Stained Glass Heart
He sleeps dreamlessly, the sleep of the innocent – or of the amoral.
Those are the only two types of people that can rest so easily, with no guilt invading their repose and no subconscious nagging at them uneasily. It is a shame really, that I do not fit into either of those categories, for I am doomed to wait by his side and watch his calm repose. Watch his calm repose in a mood of jealousy almost bordering on homicidal – insomnia is not a pretty thing. Unlike him, for he is most definitely a pretty thing – if I can label a human being whose personal beauty borders on eerie a 'thing'. What were the poets' words? 'A thing of beauty and a joy forever' I believe; and so he is. At least, until he dies, or grows old, or gets sun burnt. The last makes him looks like one of those peppermint sweets that you get when you donate blood to the Red Cross. Right now, though, as the moonlight streams into our room greedy to drink its fill of his beauty, he looks like a rainbow sprite.
The colors that play across his slumbering countenance disturb him not. A ray of vermilion falls over one sleep-fastened eye, a beam of azure over the other. His delicate nose is where the two intersect, causing it to gleam a brilliant purple of a shade akin to that of the Roman prelates. The soft gash of his mouth, which normally is almost colorless, is now a particularly strong emerald hue. Below his neck, the kaleidoscope continues, forming sparkling patterns over his white pyjamas, over the white sheet and pillows, and over my own white-clad body. The effect is to make it look as if we are sleeping under a stained glass window of an abstract design.
Instead, the rainbow shards that illuminate us come from the piles of glittering gemstones carelessly heaped on the windowsill, the bedside tables, the bookshelves, and even the floor. When we tread the carpet in the morning, the sharp pains in our feet remind us that beauty's price is paid in blood or tears, and we offer plenty of both. We also offer plenty of oaths - most of them profane. It is amazing that small, compressed chunks of carbon can cause such displays of emotions – it is almost as amazing as how many we have of them. Neither of us have ever counted, preferring to gesture vaguely when we speak of them, or casually use an indefinite value: millions, trillions, oodleplexi or other such words. Precision, accuracy – supposed virtues that we would not care to possess for life is so much easier like this. Easier and more beautiful, how could it be anything but beautiful when all around are piled objects of radiance, rarity, and refinement? Alliteration has always been a vice of mine, one of many, as he would be the first to tell you.
There is gold as well, the adornments that look as if they are carved into our bodies set aside for the night – the more skin that is covered by gold ornaments, the less skin available for touching. Bracelets, chokers, and earrings– the trinkets of vanity, glistening as the reflections of the jewels shimmer across their golden surface. No silver though, silver would strike a discordant note in the almost planned, chaotic luster of the house. Silver is too smooth, too metallic, a dead – if such things can ever be alive – color. It would not mix with our vivid gems and warm gold; it would bring the shrill northern breeze into our arid house.
The few visitors we have – and they are few indeed for neither of us are social by nature – often complain about what they perceive as the mess in the house. They dislike getting sand between their toes, the aroma of sandalwood on their clothing – they want to sit down without having to brush charms off the chairs, and be able to walk easily without having to first kick aside obstructions on the floor. He revels in it though, flinging himself onto the divan as if the trinkets scattered there don't dig into his skin, languidly inclining his head backwards till the jewels catch in his hair and tangle, so that when he props his head up on one elbow, they dangle from his hair and shine effortlessly like the false eyes of a peacock. The smooth patina of the gold glimmers as well, so that the entire inside of the house blazes with color and fire- a treasure cave that only those with smoky glasses may enter. Not that we wear the glasses that we hand out to our guests, we walk freely amongst the glitz and dazzle, letting the colors spike over our down-turned eyelids and opaque-blind eyes. Living here, we are used to the glaring light, the neon colors, our own private Aurora Borealis, except ours can only be ever seen in a desert.
They complain as well about the wind chimes and mirrors, the fact that there is no corner of the room where they may sit in darkness, in dullness, in boredom and peace and silence. Of course, if they complain too much, we don't invite them back again for they are obviously not people with any interest in beauty. Beauty should be available to all the senses, not just the eyes, so we have incense to create a pleasant scent, sand underfoot for the softest of carpeting, little golden chalices of dates, and the soft murmur of our fountain resounds through the house. Our beautiful fountain, covered with delicate engravings that nobody can properly appreciate, for over the years we have chucked in so many jewels while making wishes that the inside is quite covered over now, and the tableaus inside are now lost.
Lost as the souls of those who lie awake, thinking about the interior decoration of their house, at an hour at which any sane person would be asleep. Not that I've ever been described as sane – sanity is not one of my vices. A tendency to obsess about how perfectly our house matches us is – if you can call it a vice, since I personally think that it is very harmless, compared to his tendency to accumulate several purple shirts – and this is the strange bit – that all look exactly the same. I often wonder how he can tell if he is wearing a clean one or a dirty one. Perhaps he has some kind of system where he sews the days of the weeks inside the shirt collars? I'd get up and check, but the way that he is sprawled over me is just too comforting a position for me to want to leave. Besides, there be gems on the floor, and I'm not quite insane enough to leave the safety of my bed to further damage my much-abused feet.
They've hardened by now though, as have his. If you looked merely at our feet, you'd think that we worked very hard, carrying heavy loads over long roads of stone. If you looked at our hands, you'd think that we were berry pickers, struggling all day to extract sweetness amidst a dense forest of thorns. If you look at us as a whole, not letting your eyes settle on any one part of us, you'd think that we were happy, and you'd be right. We are happy, the intense happiness that quietly lies buried inside most of the time but is occasionally surges up and then needs to be expressed by running and shouting and sheer exuberance. The kind of happy that is usually reserved for the soldier who returned safely from the war, the child who survived a dangerous operation, the lover who kept faith despite temptation, and the underdog victor. It's the sort of violent glee that shouldn't be sustained for fear that it'll wear out the carrier, but we keep it entombed within our hearts - we are desperately happy. Desperation is never good though, and sometimes, when people look at us, all they see is the desperation, without the underlying bliss.
Some people can't read between the lines, and others cannot even see the lines. As for us...we write the lines that others read, in graceful calligraphy, using a quill pen dipped in liquid gold. That is not mere poetic ramblings, but the truth, as is everything I've spoken so far. Pretty words perhaps, but more importantly, it is the literal truth. 'The truth is rarely pure, and never simple' to quote the words of Wilde, another aesthete. One needs only to read his story 'The Young King' to realize that. A crown of rubies, and a staff of pearls were his treasure. Mine is the boy next to me, a jewel more precious than any that lies in our house. His beauty far surpasses that of the jewels and outshines that of the metals. Beauty itself hungers after his stained glass heart.
His fragile, delicate heart that is hidden away safely - locked deep inside mine.
~Fin~
Author's Note: That would signal the end of the Insomnia trilogy, though alas, not of my insomnia. Can't complain about it too much though, since the plot bunnies over here seem to be of the nocturnal variety. Expect a Malik x Bakura ficlet soon unless I set up a few rabbit traps…