j e l l y f i s h
{ g o s a n g o k u }
I will miss you ...
and our unwound future.
x.
Everyone seemed to float, just as people did in F. Scott Fitzgerald's most famous novel, The Great Gatsby. Everything was feather light and appeared to disappear and lose their gravitational force. Sounds amalgamated together into a whirl of unrequired palpable noise that fluctuated between screaming and white noise. The screams of their comrades and enemies alike mingled together until it was difficult to discern whose voice belonged to who.
It felt almost as if they were all drowning amidst a sea of lost appendages, fragmented minds, and dysfunctional clocks. The consistent ticking remained in time with the metaphorical droplets of blood that fell into the nonexistent lake. They could feel shadowed hands slip around their throats, contricting them, dragging them down further into the dark nothingness that lied beneath.
Twisted smiles, spilt blood, tears shed over one another on numerous occasions. Their feelings were like a crippling wound that refused to stop bleeding profusely. Whenever they closed their eyes, they lurched awake because all they could see was crimson dripping, detached appendages, hollow eyes and the corpses of their friends. Whenever they were awake they saw the same things.
But there was always an exception. Arthur was no longer granted the pleasures of aesthetics, but that didn't prevent nightmares from tormenting him, silhouettes of grey whispering in his unconscious that Alfred wasn't safe, that he had to save him, protect him—
Whilst he felt some remorse for his lack of sight, it wasn't due to self-preservation, but because Alfred had been so anguished about it. He wasn't so out of touch with his feelings that he thought the American to be rueful simply for Arthur stealing the heroic limelight. He knew that it was all his fault that Alfred was so horrified by it; he had readily risked his life on dozens of occasions to save the younger man, and he would easily do it all again, thousands of times.
"It's so dark," he whispered into the blackness. Of course it was—he was blind. But he could feel the darkness hovering over him, the ghosts of yesterday lingering over his shoulders, draped around like a feather light veil and suddenly he wished for it to be Alfred's jacket replacing the ominous feeling. "Lumos," he murmured, the word followed by a soft despondent sigh. Whilst his voice revealed little of the many emotions that swirled within him like a torrent of moths and butterflies, he still wished he could sound detached. He didn't want Alfred to worry. And yet, he did, because it showed that he might care. But he just felt wretched for causing the other man such negative feelings.
I'm sorry, Alfred, he thought ruefully, cold fingertips entangling themselves within the golden blond hair that he would never see again. I'm selfish... I just can't stand to see you hurt. If that means losing my sight or even dying, I'm still devoted to protecting you. He leaned down, slightly uncertain, and his lips ghosted above Alfred's forehead, gentle and soothing.
"It will forever remain dark now though, won't it?" he enquired rhetorically into the silence. The wind outside made the place seem to waver, shuttering and creaking, and he fought back a shiver as the sounds of cries and pleas drifted through his ears like off-key music notes. Broken pianos and fractured fingers.
A tear escaped his unseeing eyes but he dared not make a sound. But then, quietly, softly, the American lying in his lap shifted, and he felt the tear being brushed away gently.
"I'll be your eyes," Alfred promised, vowed, as he laced their fingers together, and warmth enveloped the Briton when he was carefully tugged forwards. The scent of blood and leather, wood and coffee engulfed his senses, and he allowed himself to be held by the man he thought he loved.
"I'll simply be yours." He didn't intend to say that out loud, but judging by the soft rumbling in the other man's chest, he was at least not disturbed by his words. The hand on his face stroked his cheek before sliding down his arm and wrapping around his waist. In response, his loose grip on the leather jacket tightened and he buried his face into the crook of Alfred's neck. Don't leave, he thought.
Their hands remained intertwined.
x. A drabble of sorts that is based off of I utilised the spell Originally, it was going to be a general The title is Hope you liked it. :)