere sight of him put all of them back into sharp focus. I blinked and saw our slotted fingers, outlined by a paraffin blue sky. I blinked and felt his mouth agape upon my own, kissing, dull teeth and lips tasting of salt. I blinked and there he was, at my feet, a spear blooming from his neck as if it was an exotic flower, grey and red petaled.

I blinked and I was back in his arms,

my fingertips caressing the scar emblazoned to his neck, my body shrunken up against his own. There was a sob lodged in my throat, but I cleared it with a faux cough, accepted the offered drink. I wanted to kiss him so badly, in spite of myself, in spite of the many attempts I’d done to forget him. I wanted to kiss him and I did. He tasted of liquor, of a boy I once promised myself I would never let go. It was both a wondrous and terrible thing: how a person can make a promise and then break it without any trouble.

“I’m sorry,” Hands on his cheeks, I whispered against his mouth, tone a breathless tremor. “I’m sorry—I’m sorr—”

The tears came rushing out, undammed, broken free.