They were all infinite.
They weren't just in a world of their own; they were a world of their own.
Their S was the sun. The world revolved around her in every way possible. Grasping, needy hands that could turn into comforting embraces and would often give out the sweetest of touches to those few deserving of it. She was the one whose light touched everything and everyone and while those on the outside could see it, they could never grasp it in their hands and were left forever unmarked and unremarkable for the lack of it.
She was the flurrying entrance following by fluttering hands as she worried over the clouds latest spat with his parents and she was the resulting kisses and handfuls. She was the playfully exasperated presence behind every scheme and plot that would inevitably go perfectly. She was the hand-holder and the one who drags the moon away from her downfall again and again with extol and praises that would seem fictitious coming from anybody else's lips. She was the cold compress to the black eyes the stars comes home with, the hand on his back when he vomits up last night's escapades. She was the barricade between parents and gossip and whispers and lies.
She is the giver of unconditional love.
She was often overly treasured and fawned upon and not nearly as blissfully ignorant of that fact as most thought. Flighty by nature the sun wished every day to fly away like the bird she's often compared to, but when she sees her moon and cloud and stars she stay firmly in place because she's needed here and won't ever leave while she's needed, no matter the cost to herself. She protects and keeps warm all those in her world.
She paints her wall bright over and over until they're dazzling and all who look upon it see the radiance of not only herself, but her friends who are connected to it. She keeps them forever unblemished.
Their B was the moon. Always there by the side of the sun, sometimes waning in its light, but always there all the same. Often the sun would disappear and the world would be left in darkness, but then the moon would shine its light on everybody and while it wasn't nearly as bright as the sun, it was constant and pure and white and nobody feared it would burn out.
(Except the sun and clouds and stars, who'd seen her at her best in pearls and lace and very worst with her fingers down her throat and tears in her eyes and Vicodin bottles in her bag).
She was the one who watches frostily through the bars and over the banister of the staircase with the sun as each pretend-father leaves, the one who brings back the smiles and laughter and makes plans and see's them through that such a lack of both isn't seen for a very long time. She was the fortification of the clouds against would-be foes, the drug-dealers and grandparents'. She was the pretender of affections so his parents can play at being proud and happy, while his family can remain so. She was the private dancer of and the comfort to the stars as she was the password to his safe and credit cards, and as he moves out of his house into the hotel she moves most of her clothes with him and as she raises her eyebrow at the other two, they do as well to ensure he realises he is not alone, would never be alone.
The lips she places against his are the only that matters.
Vicious and the one who cuts the deepest, with a tongue filled with an endless stream of sharp words and occasional use of her manicured claws, she is the one who bore the most bruises, for beauty is pain, isn't it? For while the sun was warm and protective, she was cold and made of ice and burned much worse than the sun, and the pain often lasted longer. She ruled their surrounding city with an iron fist and a heart covered in the very same and was often left filled with a deep feeling of wanting for it that very few could understand.
She would if she could but she can't order it, so she pushes pillars in front of her immaculate wall to keep everything where it was meant to be, she holds them up, keeps them stable.
Their C was the stars. Forever nowhere without his moon, he was the dark watchful eyes and the firm hands of both reason and inhibition in everybody's pockets and bedrooms and lives. While the sun was the shield and the moon was the arrow, he was the poison in the night, the one to see all is set right and those who would harm them are never left the same for it. Smouldering heat in the middle of raging fires and cold cut glass, he was passion and steam and the company of the moon each night as they safeguard their world.
He was the unwavering arm around the sun's waist holding her up as she fell, which she does, often and full of broken laughter or a seemingly endless amount of tears. He was the unhesitant firm hand on the clouds shoulder as he holds him back or pushes him forward at whatever time he needs it, whether he knows it yet or not, and the fist flying when the time calls for it. He was the raking of hands through his and their hair and the wrenching open of doors that would prefer to remain shut. He was the steadfast, immovable lips against the moons hands and hips and hair as her eyes fill with unyielding tears and he brings in decorators and designers and other things to take her mind off the bad things as he calls lawyers and private investigators and assures her "He'll take care of it."
He is number one on all their speed dials.
The devil holds the empire in the palm of his hand, in more ways than one and he is the every possible secret knower and occasionally when he deems it appropriate, secret-keeper. Deemed unlovable by most and acts appropriately unrepentant at the very thought, because he knows he is loved, avidly and unreservedly (whether they or himself feels he doesn't deserves it or not), he holds the key to every lock and door in the world.
His walls are black and unforgiving, filled with cold hard steel and diamonds and other exorbitantly expensive and unbreakable things, and he keeps them fortified.
Their N was the clouds. An unflinchingly steady stalwart companion to the sun, as well as the moon and stars, he is often drifting then soaring, turning grey and black before lightening to cotton. His mind changes often and without hesitation as he takes what he wants with a seemingly unsophisticated sort of excitement. Enthusiasm and warmth amidst cold shoulders and depreciatory criticism.
His was the back laid flat against the stars own, staring down an almost unseen enemy. He was the hand wrapped around his shoulder, in empathy and faith and trust, he was the presence at his side, cavorting and drinking and forever trusting of his life in the others hands. He was the bringer of painkillers, the holder back of hair. He was the supplier of drugs and laughter and a light different from those of the girls'. He was the constant restrainer of scratching hands when they're dragging the moon from her seemingly eternal place of no dignity off the floor and the hugging arms through the resulting tears. He was the hands running through golden hair and placing picked flowers behind perfect ears as he whispers words of love and adoration so unlike and therefore distinct from anybody else's into them.
He moves them forward through it all.
While the stars were the ears and the moon was the eyes and the sun was in the eyes and ears, the cloud was the voice. Often speaking truths unblemished by hate or sneering disgust, he was the very vivacity of life that only the sun could equal. He was the look and the feel of the world around them but he was the one to slide through the cracks of perception as he slides effortlessly though society's observations of him and his validity.
His walls are plain and unassuming but encircled with camouflage. He keeps them concealed.
They were all dark.
The sex was never sweet (except when it is) and the drugs were dizzying and made their lives hazy and their minds forgetful and they'd all been addicted to at least one form of drugs at one time or another, be it sunshine, Ipecac or cocaine.
The music is all hard and heavy beats and sweat-soaked skin or classical pianoforte listened to while taking high tea in the heart of the very highest of society.
And they were all dark not because of the drugs or the sex or the music, though all of that was a very, very great part of it, but for the blood and the bruises and the fights.
Blood was spilled with words and cold shoulders and looks, gashes and cuts made by simple remarks over attire and bedfellows, and bruises given by wearing the shoes that made them what they were and their backs slamming against walls and doors and pianos. The fights, the fights were their fire while the falling bodies around them were the matches, and once a match is struck the fire in inevitable and expected.
They all kind of got off on watching people fall down around them.
They were all so tragic.
Raised by one another in a world of absent, neglectful and abusive parents, they held each other up, often literally, frequently figuratively and always unfalteringly.
They are grasping hands and wild hair, encouraging shoves and perfect chocolate curls; they are smirking half-not-smiles and unblinking eyes, sturdy generous grins and golden manes.
They were four walls holding up themselves, with no door to let anybody in and no windows left open for a breeze, because when they with one another they didn't need to breathe or feel the air, because one of them was the air, and together they were the sky.