There's a certain comfort one can take from utter silence, as the world breathes in and out as you exhale. It can be a sort of… reminder to take things easy, relax, calm down. But the reverse can be true as well. Stay your weeping vocal cords for too long, and others will begin to forget. And when they remember, you'd be but a distant memory. A fading image.
Such was the case with the boy who was borne with deep cochineal orbs and locks of atramentous ink. He had willingly left the cosy little apartment that smelled like home with the vague wisps of lavender salts and apple crisps. Went to the mountain coloured like the metal of expensive bibelots ands molten suns.
The blatantly obvious irony of this is that the boy of gorgeous looks foolishly thought that he would be doing everyone a favour with his evanescence into the sky above…but in reality, his actions only caused a knife to be taken to another's heart.
You see, the little abode of apples and fresh lavender belonged to a close friend of the cochineal boy, a lovely thing with eyes of polished jades and a head of the sweetest milk chocolate. And while he seemed like the stalwart type, he was, in reality, just very good at hiding how much he wore his heart on his sleeve.
He did not take well to the other's slipping and sneaking and setting off out the front door all too well.
But Green, the boy with jaded eyes and who is haunted by chocolate metaphors, was a stubborn one. Within half a year, the one with inky hair was sitting at the edge of a bed he had not seen in six months; watching the people walk by in different states of disarray through the window that overlooked the town square. He had forgotten how interesting people could be.
He sat there for the next five hours, wondering if he was as fascinating.
Within the week, Green had had enough. The silence had been oppressive for too long. Pushed at the confines of his mind a tad too much. He needed lights, noise, drink; something to help him forget.
It was in this state of mind that he found himself seated on a quant mahogany stool by an imposing bar in an intimidating place. The other boy sat meekly next to him, sipping something vaguely reminiscent of seltzer water. A few thrown back drinks later, lips dusted and pinked from the flavouring, and Green felt the world shrink beneath him as he rose and rose to the seats in the clouds.
"What's that stuff, Green?" the red-eyed male sniffed, cherry and melon drowning his senses in continual currents, ebbing and flowing through the neurological confines of his brain, enticing and licking at his vestal taste buds.
Poor kid! Green soberly thought. Never had a drink in his life! To Green, the obvious would have been to slur out the word alcohol, but he wasn't that hard off yet. The music pounded around them, and the jaded eyed boy's head fuzzed a bit more with each passing line of lyrics, with each voiced statement of lewd wishes.
"Japanese S-slippe-errrr," he finally supplied, motioning for the tender to give life to another of the wonderfully devilish concoction. A margarita glass with scarlet and olive swirled before the boy who had yet to consume a drink, and he eyed it carefully, apprehensively.
"Is good," Green assured as well as he could while he simultaneously downed the rest of his own glass. "Midori melon and maraschino liqueur." The tipsy fellow culled the filled crystal and placed it to the virgin lips.
And they drank it up.
They soon found themselves in an island of pleasure and flashing colours of reds and greens and blues. They could see, if they concentrated, notes of music before their eyes, and timed their gyrations to the flickering of the strobe lights. Together, they had drunk up two bottles of midori, one and a half of maraschino. And it was quite obvious on the dance floor, as the one with stunningly bloody orbs and black locks stumbled to keep in rhythm. Green latched himself onto his shoulders.
"Follow my lead." Hot breath swept into an unsuspecting earlobe as the jaded creature pressed his body against the other's feverish one, swaying his hip and being in all manners the definition of dangerous as he tried to press himself closer to the backside of the black-haired boy. "C'mon Red…" Green purred into the previously abandoned ear, continuing with the torturous ministrations, and suddenly, the boy whose namesake was that of the colour of his eyes found himself terribly overwhelmed. The heat, the closeness, the fire burning in his blood. He closed his eyes in a gasp, biting his lip and focusing on the pounding of the life water in his veins, pulsing to the beat. He was able to slip away from every little thing, singing along to the repetitive club music that promised a good time; except for one tiny, insignificant detail.
Green was horribly turned on.
The two found themselves back at the comfy apartment, adding melons and cherries to the smell of home. What happened or did not, neither will remember.
And at twelve the next day, Green will awaken to a warmth between his arms, curled against his chest. He'll reluctantly slip from under the covers and look down at the bed, his head a cadence of incoherent things and ideas, and a single strand will wisp by.
And it won't be, what the hell happened?, but when will this happen again? But as he closes the bathroom door with the white towel in hand, he'll attribute the thought as merely the product of something entirely other than love.