Disclaimer: The characters belong to Yasuhiro Nightow, I just borrow their attributes to create their counterparts used in this work for the purpose of whining nonsense. This will include fragmented pieces of writing that act as preliminaries for a more completed opus so I might replace it soon when it reachs an end. This series would still be based in the manga but less directly referenced like in another series but whatever...
Please read the chapters continuously without skipping or jumping right into any part. This is aimed to build the foundation of cognizance for the pent-up feelings, experiencing stage by stage the subjective realities of the characters in the stories. Maybe somehow we might reach closer to their lonelinesses.
It was a beautiful July morning when the world was forgotten in tranquility.
Narrow streets, quiet day, nobody nearby, no words said. Through his golden irises it did seem like the scenery had been painted with gilt of the same tinge, where houses seemed crunchy as if they were made from gingerbreads with grime covering them looked similar to brown sugar, nostalgic and anachronistic in an unexplainably melancholic manner, as chimerical as being lost within a classic movie that was elongated throughout a lifespan. His lifespan was never a movie, never a novel, never a podcast anyone could enjoy, more like a series of fragmentary static formed into a song of perturbation ringing-ringing, tinnitus ticking in harmony with the sounds of each paces reverberating-reverberating. Two of them wandered almost aimlessly along the grungy sideways as Apollo decided He needed a saunter to let His mind loiter around some undecipherable thoughts as His feet kept moving onward, step by step swiftly landed on the minuscule dust binding on His shoes. Halcyon sunrays languorously trickled along the heels of the Boss walking on the testaceous pavement, he could not see His face while timidly following behind His back, yet he could see the shadow, the shadow shaped after the physique of his Lord, the shadow that engulfed such alluring features into a mobile pool of darkness before Him, in which He silently gazed long into it as if it was an abyss, and for a bit longer, the abyss also gazed into Him.
For a second, he wished the Don would turn around and looked at him instead.
Hyacinth budged after the strangely equanimous Dominus, undemandedly escort Him out of a sense of duty, with an odd confusion flickered across his brain and extinguished, why is He so reticent today? The sky was magnificently blue as ever, His exquisite eyes blue and His vibe even bluer as if the hue of azure above would soon grow dim. Why can't I understand You being so close like this? Gazing up at the ethereal haze that floated sluggishly above their heads, gazing down to the sandy ground that continued after the bricked road under their soles, Hyacinth cuddled the drops of sunshine on his hand, untouchable delicacy melted him with warmth dripping down his fingers, like a tender touch, like a vague kiss, or a faded illusion of happiness heaven had rewarded him by being unproblematic at least for a while.
As rhythmically as a melody His footsteps sounded, echoing and echoing on the vacancy of noises that all vanished within His presence. Suddenly he wanted to call his Master's name. Dearest, my Dearest, You were exquisite as a mirage that bonded me to this unreal animation and soon when the tie disconnects what is left beside this negligence? When his sweats had dropped and his tears were dried, what was left of his devotion within such Phantasmagoria of undying passions and carelessnesses? In the spur of a moment, Hyacinth thought, this planet was not enough for Him, and him, to exist in the same time while having themselves indulged in millions of other things that did not intersect each other's interests. That Splendor would be by Himself and he would be by himself, waiting for their fates to get demolished under the cruelty of history, then would soon one day be buried under the bottom of the hourglass. From the blazing flames to the leftover ashes, from the mirror reflecting such pitiful subsistences to the shattered pieces of glasses, from the dark colors to the pastel ones,... Everything came from the deliverance of such poetry in motion he had never known could flow so fluidly, like a favourite tune swaying within his eardrums, lullaby of a delusional gaiety he had never perceived.
If such privilege of having contentment was ever given to him, may he pass out under His Majesty.
Apollo stopped abruptly, a clue for an upcoming action unexpressed. Suddenly He turned around and looked at Hyacinth, slightly suprised, how strange that they had never goggled directly into each other's eyes before with such attentiveness. Oh, you were following Me? Sometimes Apollo seemed to lose His awareness to the surroundings, for there was nothing in this tawdry globe that could match his interest, not even when the prequisite had been proffered exposedly to its nucleus. Of course you were.
The Signor's back was directed at him again. Lowering and lifting his eyelashes, blink, blink, the vision went blurred under the heat. Genuinely he wanted to talk to Him, but the muted syllables congealed within his pharynx that went sore, metalized with a faint taste. If I asked You what did You think when you picked me up back then, would You still be You and I still be me? What was the difference between a victim and a servant? Hyacinth did surmise with that choice of Apollo, he would die an offender rather than a victim, in which no compunction or hesitation could ever infiltrate his degenerate essence again, and he would be doomed as an insect he always was, recoiling under the coldness of the earth for the other insects to ravish till exhaustion, leaving behind a corpse rotten in oblivion as his soul finally rest. What would happen to his Master after that? He trembled a bit with the thought of never getting to see that sweet face again, but the fear was irrational He would laugh at it if that question was heard. He was powerful. He would be fine, He should be fine. If not then what would his efforts be for, preserving in desperation the One he cherished only to know He would vanish like everyone else of this disgusting ocean of vermin they are trapped in for this damnation of living? If his efforts fall in vain would that actually be significant, for what do vomitous human think he could request for an absolute outcome while being trivial like a speck of dirt on this rough carpet of nature?
It was just that, if He continued to exist among the decomposing corporeality, then Hyacinth would not reject suffering iota or plethora, not one bit.