There is a fury to sunsets, ebbing and gentle as it slides you into its fold. The end of a day is a show for awe, an explosion of dying color that tries to hold off the dusty stars as long as possible while the light casts shadows in reminder of the warmth it once brought.
And under Midas' touch, the world is known to hold on a hushed breath that stretches out to the very edge of ocean meets sky, a vortex of wide eyes and a tugging within one's chest. Because in the death of the sun, one that may one day lead darkness away to...never come back, its attempt at last hurrah is pitiful. Pitiful because overplaying a last hurrah leaves it not much of a hurrah at all, a token of guaranteed expectation instead of anticipated advent.
Draco sits in such sunsets as these and rolls then across his tongue, his nose, the pads of his thumbs, the pooling gray of his irises. He drinks in the sunset in the belief that it will not last, in the belief that it will be his last.
And the clutch of beauty in his heart leaves him gasping for breath as he traces the outline of sky and earth as they seal a kiss. He wants to press this sensation between the covers of a book. Carry the dead flower of life in his pocket wherever he goes.
There's a beauty in the world's death in that he draws his own life into his lungs with something akin to amazement, a shuddering rasp of brevity as the world continues to hum with permanence.