flownintothesun

[flownintothesun]

hey - i know i haven't been active in awhile. i am still gonna come back at some point... but in the meantime, i know things are hard for everyone right now - but a friend of mine just lost her dad unexpectedly and needs help paying for the expenses. she's set up a gofundme, and i just think that right now it's important that we all help each other where we can, even if it's a like or a reblog, or donation regardless of amount.

kindness matters, always.

be good to yourselves.

[flownintothesun]

I cannot stress enough how important it is to do silly, frivolous things that serve no other purpose than making you happy.

[flownintothesun]

/ / earl grey and lavender cake, homemade. for both francis's birthday (today), and my dear @batteredoptimist's james's birthday (tomorrow). the headcanon that they spend half the day making a mess of the kitchen together and sharing their birthdays always makes my heart infinitely soft.

[flownintothesun]

𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐒𝐓  𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘  𝐓𝐎  𝐌𝐘  𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐋𝐀𝐃  ♡

Thank  you  for  always  being  the  light,  Francis,  even  when  my  own  was  lost.  Thank  you  for  the  kind  and  gentle  souls  your  presence  has  brought  into  my  life.  Thank  you  for  reminding  me  that  both  highs  and  lows  make  music,  and  no  song  can  exist  without  the  presence  of  both.  Thank  you  for  fighting  for  love,  for  your  heart.  Thank  you  for  the  reminder  that  it  is  a  beautiful  thing  to  exist  in  joy  and  in  magic.  Thank  you  for  dancing  with  yourself,  and  singing  into  hairbrushes  and  falling  in  love  with  the  fairytales  and  believing  so  profoundly  that  goodness  exists  more  than  readily  in  the  world.  Thank  you  for  never  ceasing  to  let  your  light  shine,  for  not  letting  the  world  take  your  softness.  Thank  you  for  hiccup-blushes,  and  falling  hard  into  forevers,  even  if  they're  temporary.  Thank  you  for  carrying  your  inner  child  and  speaking  kindly  to  him  and  for  helping  others  without  a  second  thought.  Thank  you  for  your  warmth,  and  comfort.  Thank  you  for  quiet  strength,  and  reminding  me  that  being  kind  is  the  absolute  bravest  thing  you  can  possibly  be.

Thank  you  for  being  with  me  for  all  of  my  life,  and  for  these  last  five  years  on  Tumblr.

Il  n’est  rien  de  réel  que  le  rêve  et  l’amour.

𝑇𝑢  𝑒𝑠  𝑙𝑎  𝑗𝑜𝑖𝑒  𝑑𝑒  𝑚𝑎  𝑣𝑖𝑒.  ♡

[flownintothesun]

Once again checking in to let all know I intend to come back, I am working on my new blog gradually and will let all know when I'm ready to follow people :) can't wait to interact with you lovelies again!

[flownintothesun]

      𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄  𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒  𝐎𝐍  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐀  𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄  𝐓𝐎𝐎  𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆,  and  Marin  can’t  help  but  wonder  what  he’s  thinking  when  he  looks  at  her  like  that  —  eyes  a  little  too  intense,  too  knowing.  She  shivers  a  little  for  it  —  draws  her  arms  around  herself  for  the  warmth  of  obscurity.  The  not  knowing  is  better  than  the  knowing,  I  promise,  sweetheart.  I’ll  be  whoever  you  want  me  to  be.  If  he  were  to  ask  her  who  she  is,  she  wouldn’t  have  an  answer.  The  world  is  too  big  for  all  of  that  —  and  for  the  better  part  of  things,  it’s  been  a  grand  enough  adventure  to  discover  charity  shoppes.  Her  little  flat  is  mismatched  and  a  little  broken  —  but  it  suits  her,  and  it’s  hers.  Sometimes,  she  looks  at  the  items  that  she’s  chosen,  and  wishes  they  could  tell  her  why  she’d  chosen  them  —  what  secrets  such  small  and  insignificant  choices  say  about  her  as  a  whole.

       She’s  doing  the  same  thing  —  eyes  sparkling  up  at  him,  lingering  for  a  little  too  long  with  a  little  too  much  curiosity.  She  smiles  and  ducks  her  head  as  though  trying  to  hide  it.  And  he  teases  her  before  acquiescing  to  her  request.  His  name  suits  him  —  though  why,  she  couldn’t  really  say.  She  doesn’t  have  much  time  to  think  about  it  either,  as  he’s  extending  his  hand  to  her.  It’s  painfully  sweet.  Some  people,  she  supposes,  just  look  like  their  names.  She’ll  never  know.  It  will  be  one  night,  and  when  she  thinks  of  him  after,  he  will  be  little  more  than  a  stranger  who  was  once  a  what-if?  

        Fairytales  don’t  happen  to  girls  like  her,  she  thinks,  reaching  her  hand  forward,  “Mat,”  she  repeats.  Her  hand  is  so  much  smaller  than  his,  and  he’s  warm.  She  may  as  well  be  a  moth,  the  way  she  gravitates  toward  that  warm  light.  “I  like  it  —  it  suits  you.  I’m  Marin.”

        Fingers  slip  between  his  in  a  gesture  that’s  far  more  intimate  than  a  first  meeting  would  usually  allow.  She  isn’t  the  kind  of  girl  people  settle  down  with  —  so  she  steals  little  forevers  where  she  can  and  doesn’t  dare  to  ask  for  more.  This  is  enough,  this  is  good,  she  thinks,  bringing  her  other  hand  to  rest  against  his  chest,  looking  up  at  him  with  the  streetlights  reflected  in  her  eyes.  “Well  then,  Mat,  I’m  all  yours.”  She  settles  against  the  solid  weight  of  his  body,  leaning  on  an  arm  as  she  makes  to  walk  with  him, “Steal  me  away.”

            She  won’t  tell  Reese.  That’s  a  later-her  problem.  Right  now  it’s  just  kind  of  nice  to  pretend  that  she  could  have  what  other  girls  have.  No  complications.  Just  a  moment  in  the  sun.

the smoke blurs her and then clears up just like that. she's got just about the softest eyes that he's ever seen. but they shine with a certain kind of sadness to them. a girl in a place like this, he's sure that it's the story that he would've avoided hearing any place else. but there's a small part in him that wants to ask. wants to ask her what's got her all full of this funny sadness. he won't ask though. that'd spoil the night. things like that always did. it was one of the reasons he never saw anyone longer than a week. questions started coming and getting heavier. he knew better than asking too many questions.

she was here for a good time. she had said as much. good times were the easiest things in the world. to see her all flushed with excitement, dancing with her hair a mess around that too pretty face. he wondered how she would feel in his arms, alive and real. radiating warmth, radiating something he could get his hands on for the moment. he lived moment to moment, too fast, that's what his dad had said with a disappointed shake of his head. but how do you apologize to the people who love you for doing everything to let them down? how do you apologize for something that you don't intend on stopping?

things had been different since he got back. since the hospital. he had seen all the hate in this ugly world. up close, personal. the pretty thing before him is a relief from those sights. something to distract. and he likes distractions. he considers not telling her his name. mystery was always a little fun. she beamed with that, questions unasked, things he'll never know about. but he has the funny thought that he would like to know what it sounded like to hear her say his name.

"i'll show you mine if you show me your's." he says with a small laugh. just a joke really as he slips the lighter back in his pocket. "the name's mat." he says with his hand held out to her then. and his heart kicks up in speed at the thought of her taking it. he's on the edge of a thrill ride, after a few drinks, he's like live wire. ready to burn until there's nothing left.

there's always something left though. that's the worst part. but tonight will be good fun and he won't have to worry about any of that. she won't let him. how could he think of anything else with her looking like that. "my bikes just down there." he says with a lift of his brows towards where he had it parked. eager to get out of here. places like this usually made him a little unsure, didn't they? a far cry from where he had grown up.

[flownintothesun]

Franz Wright, from “East Boston, 1996; Night Walk,” in God’s Silence

[flownintothesun]

      "𝐘𝐎𝐔  𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐒𝐄𝐀,"  she  speaks  warmly,  almost  fondly  as  she  looks  up  at  him,  the  sea  itself  reflected  in  her  eyes.  “I  think  it’s  brave,”  she  murmurs,  the  sound  of  her  voice  foreign  in  a  place  like  this  —  hailing  from  much  further  north  where  the  seas  are  cold  and  gray.  Her  knees  give  a  tentative  wobble  in  an  attempt  to  lock  as  she  moves  them.  She  will  get  used  to  life  on  land  —  but  for  now,  getting  here  has  her  shaking  on  the  relatively  unfamiliar  appendages.  She  catches  herself  with  a  hand  on  his  chest,  shaking  her  head,  “To  love  that  which  cannot  be  understood.  I’ll  be  all  right.  I’m  stronger  than  I  look.”

       She  wonders  why  he’d  stopped  speaking,  tilts  her  head  in  curiosity  but  presses  him  no  further  for  now.  “I’m  quite  fond  of  the  stars,”  she  tells  him  something  true.  There  are  places  where  the  sea  is  nearly  still  and  there  are  about  a  million  stars  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see.  When  they  reflect  upon  the  still  water,  it  almost  seems  as  though  no  matter  where  you  are,  you’re  falling  into  the  sky.  That  maybe,  somewhere,  someone  is  making  a  wish  upon  you.  She’s  had  many  wishes  in  her  time  —  but  her  messengers  have  not  deigned  to  deliver  them  for  her  as  they  shoot  across  the  sky  at  night  —  probably  much  more  important  places  to  be.  Marin  doesn’t  know  the  business  of  stars.   

        “The  best  place  to  see  them  is  out  at  sea.  I’m  afraid  my  indulgence  cost  my  ship  dearly,”  she  frowns.  One  foot  in  front  of  the  next,  she  wills  her  legs  to  move,  bare  feet  wobbling  as  she  makes  her  way  with  him  to  his  bedroom.  “What  is  it  that  you  sail  for?  Adventure,  treasure?  Fishing?  Trade?  To  catch  pirates?  Or  is  it  to  have  stories  to  tell?”  Her  mother  used  to  tell  her  stories  of  the  sea,  and  of  land  —  she  used  to  sing  them  though  she  was  no  siren.  Marin  sings  them  now  at  Ursula's  bidding.  Her  mother  would  be  so  disappointed  at  what  she's  become. 

Ged  a  sheòl  mi  air  m'  aineol, Cha  laigh  smalan  air  mi'  inntinn, Ged  a  sheòl  mi  air  m'  aineol.

       Without  thinking  much  of  it,  Marin  begins  to  hum  a  song  that  they  used  to  sing  in  their  village  by  the  sea  —  before  everything  fell  apart  and  changed.  Her  voice  is  sweet  as  birdsong,  and  although  the  song  she  hums  is  a  more  lighthearted  shanty,  the  melody  is  expertly  crafted  into  a  million  small  pieces  that  weave  together  like  a  story,  like  a  thread  that  wraps  around  all  who  hear  it.  Her  throat  warms,  as  though  she  is  back  in  Scotland  with  her  mother,  a  young  thing  with  no  worries  and  a  cup  of  cocoa  in  her  hands  to  soothe  her  against  the  howl  of  winter.  She  remembers  the  taste  of  cinnamon  on  her  tongue,  though  it’s  nothing  but  a  memory.  The  song  stops,  and  the  warmth  dies.  The  guards  had  been  intentionally...  distracted.  Not  this  one.  She  thinks  that  she  likes  him  too  much  to  put  him  under  her  spell.

'I’m  afraid  you’ve  let  trouble  in  through  the  door' he tries to make sense of these words, what she could mean by them. the door would have been carefully guarded at such an hour and surely the guards on duty would not have let anything even verging on trouble get through. his head shakes gently, an attempt to soothe whatever worry she was voicing, "the guards would have taken care of that." it was clear she'd been through quite the ordeal, perhaps she knew not what she was saying. an understandable affliction. 

eric is stricken by a chill that courses through his entire body as she leans into him. he can only imagine how much worse it was for her, and in that moment he wishes he had something, a blanket or robe, to offer her for warmth. but she had accepted his offer to find a place to rest and in doing so he could get her to a place where he'd have such things to offer. "apologies are not necessary," a soft smile appearing on his lips, "as a sailor myself, i know how disorienting that can feel." his arm them moves around her, offering more stability and comfort. she was safe here, he wanted convey that. "after you've gotten some rest and recovered a bit, i would love to hear about it— if you're willing, of course. hearing a tale of such adventure, especially one with such a harrowing conclusion could not be passed up. but right now, taking care of this mystery guest, making her comfortable were much more important. 

"i'm going to bring you to my bed chamber— it's close and i would like to avoid waking my mother or gri— well, anyone. are you alright to walk? you can lean on me as much as you'd like." with that he takes a tentative step, testing the waters so to speak. if she were too tired or wobbly to walk, he would find another way to get her to warmth. he'd carry her himself it that is what it took. he was not about to let her suffer any more, not on his watch. 

[flownintothesun]

André Aciman — Call Me by Your Name

[flownintothesun]

      𝐇𝐄  𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇  𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒  that  are  cold  as  first  frost,  spreading  over  grass  and  tree  and  field,  seeking  warmth  but  finding  only  winter.  Like  the  first  fallen  snow  —  beautiful  and  cold  in  a  way  that  do  not  reflect  the  warmth  that  resides  ever-present  in  his  heart,  trapped  just  beneath  the  icy  surface,  waiting  for  spring  to  come  —  summer.  A  girl  with  sand  underfoot,  a  girl  who  reminds  him  that  there  is  beauty  to  be  found  in  the  most  hostile  places.  A  wildflower,  rather  than  a  rose  —  an  ocean,  and  not  a  lake.   

       He  is  desperate  as  he  searches  her  eyes  —  recalls  the  tributes  fallen  so  that  she  could  live.  He  never  watches  the  games  because  he  doesn’t  want  to  remember  them.  But  now,  he  can’t  forget.  Can’t  forget  what  it  was  like  to  hold  his  breath  for  so  long  his  chest  had  been  heaving  when  he’d  remembered  to  inhale.  “You  don’t  believe  that,”  he  says,  his  voice  calm  and  even.  He  isn’t  certain  which  of  them  he’s  trying  to  convince.  “You  can’t.”  

        Even  he  can  see  how  she  changes  day  after  day  like  summer  faded  into  autumn,  casting  each  beautiful  leaf  to  the  ground  to  rot  in  winter.  Try  as  he  might,  he  cannot  catch  each  of  her  fallen  leaves  and  cradle  them  for  safekeeping.  He  simply  has  to  hope  for  the  promise  of  spring.  Just  a  little  longer...  just  a  little  longer...

        Before  what?

       “If  you  truly  believed  that  this  is  all  there  is,  you  wouldn’t  be  here.  You  wouldn’t  have  fought  so...  damn  hard...to  be  here,  Fish.  With  me.  So  don’t  give  up  on  me  now.  He’s  only  a  man.  He  is  not  deity  nor  god.  Just  flesh  and  bone  and  blood.  And  this  moment,  right  now?  You  are  here,  and  I  am  telling  you  that  I  love  you  and  that  has  to  matter,  because  if  it  doesn’t,  there  is  nothing  good  left  in  the  world.”

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐒 & 𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐇 @lovepurposed

"Surviving is all we can do," she exhaled, desperately leaning into his touch like a fish out of water.

He did not understand. How could he? He had not been in the arena. He did not know the nightmares that plagued her sleep. She had stopped living the day of the reaping. Here, she only survived, yes. But survival was better than death.

Yes, the President's protection was like a snake, slowly but surely suffocating her until all the air would finally leave her lungs. Yes, the smell of roses was haunting her, sticking to her skin like a wet shirt.

But his gifts had saved her in the arena, and his attention was saving her now. She was rich, she was famous, she was popular. She used to be happy, once. She used to be alive. She used to smell like the ocean.

"I'd rather be alive and sad than be six feet under like the 23 tributes who died. What would you prefer?"

Would President Snow kill his own grandson? She doubted it. But he could send Francis to the districts, force him to become a nameless peacekeeper. The thought of losing him was terrifying, just as terrifying as the thought of loving him.

There was no happy ending for them.

"I never left the arena, Francis. And I never will." And perhaps it was time he realized he was in the arena with her, now.

[flownintothesun]

June Jordan, from "Intifada Incantation: Poem #8 for b.b.L.", Directed by Desire: The Complete Poems of June Jordan

[flownintothesun]

      𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒  𝐀𝐒  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍'𝐒  𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒  𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓,  and  almost  immediately,  he  wishes  that  they  were  perfect  strangers  again.  There  is  promise  within  the  pages  of  a  story  that  belongs  to  two  perfect  strangers.  Some  of  the  stories  are  small  —  a  chance  meeting  that  becomes  nothing.  Others  can  change  your  life,  or  so  he’s  read.  He  prefers  to  lurk  as  a  bookmark  might  —  constantly  trapped  between  the  pages  of  someone  else’s  adventure,  rather  than  set  out  on  his  own,  he  thinks.  After  all,  the  prince  is  usually  meant  to  slay  dragons  and  rescue  damsels.  Francis  is  a  little…  well,  broken.  For  starters,  he  thinks  that  he’d  rather  like  to  befriend  the  dragon.  And  then,  there’s  the  other  little  problem  —  how  very  little  interest  he  has  in  rescuing  damsels.  Most  of  them  can  rescue  themselves,  and  if  the  case  should  arise  in  which  they  did  want  to  be  swept  away  —  it  should  be  by  someone  who  would  love  them  fiercely.  A  knight,  rather  than  a  prince.  Or  perhaps  a  prince  who  doesn't  want  a  knight  of  his  own.

        Nevertheless,  Elio’s  features  contort  in  recognition,  and  Francis  has  learned  to  expect  it  now  —  the  wide  eyes,  the  fumbling  over  words,  the  conversations  that  stay  at  surface  level.  How  is  the  weather  today?  It’s  fine,  thanks...  but  I  think  we’re  expecting  rain  later.

       This  is  unkind  of  him,  and  unfair  of  him  to  expect.  It’s  just  that  the  story  doesn’t  usually  start  with  the  prince,  really.  How  is  he  supposed  to  forge  his  own  way?  Especially  with  his  father  trying  so  desperately  to  ensure  that  he,  well...  that  he  doesn’t.  It’s  a  sad  twist  of  fate,  really.  He’s  not  even  meant  to  be  a  prince.  He’s  more  of  a  bastard  —  he  just...  happens  to  be  Henri  Devereaux’s  only  heir.  His  beginnings  hadn’t  been  gilded  and  golden  —  but  simple  and  full  of  love  and  kindness.  And  music.  He  misses  it  —  the  sound  of  song  filling  his  head  with  melodic  threads,  weaving  together  a  world  that  lives  and  breathes  rather  than  one  that  simply  exists.  

       “Had  you  found  a  place?”  he  can’t  help  but  ask,  leaning  against  a  table  and  curls  falling  in  front  of  his  face.  He  doesn’t  want  to  get  trapped  in  the  cycle  of  pleasantries  and  boring,  official  exchanges.  He  wants  substance,  aches  for  it.  “To  steal  away  to,  I  mean.  There  are  rumors  that  there  are  secret  passages,  but  I  haven’t  found  them.  I  can’t  say  that  I’d  mind  a  bit  of  a  disappearing  act  myself,”  he  confesses,  bringing  the  wine  glass  to  his  lips  and  sipping  the  last  sip  before  placing  it  on  the  table  behind  him.  “Shall  we  then?”

"Ohno I don't expect you to know our last name." Elio is quick to respond, "I mean… We are here to raise funds for our charity but we're not like… Well known or anything." Unlike him. There wasn't a single person in this room who didn't know him and far beyond it. Some people here might know his parents because of their work but that would be the extent of it.

His curls bounce around when he shakes his head. "No this is my first glass I'm not drunk I'm just… Events like these are not for me. I never go to them and I was thinking of sneaking out until I bumped into you and now everyone is staring and…" He stops himself and takes in a deep breath. You got this Elio. You could still turn this entire conversation around. Not that it would matter someone like him would undoubtedly forget a conversation with someone as mundane as him in an hour. "Again my sincere apologies your hi-… I mean Francis." He says after he composed himself. Seeing the prince up close made him realize he was handsome even more than on the television. It was the kind of beauty that took his breath away but he was so out of his league, that it was laughable to even think about such a thing. Besides wasn't he dating someone? He hadn't kept up with the gossip. In fact, he never did since it only interested him a little.

"I hope you're having a pleasant evening so far," Elio says in an attempt to converse with him. "I know I said I tried to sneak away early but the event is lovely… It's just not my usual scene and I don't know a single person in this room besides my parents."

[flownintothesun]

Nikos Engonopoulos, from Bolívar, a Greek Poem

[flownintothesun]

     𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄  𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒  𝐈𝐍  𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐘'𝐒  𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒  like  the  sun  reflecting  upon  a  gray  sea.  It  would  be  foolish  to  underestimate  him,  though  many  have  done  in  his  time.  He  keeps  his  demons  just  beneath  the  surface  —  a  lifetime  of  experience  from  both  sides  in  using  someone  and  being  used.  The  Universe  fucking  hates  him  —  but  he  steals  a  little  of  its  thunder  when  he  gets  the  chance  —  keeps  a  balance,  rather  than  keeping  score.  That’s  just  life.  He  knows  that,  she  knows  that.  Knows  the  bravado,  knows  the  act,  because  he’s  been  doing  it  all  of  his  life.  

        …he  admires  her.          That  makes  her  dangerous.   

       But  what’s  life  without  a  little  tango  through  hell?  A  dance,  a  dangerous  woman  with  freckles  and  playful  eyes.  He  smirks,  draws  away  and  plucks  a  cigarette  out  of  his  pocket  instead,  lighting  it  as  though  he’s  not  interested.  It’s  a  game.  They  both  know  it’s  a  game.  “Cute  enough  that  I  know  better,”  he  says,  cigarette  dangling  from  his  lips  before  he  takes  a  long  drag.  He  doesn’t  smoke  much,  really.  It’s  more  for  the  aesthetic  than  anything.  “But  I  bet  those  doe  eyes  work  real  well  on  some  unsuspecting  bloke.  You  could  have  a  pretty  lucrative  career  in  petty  crime  you  look  at  enough  guys  like  that.” 

         Thing  is,  there’s  nothing  that  she  could  want  from  him  that  belongs  to  him.  Information  about  his  boss  or  someone  in  the  line  of  business?  A  head’s  up  on  the  product  that’s  being  moved  or  the  intel  they’re  in  charge  of?  Sure.  Westley  knows  what  kind  of  guy  he  is  —  the  kind  that’s  good  for  a  night,  for  a  story  —  the  stranger  from  the  other  side  of  the  tracks.  He’s  the  kind  of  guy  people  want  to  try  to  remember,  even  as  they  forget.  But  not  the  type  that  they  want  to  find  again.  Not  the  kind  for  second  dates  and  talks  about  the  future.  It’s  for  the  best.  “C’mon  gorgeous,  what  do  you  really  want?”

She doesn’t take it personally. If there was one thing Amelia could envy the masses for, it was their ability to trust so freely, so openly. Though, in that world, there was hardly anything trying to literally stab you in the back. You break for a moment, trust the wrong person, and you’re dead. It was better to be alone, it was safer that way. If the assassin could not take her own miserable life no one else could either. In this world, it was kill or be killed, and trust simply could not thrive where it could not survive.

Amelia could hardly trust herself.

❝ What ? ❞ Gasping, the assassin places a hand over her heart. Face twisting, and eyes getting big. She appears shocked, devastated to her very core. It's almost convincing; but she doubted he'd fall for one of her plays again. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice ?

❝ Baby, you can’t possibly still be mad about that ⸻ ❞ The vulnerable expression disappears to be replaced with a wide grin, Her chin lifts, fixing him with a pointed downward gaze, and parrots his own words right back to him. ❝ Don’t take it personally, yeah ? ❞ They were all just trying to do what they had to do to survive, it was just lucky that total destruction had not followed.

She leans in a little closer to close some of the distance between them, head tilting to the side. ❝ Oh yeah ? How cute am I ? ❞

[flownintothesun]

[flownintothesun]

      "𝐀𝐑𝐄  𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐒  𝐀𝐍  𝐈𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓  𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋,  𝐈  𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑?"  Marin  wonders  at  her  companion’s  innocence,  his  naivety.  It  isn’t  his  fault,  she  knows.  Oppression  works  the  same  regardless  of  the  marginalized  group  it’s  intended  for.  To  create  hatred  —  predators  feed  into  fear  and  ignorance.  Of  course  the  world  at  large  believes  that  magical  creatures  are  not  real.  Of  course  they  believe  that  were  they  to  exist,  they  are  the  villains  of  the  story.  Only  humanity  could  serve  their  own  narrative  so  well.  It’s  strange  —  she’d  never  known  herself  to  be  anything  more  than  human  before  coming  to  this  place  —  but  she  embraces  it...  being  different,  even  if  it  keeps  her  caged.  If  it  wasn’t  her  voice,  it  would  be  her  appearance.  She  was  doomed  to  end  up  on  Luther  Prescott’s  arm  any  which  way  you  roll  the  dice.  But  there’s  always  —   

        Well,  it  could  be  worse.  Humanity  makes  the  real  monsters  —  evil  men  who  divert  the  attention  away  from  themselves  by  pointing  fingers  at  others.   

         “Maybeeee,”  she  draws  out  in  a  tease,  smiling  as  she  moves  closer,  fiddles  with  the  neck  his  coat  just  because  she  can,  “Sirens  are  just  women  who  like  to  sing  songs  and  kiss  pretty  boys.  Or  girls.  I  can  hardly  say  that  those  are  bad  intentions.”

       She  moves  away  from  him,  turning  her  back  and  looking  over  her  shoulder  before  looking  back  toward  the  stars.  She  could  do  it.  She  could  find  a  way  out  of  the  collar  around  her  neck  that  keeps  her  siren  song  locked  in  her  throat.  She’d  found  a  way  out  of  Dominik’s  control  —  Luther  is  different,  smarter  —  but  still  only  human.  Imperfect.  Fallible.  What  would  she  do  if  she  could  sing  this  lad  a  song?  Would  she  tell  him  to  take  her  away  from  here?  He  seems  nice,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  involve  him.   

"My apologies," Elio says feeling a bit daft for asking. "I just thought you wouldn't join the circus if it wasn't something you loved doing but then again at the end of the day I suppose it's just like any other job." Not everyone gets to achieve their dreams in life. Some of them were simply too big to ever achieve not even to mention that real life could easily get in the way. Bills had to be paid after all and a person had to eat to stay alive. "It's probably a foolish thing to say but I do hope that you will get to do whatever you truly want in life someday."

At her question, he shifts his position to properly look her up and down. Did she look like a siren? She certainly was pretty enough to be one but if the stories about sirens were true they could also turn hideous before stealing one's soul or lead you to your ruins. "Hmm, I don't think you look like one." He finally decides, "Then again when I saw you back there at work… It looked convincing but I suppose that's part of the illusion to keep the audience captivated but now that I see you up close… You look beautiful do not get me wrong but I can not imagine you having any bad intentions. Not with me at least."

"Ah yes, who wouldn't like to have a phoenix?" He joked, "Guess that is the next thing he needs to add to have a true showstopper but I bet they are very hard to train."

[flownintothesun]

BEFORE SUNRISE (1995) dir. Richard Linklater