They sat inside that field of poppies within a new and fresh spring, regarding one another, kissing softly. Creating an embrace that lasted what seemed to be a luxurious eternity.
Clothes were not present.
And they made a furious kind of love, one crying in unfettered euphoria while the other gave strong bucks, either mouth wide. Eyes prickling with fresh tears of that wondrous sensation.
When it was over, bodies collapsed; mouths managed to speak.
"I love you, Toris."
"I love you too, Feliks. It's been a while." Fingers brushed through that mess of short blond locks. "You're still lovely, even though you cut your hair."
"Thank you, darling. You've never stopped being lovely."
Simplistically, a touch of affectionate lips.
"I've missed you." Feliks settled into his partner's collarbone, a palm adhering to that susceptible shoulder, left defenseless.
"I know you have. And I've missed you as well…It's been difficult."
"Yes. But I forgive you. Can you forgive me, Toris?"
"Yes. I never had anything to forgive you for in the very first place. There's no need to worry."
"No. We can relax now."
So they did. Feliks melted into Toris while Toris sunk into Feliks, orifices becoming one, chests pressing together and becoming glued. The Lithuanian shut his lids, lashes still kissing to his opposite's.
However, when those sights were allowed their occupation, the blond had gone, dissipated within a cloud of pink smoke. The only remainder of that invisible cremation was a rose hued gown, lying within the poppies.
Confusion struck, and Toris looked around that plain, in dire need of finding his flamboyant companion, but accomplishing no such luck.
Then, all the flowers began to whither within the rising heat, changing from that once vibrant crimson to a dark burgundy, then to black, the shade of dense ink. And so suddenly, the whole ocean had come to be dust. Toris was standing inside an urn, a wasteland stretching every direction from him. North, South, East, West. It did not matter. There was nothing but horrendous grey ash.
The roads that was once only a few paces behind him had disappeared beneath the remains of all the deceased poppies, nowhere to be found, unable to be located. Tarnished. Broken. Dead. It might have become ash itself. Everything was, after all.
So, having no other option, the man tried to find his way back, attempting to follow the former path, feet maneuvering through that great plague in an attempt to return home. In hopes of finding Feliks.
Did he run while Toris' eyes were shut? He did not even feel him leave. Was it he who burned down the entire field? But how can one work at such a fast pace?
The Lithuanian walked on and on and on, until he same to a mirror.
And for a moment, he stared.
Those eyes, that hair, blond as straw.
Toris had become Feliks.
It was then that he woke up, all alone beneath his heavy sheets, chest spoiled with a panicked heart. Then the brunette -who was still a brunette- relaxed against that pillow, shutting his vision and sighing.
That was horrendously realistic. He felt the dust beneath his feet, felt the freezing air devour him in one piece, felt the scarlet blossoms dying.
The panicked thing took another breath, knowing he would not coax himself back to sleep. No, no. He was wide awake now. Not a fragment of him was tired.
The clock was regarded, silently whispering upon the wall.
It was three o'clock in the morning.
Another sigh of innumerable sighs.
And the Lithuanian man lied beneath his boulder-like blanket, so very heavy with nervous energy.
He was right. There was no sleep left within these covers.
Toris readied himself for the heat of the hellish day ahead.