Wow, so this is my first post to in...forever? I have a million stories clogging up my hard drive, but I just haven't been posting. Maybe I'll get back into it if time permits. Anyway, this is my first Loveless fanfiction! I hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I do not own Loveless or any of the characters, only my own ideas, themes, and fabrications. Loveless is property of Yun Kouga. Thank you.
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I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.
- Charles Dickens
Fragile wings like brightly colored paper kites leave microscopic cuts on his soul as the brush breathes life into oil paint and canvas. He scrutinizes the butterflies, searching for beauty in intricate patterns not his own. If copying the style gave him some insight into the other man, he'd create reproductions until the day he died. He'll finish then trash the painting, as usual.
The studio is cold, the open window creating a steady flow of nighttime air, and he shivers. It must be well after eleven by now yet he isn't tired. The moonlight casts shadows across the wooden floor and sheet covered easels transform into ghosts of an insufferable past. A tall raven haired boy with a commanding voice, precocious brats with eye patches and teddy bears, unbreakable loyalties, comforting smiles, and…he closes his eyes, hoping to block it out, but one image perpetuates. Soft blue made steely gray by hardship, countless scars, possession manifested in a name carved harshly into his neck; he settles on the other ghosts. Their presence is easier to bear than the memories of bandaging wound after wound with the gentlest of hands only to be pushed away.
The stillness of the room is suffocating. The butterflies used to whisper to him, fluttering out a mystical message, one he longed to unravel, one he knew would lead him along the right path. Now they are frigid and unmoving, crushed under the weight of the silence. He can feel his pulse beating in his veins, his very life palpable as he sits there, his jeans dirtied with dust and charcoal. He clenches fistfuls of them, just to feel the roughness against his palms.
The paint sparkles with pale luminescence, tiny oceans of fuchsia, cyan, and crystal white. It begs for attention, begs to become the butterflies so it too can leave this place. Longing…longing is something he is familiar with, can relate to and sympathize with. He resumes painting, if only to save his innocent palette from a fate far too similar to his own. The scraping of the brush grates upon his senses, but is a remedy to the quiet. He develops a taste for the sound, but it is bitter and heavy on the tongue.
He hears the door open, the heavy thump of boots upon the floor and the undeniable sound of labored breathing. He sets the brush down, moving the canvas off to the corner where he is certain it will go unnoticed before shutting the window with a heavy sigh. He will do many things in the hours that follow. He will clean wounds and wind bandages, whisper words of comfort, and be certain to ask no questions. He will watch a chest rise and fall shakily in sleep riddled with agony and nightmares, but refrain from reaching out, touching, involving himself. He will love and hurt and wonder and cry, all so deep beneath the surface as to never be anything but strong. He'll remember how it feels to be needed, and still ponder over what it would be like to be wanted.
He knows he'll wake in the morning, to chirping birds, an empty flat, and loneliness, only to finish his painting and continue searching for the slightest bit of understanding. He'll pierce his ears again, to shake off the numbness and reawaken his artist's mind to the basics of reality. He'll learn nothing, and then repeat the process over the next several days.
But it's okay. No matter what, things have always been worth it to Kio. After all, it only hurts when he breathes.
Fin
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Thank you for reading! Please review!