Orpheus had met her eyes. That was that. Her back hit the floor, life draining. Death came quick, no use feigning what Hades said upon his throne where he sat. "Do not look back," Hades had said, and her love marched to those words in his head. The last step, he turned in despair. If he loved her less, he wouldn't have dared.
So she wakes up again in the dark of the Hells. The sobs wrack her body for hours on days. Orpheus, my sweet, you met my gaze and where there should've been joy, there were knells. Gods, it is chilling and black as the night but she knows she is loved, so she doesn't fight. Eurydice walks where the road doesn't curve. It is easy to get lost in the Underworld.
The coffee shop is uncomfortably quiet and unbusy, a thunderstorm tearing its way through New York streets beyond the window. Julia and Wes have been split up for quite some time, but when he sends one of his handwritten letters, smelling like vanilla, enclosed with a flower, how can she possibly say no? How sweet he is.
Julia isn't cold. She doesn't fight or yell. After all, she hasn't been mistreated or cheated or abused. Wasn't she the one who ended things, once again? When she sees Wes, she even smiles. She relishes that he crawls back each time. It makes her feel loved. She doesn't know why, and she hates that she drives him away only to lure him back; he doesn't deserve that. But it's been so long that this is the only way she knows how to nurture a relationship.
He takes a chair opposite her, nursing a hot chocolate and running a hand through his hair, which is a dark, nutty red threaded with grey. His grey eyes are tired, but happy, she thinks. Unusual. Even when sitting, he still gives the stretched impression of one very tall. Awkwardly. he shakes her hand and avoids her eyes. He's adorable, Julia smiles to herself.
"I know I'd regret it if i didn't say it right now," Wes starts, eyes still trained somewhere over her shoulder. Here it comes, she thinks, smiling and shuffling in her chair. Yes, my love, tell me you want me back. Tell me-
"I've met someone."
Oh. It is like a punch to the gut, wind knocked out of her. She can barely speak. When she finds the words, she musters the soul to break the eye contact and chase a tear from her cheek. "I didn't.. You- How long ago?"
Wes clicks his teeth. "A month. But we're not steady yet." He takes her hands, and the connection is electric. Julia had forgotten how much she loved this. Loved him. He speaks softly to her. It is not romantic, but friendly and kind. "It felt right to let you know. To.. officially end things, as it were. I just.. can't keep waiting to be picked up again forever."
She knows this is his right, that she's pushed the limit too far and he deserves better than that. It doesn't hurt any less. He tries to look upset, but he's more calm and present than he ever was with her. What is so wrong with her?
Julia gently wrenches her hands away and looks him in the eye. He doesn't look away. She says matter-of-factly, as if she's been holding her breath, "I love you." He only smiles at her sadly.
"I've been dumb. But not anymore. And I'm hoping," he says, standing up. "That you will be happy. We deserve something better."
Julia watches him go, heart thumping. Is this heartbreak? He turns over his shoulder when he leaves, "I love you too." And he is gone.
Dawnbreak casts a veil of pale autumn sun across the banks, a mist grazing the horizon. The cracks of a river splits the plains into two, gently washing up against the waterside. Salt-encrusted cliffs circle the open valley, a waterfall tumbling down, down, off the edge and crashing softly into the river. The world still sleeps - almost.
Bonaventure is running. He is not sure how long it has been, but something has been on his trail for quite some time. He knows it, feels it; senses the bone-chilling presence that raises the gooseflesh, tastes something sour in the air not of the mountain breeze. He had always been connected to a beyond, something more than the threads of mortal life, but this was overwhelming, so large a revenant that he is repulsed. And yet, there is familiarity. In the terror, there is a fondness, smells and noises from his past. Memory.
The reeds crawl against his smeared shins as he reaches the glittering, muddy shore. He feels the presence stutter to a halt like a flame going out, eddying away as sure as the waves of the brook. Water. Would the water keep him safe for good? Free him of the torment of the spirit? Never had he encountered such a threatening, repugnant spirit. Never had one clinged to him so far.
He takes the respite in mental warfare heavily on his shoulders, like iron weighing down on him, until he sinks into the tallgrass. The white undergarments are soaked in mud, fresh from the bed, as Bonaventure had flown in terror from his room in the dead of night.
He catches the reflection eye of himself on the river surface. Two eyes, dark, tired, a head of golden curls, a crooked nose, pale lips. Everything is there. But something is wrong. Too much of it, he thinks, like a smile with too many teeth. Perhaps it is the haziness of the river reflection. Does he see wrong, when his spirit self appears behind him? He thinks, he has more in common with the dead than he thought.
When I was eleven, I kissed a boy.
We starred in the school show.
He was bold, I was coy.
His name was Matteo.
After the play, we met backstage.
Did I know what it meant
to kiss a boy at that age?
The detention was well spent.
He left school before long.
My heart ached, not to know why.
I knew how I felt was wrong
that I was in love with a guy.
Years and years away, I'm a man.
A wife with child, a house.
There's no love left in this lifespan
when nothing meant my vows.
Even mature of boyhood, I dream
of the dark of him, his lips, his hair.
In his eyes, the thrilling gleam.
To love a boy, I do not dare.
But something stirs, a drunken night.
I stumble street to street.
A young man bathed in street lamp light.
Inviting lips to meet.
We kiss and Matteo strikes my mind,
the fantasy of years ago.
In bed, I realise I've been blind
to things that I want so.
The jutting hips, carved arms.
The Adam's apple, angular jaw.
His tired eyes, endless charm.
They leave me wanting more.
A part of me that's locked away
revived, alive, and found.
I'm sorry, wife, I must not stay
when what's lost is now around.
Vita, Vita, belle of the night, The maddening beauty; source of my plight. Though beautiful, inattentive and leaves me cold. A darker nature takes its hold. I follow her to a dusky den. I see her speak to other men. Harlot! Harpy! She's mine alone. So when she's done, I follow her home. She slips into bed, but so do I. She fights my love with a prey-like cry. Dead and buried, but undoubtedly mine. And so, Mister Policeman, that is my crime.
Pale streams of sunlight split the room into soft chiaroscuro. The summer turned slowly to fall, leaves afire and crisp in the autumnal air. They were closer than ever to the sea here, a wish of Marin's, of course - the water washed against the pierside beyond the window, bringing a soft squall smelling of salt and citrus.
Marin was in stage four. Her otherwise fair skin took on a light amber tone, as had the whites of her eyes. She had started to have trouble breathing, the sound of air dragging its way out of her lungs more frequent these cold days. The doctors had said any day could be her last. Albie barely heard it; he couldn't hear it.
He had spent the subsequent weeks by her side, ever the loyal husband. Devotee. They said there was nothing that could be done, that the healthiest course of action was to keep her company, keep her happy, in her final weeks. He knew that. He didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything at all, mostly, but temporary elation, just knowing she was still alive. For now.
Today was a good day for her. She woke up earlier than what was usual, the sunken cheeks of her beautiful face lit by the late August sun. Her eyes were bright and aware, still with that discerning glint in which you knew she was incredibly clever. Albie could only admire her, even in this waking nightmare. How could he not? His wife, his wonderful companion. The pearl of his sea. Moon of his sky.
Marin smiled at him when she awoke; the adoration blew through his very bones, in an instant. They were too young for this, surely. Too young to be counting down the days to the end of everything. What God could befall such a fate to the mere lovers they were?
"Chéri," she breathed, hair all abloom upon the pillow. "Play a game with me, will you?" Her fingers weakly found the edge of the chessboard by her bed.
Albie smiled, a wan thing but something that hadn't occurred to him in weeks. "Of course, old girl."
He knew he would not have to let her win. She could do that herself, easily. That was one of the things he loved most about her, her dangerous intelligence - her wit, her charm. The chess game was a tradition they kept since they first fell in love. And so, their last began in the sheets of her hospital bed. Her deathbed, no less.
When they played, Albie had hardly watched the chessboard, in truth. He studied his Marin, drinking in her features, memorising every freckle, every curve of her cheek or brow. The traces of the woman she was before cancer. Her sharp, muddy-green eyes. Her hands, the chipped red varnish, the harp callouses. How he loved her.
She won, of course she did. With a giggle, wonderfully youthful and sweet, she hoisted herself up.
"Mar! What are you doing?" Albie exclaimed, gently pushing her back to bed to no avail.
"Chéri, stop," Marin simply smiled. And he did. "We don't have long." She held out her trembling arms, open to receive a dance partner.
Albie could barely breathe. Then, he knew he was grieving something that was not yet gone. No matter time, no matter universes - Marin was alive, and that was all he needed. He took her hands.
The room was warm and quiet, the cries of distant gulls and the gentle crashing of waves the only sound for miles. They swayed to no music, just their breathing and heartbeats, in the dark pale of autumnlight. And it was alright.
Oh, the beauty of my cursed lady, The maiden of unchaste. Her haunting body, the only sin I've ever begged to taste. Trysts are not in my nature I'm a man of pious honor. But her hips and lips invite the crime of vestal minds to wander. Her eyes, her eyes! They be afire like the fires of Hells nine. The horrors of the fair of face that call to soon be mine. Save me, God, I love the devil's tempt of wicked kiss. I'm doomed to Hell to touch the girl, but Hell feels like bliss.
They had been lying beside each other in the riverside banks for a while, the tall grass and reeds crawling against their salt-kissed skin. It was still warm out even in the evening, when the sun had begun to set and cast whorls of watercolour pink and gold across the sky. The streetlamps would come on soon and bathe the hot, inky downtown in amberlight. It was pleasantly quiet, the maw of the woods across them exuding grasshoppers chirping and birdsong.
It was an hour since they emerged from playing naked in the river. It wasn't romantic - of course it wasn't. That would be queer. It was only the way things were. The boondocks of Jackson were sacred to their childhood bond, where Roman moved in within a year of Kalei.
Kalei. He was stretched luxuriously on his stomach in the brush, his towel draped over his hips. The trace of cool water lingered deliciously on his shoulders and back, which were tanned to a soft brown. His head was a flood of thick, dark locks, slightly sun-dyed at the tips, slumped forward lazily into his arms. Lips, full and parted to reveal imperfect, pearl-white teeth, drew deeply on a cigarette. His eyes fell across Roman behind sunglasses, grinning sleepily as he clutched a half bottle of wine.
"Staring at something?" He blew out smoke.
"Yeah, something funny-looking," Roman gently prised the puff from his friend's fingers. His heart began to beat with the quality of a crescendo, thrilled by Kalei's phantom lips, tasting of wine, upon the cigarette. Boys shouldn't feel this way, not about their friends. Not about other boys. But something agonised his senses when Kalei was around, something that made the hairs on his neck awake - something that vexed him but he did not all resent.
They laid in silence, passing the cigarette between them. The summer eve began to bring a slight squall with its pale cover of night.
"How's the arm?" Roman traced where he had signed his name on Kalei's bandages.
"Don't even," Kalei sighed, chucking the butt of the cigarette into the riverbed. "Pain in the ass. I can barely sleep in it." An expectant look.
"I'll help you change them tonight," Roman smiled, reclining against the burr. He knew their relationship was strange and intimate. He loved it, in a bittersweet way. How he loved _him. _But it was a losing battle thus far, and he wished it were different. Something about the night - maybe the river, the cigarettes, the wine - stirred his hopeful blindness. "What do you make of us?"
Kalei stared sideways at him, a ghost of a smile creasing his beautiful face. "What does that mean?"
Roman barely breathed as he took in the electric warmness of Kalei's skin. "How long have we known each other? You.. You probably know me better than- ah, anyone, really."
"Rome, this better be leading somewhere," Kalei smiled in that devilishly charming way. His lips, oh.
"I'm serious," Roman sat up suddenly, surprising even himself.
Kalei pushed himself off the ground. "Rome, if you have something to say, you can say it." _Oh, God, his eyes. _
Roman could barely hear Kalei's words his heart pounded so loud, a song of hummingbirds caged and fluttering wildly in his chest. He lost the words, and his eyes, oh, his face could not stop himself when he closes the distance between them with a kiss. It was clumsy and sweet and young. But it wasn't right.
There was a moment when Kalei didn't fight at all. The flowering moonlight washed them in a soft white glow. It would have been breathtaking.
But.
Kalei didn't say a thing. Roman could see his friend had wrested with the instinct to kiss him again, his nature, against the fear that willed him to turn and run. Never had Roman seen a boy so tested, the eyes once confident and playful in so much pain. And he ran.
No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her.
Her dark beauty renders the lifeless living and relentless in their worship with a warm kiss to their cheek, a whisper to their ear, and a breath to their lips. 'Twas my fate to her.
The earth was freshly turned my barrow over when she glided in through the churchyard, her draping muslin and vines befalling grave between grave. Her hands of life gripped my soul, and I was alive from my bones, my dust. Free, I thought, and free she told me. But I was not free at all.
While she had brought me to life and she had seemed radiant and good, the notion of the reanimation felt anything but holy. I could think of nothing else as my heavy limbs tried to lumber home, only _her. _Her eyes, the sparkling vacuums of night; the curve of her devil lips; her flood of raven hair against the pale of her skin; the irresistible down of her nape; the soft of her hip. My mind was insatiable.
I even wished to be dead once more, to liberate myself of the lustful torment, but no matter what fate I sought out, I couldn't seem to die. I was destined to be her lover, her devotee, her acolyte. Who was this siren? How had she bewitched me so?
One night, I trudged ten miles, then ten more, then ten more, to her gates. Broken-bodied, crypt-breath whistling through unbeating ribs - the very skin rotted off my sinews, my muscle. The only thing as strong as adoring her was fearing her disgusted of me. But when she saw me, o, those dark and wild eyes, her black pearls, her black sea hair, she was exultant.
