Ah, so I yet again tried desperately hard on something in order to make it a different style and something to be proud of. I hope this is okay, or rather I hope you like it *she says without any desperation whatsoever* here we go;
Dan let his head drop to the desk. Thunder in a rainstorm.
It fell against the roof, swimming in his ears, knocking against the slick drapes of his hair. He felt it in his heart, as if it were swarming all around him, raindrops curling on his earlobes. He was drowning. Yet breathing. It was nice.
Dan's head felt heavy with the words that soared from the pages, small fingers curling from his mind to close his eyes. Sleep tried to grab him from within. And Dan resisted.
The paper parchment fluttered against Dan's cheek, a butterfly, and Dan hoped that the rain wouldn't batter it to the ground. But it might. It might. It might.
Because darkness had fallen outside. The stars littered the sky, staring at the rain with smirks of light, and Dan wondered whether the rain was every angry it had to fall.
The door opened. Dan gripped a pen in his hand as he stared at the moon. Did it ever feel lonely? Even in a sea of stars?
Lights flickered like the gentle pattering of rain on the roof. Dan tilted his head back in desperation. Dull. Always dull, as if the page was a yellowing tooth. Fire that had been smothered.
A turned head. Turned from the night to yet more night. A black haired boy. A raven flying in the night. Raindrops fell from his wings. But Dan's eyes could only watch as his slender fingers stroked the spines of books.
Their eyes met. And there was a smile. The moon watched.
Their backs press against the trees, legs splayed, close but somehow not close enough. Dan noticed how Phil's eyes absorbed the moonlight, capturing it in a moment of time. He tried not to. He tried to turn away.
Smoke rose into the sky. A signal for no one to come as Dan leant against the fence. And he wondered whether the smoke would ever reach the stars. Whether it would ever dance upon the moon with grace.
The moon shone brightly, its light bearing down upon the way Phil held his cigarette, casting shadows over his slender wrist.
Dan was not lonely that night and Phil's hair was a tidal wave.
Their knees tucked into their chests, catching of eyes on cheeks, a whisper of 'do you think we're alone in the world?'
Dan's blood was bitter and black, but his eyes found the moon.
And for some reason, his lips murmured; 'no'
Dan always chewed the ends of his pens and Phil always chastised him for it. But he didn't mind.
Dan's duvet had become a second home for Phil. An igloo of warmth. His head fell back once more. It was a cloud. And Dan stared at him with a fond sort of light that had to be turned off when Phil looked up. A flash of the lips. The air stashed with secrets. Waiting for a rainy day, waiting for the day in which the rain would pound against the roof and the words would spill with the emotion they deserved, raging through the air like the wind that rattled the window panes.
"So," Dan announced, letting his hand hover absentmindedly over Phil's hair "1881, what happened?"
Phil sighed. A breath of air. But no matter how much he huffed and puffed the secrets would not blow down.
"Remind me why I do history?"
"It compliments art." Dan tried his best accent.
He blushed. And Phil laughed. And somehow that was enough.
Phil was art and Dan was music. Dan decorated time and Phil decorated paper. And that was how it was.
That time there was sun. Its beams reached the earth with a brightness that Dan wasn't quite used to.
Dan felt betrayed as the bark bit against his back and his papers fluttered in the breeze. His hands reached out for the bottle, his fingers curling around the glass. It was lukewarm when it hit his lips. And it made him wince. But it tasted of summer. A reminder of crowds moving, a pulsing heartbeat. Feet that moved on their own. And bitter disappointment.
The clouds moved overhead and Phil sat behind him. His fingers itched for a smoke, dancing across the grass with poise.
They curled into daisy chains instead, his delicate fingers placing it on Dan's head, and enjoying the roses that grew on his cheeks.
And Dan stared at Phil's lips for too long.
And Dan figured that maybe the sun wasn't so bad.
The water was cold and its body span out of control. It rushed past legs, and arms, it needed to get somewhere that it didn't want to be. But the cold made Dan feel alive, and that was more than most could do.
Clothes hung onto rocks and branches, everything dark and yet everything light.
Dan's underwear was wet and it clung to him.
And Phil's eyes asked questions that could not be retracted as the moon watched on, taking the unspoken words and storing them in a jar.
'For a rainy day' but the moon did not know of rain. And it wept.
Handprints of water on Dan's chest. Phil's face leaned closer like the gaining winds. His eyes too strong, filling up Dan's chest like a river running down his throat. His lungs spluttered to be free.
Dan's eyes grew wider. The moon. His foot found a rock as he let the water's hands catch him.
Moonlight cast across Phil's face. Hurt. But Dan didn't know because Phil's emotions had always been locked to him.
They got dressed with silence and with backs turned. And dust fairies no longer hung in the air.
A bottle poured down his throat.
The darkness seemed to move, curling around him like a fist as he heard stomps upon shouts and screams upon laughs.
Laughter in his ear that was independent from the cackles of the darkness, that was warm like syrup and hands that wandered to his back.
And a wall as lips found his, warm like the oncoming tide, eyes glowing like the moon and breath like the wind.
A whisper of I love you
"You do?"
A smirk, "To the moon and back"
And reality didn't matter.
A howl hooted. A question to the universe. The stars stared down.
Their bodies just slightly too close.
Dan's mind warped because the words had been spilled, not spilled but pushed, pushed by the river inside Phil's throat. And that was only enough to come to Dan in the darkness as his hair spilled onto the pillow.
The stars have a language that Dan has never understood, a tongue that has spanned generations. Mutual understanding. The stars that plant a seed that the world is more than it is. That you can be more than you are. They force-fed lies. And sometimes Dan believed them.
But not always.
One only had to look at life to see the translucency of stars.
Dan imagined his fingers lacing within Phil's. The stars seemed to shine in approval. Their feet dangled over the edge to oblivion.
Dead whispers that the air mourned.
Tears spilled a cry of fuck, running to a river that screamed of almost, screamed until Dan was suffocating, until he turned and walked, leaving red streamers pouring from Phil's eyes.
Because Phil was a wind, rustling through the trees, tearing through Dan's empty chest.
And Dan's chest was a void. And he didn't know what to do.
And Dan had tried to define the lines of mystery, the lines of 'what are we' to a boy who didn't know, to a boy as cold as the wind.
The leaves crunched underfoot as the trees seemed to whisper, 'I told you so'.
But fires existed in spite of winds and bodies curled like cats in front of warmth. Armchairs hugged them both as Dan leant against Phil's chest and Dan forgot everything.
'I'm sorry' came the words with a stroke of hair. And they were welcome. But they were not the words Dan wanted to hear.
And Phil drifted asleep, his eyes sowing shut like stitches on his absent pillow and Dan watched him, the warmth from the fire drifting to his chest.
He pushed himself closer to Phil and wondered how drowning could feel so warm.
And whispers spread down tall tables like a forest fire, flames sparking and burning, heads turning.
Hands laced, caught whispers. Dan wanted to run. But Phil's breath was in his ear, and nothing could scare him.
A poke to the back, cries of 'everyone knows, give in'
Everyone but Dan.
And Phil.
But minds always seemed so set on answers, so set on finding the key that would fit into the lock, that would open the door, that would lead them to the room that was just as dark.
The darkness raged and Phil stood in Dan's room. The moon revealed a slit of his pale skin. Dan's breath caught, his teeth finding his lip.
Phil seemed different in the dark.
He was a hidden man. Hidden behind smoke or darkness, or fog. But his kisses tasted of magic. And when his lips found Dan's he could kid himself that Phil meant it. And maybe he did. No one can know in the darkness.
The words were still unspoken but raged from other mouths. Spilled like rivers or tea onto parchment, never enough cloth to soak them up. And Dan span like a hurricane because it was all so obvious, but all so complicated. And Phil was his. But he wasn't. And Dan's hands stroked over his pale skin, but the words were forever unspoken.
And Dan sealed his ears and Phil was a no mark.
But other's faces still bore concern.
Grass wept against his face. Smoke rose. And the words died in Dan's throat. Phil's eyes were the sky and ice, and he didn't know which he preferred.
Hands either side of Phil's head, Dan took the cigarette from between Phil's lips.
Phil's face was a puzzle.
Smoke lingered on his clothes. Scrawls upon pages like lightning. A tickling clock throwing away the minutes until the end of his life.
Dan didn't care about Malvolio. He cared about Phil. But he would never wear yellow. Not for Dan, maybe not for anyone.
Birds sang in the trees as Phil pressed his lips against Dan's, harder, harder, until he created a constellation, to avoid the truth and Dan tried to stop pearls from leaking. But bruises made him shout. And Phil only slumped back into the grass.
A cry of why to the sky as the river ran. But the moon had no tongue and the stars had no smiles, and the trees only waved in response.
Ripped clothes over rocks, water lapping against skin, against the grey underwear that the last layer of confidence had prevented him pulling off.
And his tears joined the river like a circus. And his bruises wouldn't wash away like paint.
And the moon watched Phil from behind a tree.
And the rain pounded over the library building, but Dan couldn't even look at Phil, pages swimming before his eyes.
But the moon was there, and the moon was a friend, forever.
Feet upon carpet, Dan pinned Phil in a corner, a book dropping from hands. And he was a small boy, his eyes widened. And Dan didn't care.
And clichés spilled from his lips like the flowing rivers of Phil's eyes.
'What are we, Phil? What are we?'
And the moon listened, crossing its slender fingers of light, its craters deepening in a hope as the stars seemed to crowd around, growing brighter in anticipation.
"Fuck Dan, fuck me if I know."
And faces could fall like rocks over the edges of cliffs, hitting the river, falling deep beneath the rippling surface. And Dan curled closer into Phil's chest and tried to tell himself that it was all okay.
"But what I do know is that I love you." Phil looked down, "I love you like never before."
"You do?"
"To the moon and back."
Thank you for reading and I hope that was okay, things tend to get a bit blurry inside my head where it gets to the point where I can't tell whether someone else would be able to understand or not. I hope you could, and please leave a review if you want !