#โก ๐น๐ฐ๐ผ๐ด๐ & ๐ต๐๐ฐ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ธ๐ โคท like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain.
an official request for @batteredoptimist 's James, Muriel and Rosie's hearts this Sappy Day.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐๐กโ ๐ฟ๐๐ฃ๐,
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ๐น๐๐๐๐๐๐ , ๐๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ฆ & ๐๐๐๐๐ โก
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ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย "๐๐จ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ฏ๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ฑ๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ง๐๐ ๐จ๐ ๐๐๐ข๐ซ๐ข๐๐ฌ? ๐๐ก๐๐ฒ'๐ซ๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ข๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐๐ค ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฌ๐๐ก๐ข๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ญ๐ก๐จ๐ฌ๐ ๐ฐ๐ก๐จ ๐๐ง๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐ญ๐๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ฆ." ( ๐
๐๐ฒ!๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ )
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ฆ๐ ๐ง๐จ๐ญ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐.. ( @batteredoptimist )
ย ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ filter softly between the trees, casting rainbows on his face from his companionโs wings reminds Francis of all of the things that bring him happiness and joy. Here, in this dream, his heart is at rest. He has nowhere to go, and no one to be โ content to spend his hours lying among leaves that crunch beneath him and leave confetti in his hair. He plucks one up by the stem โ holding it up to the light and twirling it between his pointer finger and thumb, studying it for a moment before a lazy smile spreads across his features. The color of autumn suits his companion very much, he thinks. This nearly-auburn leaf, for example, perfectly matches the beautiful ladโs hair. Of course, things do so often tend to be perfectly lovely like this in a dream.
ย ย ย ย ย His father would tell him to wake up, and to get his head promptly out of the clouds โ but he finds that he wants to linger for awhile longer. Itโs nice here, and quiet. There are no forests like this in Paris โ nothing that feels old and rife with the unknown, with the possibility that anything could happen. This is the kind of place, he thinks, where fairytales are born โ where the great heroes start their โonce upon a timeโ. Itโs too beautiful to be real โ and so is he with his creamy skin, and artist-sculpted body. Any maestro of the arts would look upon Francisโs dream lad with envy โ for if he was a monument in a museum somewhere, the artist behind him would have captured wildness, and the beauty therein. Francis has always been able to see beauty leaking through the mundane โ but with this lad, itโs utterly blinding. Time with his father, though, has given Francis one foot in reality โ and he can see the Faery-lad for what he is โ the most desperate cries of Francisโs heart.
ย ย ย ย In this lad, he sees everything that he wants to be โ beautiful, free, magical, light โ and he also sees everything that he wants for himself. He doesnโt want a mundane love, or a conventional love โ nor does he wish for a lover who has forgotten how to laugh and play and smile. When his dream lad smiles, Francis forgets the sun โ a dangerous thing, when one is flying in the in-betweens of life โ beware of Icarus, for the fall is great. โOf course I believe in faeries,โ he muses. In reality, he isnโt certain that he does โ although he wants to believe in them very badly. โYouโre here, arenโt you?โ he ponders, letting his gaze drift along each of his museโs lines โ swallowing hard and pointedly looking away with a blush as his gaze lands between his dream-ladโs legs. Itโs not the nakedness that bothers him โ itโs what his reaction to it implies. Shame is a learned thing, a gift from his father to a lad who has seen love in all of its forms and thought it beautiful.
ย ย ย Propping himself up on his elbow, Francis suppresses a hiccup. Strange, the things that follow him into dreams. โAnd which do you plan to bring me, I wonder? Mischief or luck? Perhaps a bit of both,โ he teases. In your dreams, you can be whoever you want to be. You donโt have to be what the world expects โ no โ what your father expects. โIโll admit, I could use a little luck,โ he says softly. โThough Iโve met you, so you see โ something good has already happened to me today. This could very well be any other dream, and instead itโs this one. I didnโt think that Iโd see you again after the last. Iโm glad that I was wrong. Will you tell me your name this time?โ
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ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย [ ๐๐๐๐๐ ] : ๐ฌ๐๐ง๐๐๐ซ ๐๐ก๐๐๐ค๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐จ๐ง ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ข๐ฏ๐๐ซ ๐๐จ๐ฅ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฐ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ง ๐๐ฆ๐จ๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง๐๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐ฌ๐ฌ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ข๐ง๐๐ข๐๐๐ง๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฆ๐๐ค๐ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ฒ'๐ซ๐ ๐จ๐ค๐๐ฒ. ๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ๐๐๐ ๐ฆ๐๐ฆ๐ ๐ง๐จ๐ญ ๐๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐. ( @batteredoptimist )
ย ย ย ย ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐
๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ and were he in a forest, he would be battered by any number of branches or roots, and still, he would try to run. In reality, he is frozen in place, frozen in time, standing in his room with boxes half-full, no real organization to them โ just the action of moving because you must move, because youโre not given a choice to stay still and process. The voice at the door makes him jump, and draws him back to painful reality. The copy of Coelhoโs The Alchemist slips from his grasp and hits the floor. His eyes are burning, but tears wonโt come. He had always told Robin that heโs a coward. The truth is, he should have sought him out immediately. Francis is not used to asking for comfort, no matter how badly he wants it.
ย ย ย ย ย The picture wonโt be published, of course. The one depicting what was meant to be the end of the world as he knew it in one way, had become just that in another way entirely. His mother had intercepted it โ and his father had intercepted her. What had there been to say to them that the picture had not already said in a thousand words, as pictures so often do? He imagines that by now, word has made it around the campus that the golden son is leaving โ that he has been disowned. There is nothing that could be worse for his reputation, though Robinโs had thankfully been spared.
ย ย ย ย ย ย Perpetually cold hands tremble, and his eyes are glassy as he looks both at and through the person he has come to love. The first words to tumble from his lips should be to ask if Robin is okay โ but instead, thereโs a shaky and offbeat, โI canโt find Percy,โ Francis says, referencing the beautiful dove that keeps him company, and that Robin had helped him to name. โI donโt want him to think Iโve abandoned him. Nor you โ I havenโt abandoned you, I... Iโm leaving.โ And if his once-tutor had still been alive, there may have been a saving grace for his reputation. Alas โ his beautiful romance is turning into a tragedy. In society, one cannot be associated with someone who has been cut off.
ย ย ย ย ย He trembles โ wants to gather his darling lad into his arms โ wants so desperately for it to be just like the stories where love prevails and love conquers all. He canโt ask that. He doesnโt even know *how* to be poor โ the romanticism of it had always just been that. The whispers have already started. They wonder what he did. His father will release a statement that their views no longer align and that he will not be associated with what is no longer his son. โThere is a section โ โ he says, almost nonsensically, fumbling for a brick of a book on a half-depleted shelf, โ โ in Les Miserables that reads โIt is a bad moment to pronounce the word love. No matter, I do pronounce it. And I glorify it. Love, the future is thine.โโ He turns right to the page, as though it makes a difference, only to set the book down and walk to his door frame to let his loved one in. The door closes behind him. Francis is damned, but Robin is not.
ย ย ย ย โI donโt know what I shall do next โ isnโt that strange? I had everything figured out once โ and now I donโt know what will become of me. But I know Iโll never forget you. I donโt think I could,โ his voice is cracking proper now, years and years of weight dissolving the unbreakable dam into absolutely nothing. โ โ even a million years from now, in a different life. I donโt think I could ever forget you. Perhaps to tell you that I love you is cruel and yet โ I do. I love you. I donโt want to go. I donโt want to be a tragedy. And Percyโs missing โ and I โ I canโt be what you need me to be without a name.โ Itโs almost worse than being dead, this kind of erasure. Perhaps it would have never worked in the end, with their circumstances. Perhaps they were only fooling themselves. โYouโre still such a mystery to me, Robin โ and I thought at least โ maybe โ โ he thumbs over those precious, soft cheeks, draws him in close. โIf I couldnโt be a real prince charming โ maybe I could...maybe I could at least be yours.โ
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ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย [ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ง๐ค๐ฒ ] ๐ฌ๐๐ง๐๐๐ซ ๐ก๐จ๐จ๐ค๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ข๐ซ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ง๐ค๐ฒ ๐๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ซ ๐ฐ๐ข๐ญ๐ก ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ข๐ฏ๐๐ซ'๐ฌ (๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ)
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ๐๐ง๐๐ ๐จ๐ ๐ก๐๐ง๐๐ฌ & ๐ญ๐จ๐ฎ๐๐ก. ( @batteredoptimist )
ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ โ the kind with no expectations โ no one to see and nothing to do, nowhere to be except in each otherโs company. There are forevers that are filled with chaos and raucous laughter, and Francis is certain that those can be every bit as lovely โ but he and his beloved find comfort in both the talkative moments, and the quiet ones like this, where there doesnโt need to be more than what they have just draped on their comfortable and dilapidated old sofa, Jamesโs head pressed tenderly to Francisโs heart, and Francis cradling his darlingโs fluffy head, bending to kiss it dearly every so often.
ย ย ย ย ย ย They traverse in and out of sleep to the sound of the rain and distant thunder that once, Francis might have feared โ but with James has come to love. Their wind chimes tinkle just outside, making music of the rain โ and Francis finds that itโs a beautiful sentiment. His tutor had once taught him that a piano has dark keys and light keys โ and that you need both to create a beautiful melody. Sad or tragic things can be beautiful too. When most people think of rain โ they think of the gray day. Francis thinks of rain boots and splashing in puddles and hot baths and the plants growing nice and steadily in the ground. Rainy days are good for reading books, or having a nap with the one he loves, or slow dancing in the living room.
ย ย ย ย ย ย Autumn rains are perhaps his favorite of all. Theyโre a little colder โ but thatโs all right, it just means that he and James get to wear the oversized sweaters knitted with love. They too, are imperfect, and thatโs what makes Francis treasure them the most, he thinks. Anyone could go out and buy a sweater in a perfect color and with perfect stitching โ but no one could recreate a James Pollard masterpiece. Itโs full of tiny little imperfections and strange colors and one side might be a little longer than the next because his dear one loses count. These sweaters will always make Francis smile.
ย ย ย ย ย ย On the coffee table, tea is steaming, filling the air with the smell of light floral tones, with a hint of berries. James still makes the tea for them โ Francis probably wasnโt meant to get it right. Thatโs all right โ one canโt be good at everything, and together he and James make do just fine. Maybe not conventionally, but that suits them just perfect, thank you very much.
ย ย ย ย ย Craning his golden crown of hair down, he buries his nose into his darlingโs hair. He always smells like their garden. Itโs his pride and joy. They sell to Mr. Morrisโs sons โ James gets to do the thing he loves most, and everyoneโs happy that he does. No one can make them grow like his darling โ itโs as though he speaks magic into them in every instance. Perhaps itโs just his kindness and his gentleness that makes them grow so beautifully though โ a โthank youโ for caring about them so dearly.
ย ย ย ย ย Absently, his hand begins working along Jamesโs spine beneath the blanket, and then, beneath his sweater and over the jagged scars that linger on his delicate skin. Francis remembers telling him that scars often are stories of a different life โ a life before. That maybe he was a creature of magic who once possessed wings. His beloved had liked that, and held tight to him, and Francis had felt such a profound sense of happiness that regardless of such things โ past lives or current circumstances โ that the world had brought them together, and had given him James to love.
ย ย ย ย ย His darlingโs face is humid from being burrowed into him, and it makes Francis think of how he wakes up every morning, entangled in love almost like itโs thread. Fate has made it so clear that they are destined for this happiness. To share this life. All of the bad in the before is gone โ all that there is is here and now โ Jamesโs pinky entwined with his, Francisโs hand tracing Jamesโs spine like a well-loved book, and forever ahead of them.
ย ย ย ย ย ย Here, like this, heโs really, truly happy.
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ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย ๐ข ๐๐ข๐๐งโ๐ญ ๐๐๐ฅ๐ข๐๐ฏ๐ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐๐ญ๐ ๐ฎ๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ข ๐ฆ๐๐ญ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ (๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐
๐๐ฌ๐ก๐ข๐จ๐ง๐๐)
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ๐๐๐จ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐ฉ๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ญ๐ฌ. ( @batteredoptimist )
ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐
๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐, and elsewhere โ birds sing in their symphonies, creating natureโs song all around them. Itโs beautiful โ and in Francisโs old life, he would never have noticed. Certainly, heโs always been called toward the odd and unusual โ and it doesnโt entirely surprise him that heโd ended up in a manor in the middle of England having sex parties and drinking and trying every substance imaginable. Why should it surprise him, then, that James exists? Is it because with every word his darling speaks, he feels more alive than heโs ever felt? More whole than he ever thought possible?
ย ย ย ย ย The effects of the drugs still linger โ and Francis is grateful for them. At some moment in the future, he will have to consider that heโs wandered into the forest with his lover again โ that heโs naked and lost. But it seems inconsequential with James around. The time before and the horrors he had seen feel so far away now, and all that settles over him now is peace. There could be nothing else in the presence of a love that is so all-encompassing that Francis doesnโt know what to call it either, if not fate. Madness, perhaps โ an illusion of everything that is beloved to him, wanted so desperately that Francis has created him. Has he gone mad?
ย ย ย ย ย Cool fingertips reach up to ghost across Jamesโs wings so delicately he can barely feel them โ but James can. They flutter for him, and feel like tissue paper. How easy would it be to break something so perfect and beautiful? Real, or not real โ no one can ever know. People destroy beautiful things, like his darling, his dear one. Jamesโs skin reminds Francis of the glow of the moon, or of the stars. More credit is given to the sun โ but the moon provides her light when the sun is tired, making sure an otherwise dark world is never fully ensconced. The moon is much more romantic than the sun, if people cared to look.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Perhaps he should be done with trying to make sense of his life. Perhaps one day, heโll wake, and this will all be but a dream โ but for now, being here in the grass and leaves with James is the only thing he ever wants to be real โ and he draws his love closer for it, pressing a kiss against his head. Itโs different with him. An artist should treat their muse with utmost care โ and still, James is much more than even that. โPromise me that youโll stay this time, darling?โ Francis asks, tracing his fingers down Jamesโs spine like a well-beloved book. โIf this is fate, then shouldnโt we be together always?โ
ย ย ย ย ย He cannot shake the feeling that he isnโt meant for that drafty old house, and parties with nameless and faceless men and women. He cannot accept a world that is just as void of magic as Henry Devereaux would claim. And what is love if not the greatest magic of all? โYour eyes remind me of the forest,โ he says cryptically, moving to stroke up Jamesโs hip. Their legs are entangled, and Francis only wants to bring them closer together. โWonโt you keep me with you always?โ And somehow, he knows that his beloved already has. Perhaps not in this life โ but in the others. The one before, and before, and before.
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ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย ๐ฐ๐ก๐๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฌ ๐ฆ๐, ๐ฅ๐จ๐จ๐ค ๐ฎ๐ฉ ๐๐ญ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ฌ๐ค๐ฒ (๐
๐๐ฒ!๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐ง๐ฒ ๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐!)
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ๐๐๐จ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง ๐ฉ๐ซ๐จ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ญ๐ฌ. ( @batteredoptimist )
ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ a beautiful something to close the book of oneโs life. He had grown up Catholic, but neither his mother nor his father were really practicing so much as using the notion of โGodโ where it best served them. He supposes that means that when they think of death, they think of heaven and hell. How would they feel to know that their son is dying in a forest surrounded by the Fey, and other such impossible creatures. Heโs so young still โ and yet, it does seem like his journey has been a long one. His only regret is that there was so little time spent with James. It doesnโt seem fair โ though he supposes that most things in life donโt, when all is said and all is done. James gets to live forever. Francisโs life to his most beloved will be a drop in an ocean.
ย ย ย ย ย ย The light, as it turns out โ isnโt a metaphor after all. It starts with spots around your vision โ like the kind you get when youโve stared too long at the sun. But what heโs staring at now is Jamesโs face โ grief-stricken, tears falling down the apples of his cheeks. Itโs so rare that one attends their own funeral. So fitting that he will return to the Earth. It had taken him so long to learn, to understand โ and thereโs still so much left to go. He never got to finish Jamesโs song. He supposes that his darling will simply have to carry it with him wherever he goes. Coco and Muriel say that thereโs nothing they can do โ that his death must happen. Itโs connected to James somehow, though thatโs where it gets fickle โ thatโs where he doesnโt understand.
ย ย ย ย ย In one of his episodes, heโd been given wings โ wings like Jamesโs, like a Faery. He doesnโt understand why they canโt make the change permanent โ why he has to let go now, and find out what comes after Jamesโs sweet face succumbs to the light. Heโs never been one to push back too hard โ but if not now, then when? His brow furrows as James speaks to him. Francis wants to ask what comes after death โ but his tongue is heavy, and there are more pressing issues at hand. Hand. He seeks out belovedโs hand โ soft and warm, and James fiddles with his fingers. Itโs almost human. Sometimes, heโs almost human โ and sometimes heโs so wholly magic that Francis simply looks on in awe. He wants to stay โ wants to be a part of Jamesโs story โ or at the very least get to watch him, help him.
ย ย ย ย โNo,โ he croaks, โYouโll find me.โ Itโs desperate, and Francis feels two tears trickle down his cheeks, โIf I come back, youโll find me, right, mon amour?โ This time itโs him squeezing Jamesโs fingers โ and he shoves back at the light with everything in him. โI donโt want to live in a world without your kindness and your goodness and your magic. It would be empty. Like a book unwritten.โ There is no Francis without James โ there never could be โ never a whole person, anyway. โYouโll find me, darling โ and weโll do all of the things we should have done. Weโll dance under the stars and Iโll finish your song. Iโll remember.โ How could he forget? Itโs clear that if multiple lives exist โ that his have all been connected to his darling. Heโs been dreaming of him forever. He would try again for James. โI could never forget you.โ
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ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย โย ย ๐๐จ๐ฆ๐๐ญ๐ก๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฎ๐ ๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐ข๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ, ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ฅ๐ฌ๐จ ๐ฌ๐๐ฐ ๐ข๐ง ๐ฆ๐.ย ย โย (๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ฆ)
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ ๐๐๐ซ๐ค & ๐ญ๐จ๐ฑ๐ข๐ ๐ฌ๐ก๐ข๐ฉ๐ฌ. ( @batteredoptimist )
ย ย ย ย ย ๐
๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ โ a language gifted to him by another man โ one who smells of wood-shavings, and whose body vibrates when he speaks. Muriel Bernardi is a blank page, and a clean slate โ and Francis would be lying if he said that there wasnโt a sort of comfort that came with that. Since everything had happened at Parkwood โ the well-meaning people in his life have all made a great fuss over his needs and his care. With that has come a certain expectation that Francis is certain they donโt realize theyโre setting. But when they tell him about things that he likes and dislikes โ it doesnโt feel like theyโre talking about him. Whoever he was before is lost to him. He knows that heโll never be the same. He wouldnโt know to mourn it so much if it werenโt evident by the people around him that they are buried in their grief โ good intentions aside.
ย ย ย ย So, Francis has been spending a lot of his time away from the well-meant reminders and the heaviness that comes with them. When heโs playing the violin โ itโs the closest he feels to....well, to something. Maybe not to who he was before โ but who he is now, who he could be. Muriel doesnโt ask anything of him โ but listens to him and what the music has to say. Pages of his new story are being written not in words, or in paint as he might have apparently once done โ but in musical notes. Still, there is a disconnect โ but heโs known that all along. If Francis is to be and write the melody, James is the harmony โ without him, the song isnโt really a song at all. James will always be his music and his muse, in everything he will ever touch or do.
ย ย ย ย But there are still pieces of both of them that have slipped away โ and remain in that place. Francis carries so much guilt and shame for what he cannot be for James, though he knows that James loves him regardless. Itโs only that he canโt help but think of the person James had originally fallen in love with. Valery and the woman that had been his mother had both spoken to him in a โdonโt you rememberโ way. They had both cried, and Francis had comforted them, even though he no longer remembered them. They were grieving a student, and a son. And Francis was the one who had taken him away. Itโs because of that that he frets at his gentle love, his good-natured darling โ who would never dare to tell him that heโs not the person that he was, and that he canโt quite measure up. Francis hasnโt wanted to hold James back. How to blend the melody and harmony when youโre missing pages? He hasnโt quite figured out how to fully bring them together, or if to do so would be selfish.
ย ย ย ย ย James has his own demons lying in wait in the dark. Francis hears pieces of it when they think he isnโt listening โ from Sol or from Doris, sometimes from James himself. Francis can never understand the pain that he witnessed James going through at the hands of Edward May. He can never understand fully what it must have been like to be trapped in that place with that man, and the fear and uncertainty that had ultimately ended in a swell, a crescendo, a crash. Francis had lost his memory and his sight. They focus on those things because theyโre tangible. But Francis isnโt naive โ he knows that James has lost things too, even if he doesnโt recall the whole story. Jamesโs innocence, his joy, his peace โ all stolen from him. His loved one worries about making mistakes, worries that heโs doing the wrong thing. He gets nervous, tries to be strong. How long had he tried to be strong?
ย ย ย ย Frowning, Francis reaches across the garden, wobbling a little bit on his knees in the dirt as he fumbles for his darling. He hasnโt meant to be so absent. Heโs trying so hard to figure out their song, their story, how they can speak it to one another in a language both of them understand. He feels James jet out to catch him โ and it โ it shouldnโt be so hard. He wants to catch his love, too. Protect him. โYouโre wrong,โ he says, scooting over to James and hoping heโs not crushing any plants or flowers along the way. โI see no ugliness in you, my love โ only light. You are my constant, shining star โ with you, I see only the beauty that remains.โ Thumbing a dirty finger across Jamesโs cheek, he leans slowly, slowly in to rest his forehead against his belovedโs much sweatier one. This is his loveโs language โ soil and plants, seeds and flowers. These are how he writes his new chapters โ drawing them into the earth where they will rest for awhile, and then flourish and grow and bloom. โDarling, you could never be anything but beautiful to me.โ When nothing else had made sense, James had. He always will. One book has closed, another has opened โ itโs a different story but the same love. Heโll do better this time, he swears he will.
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๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ :
โ โฐ โ โโโ with all of the love to nonny's ( @batteredoptimist ) muses, as always and as ever. of course i couldn't do a meme without mentioning my muses' darling loves.
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โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย โ ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ญ๐๐ค๐ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐ก๐๐ง๐ ๐๐ง๐ ๐๐ฅ๐จ๐ฌ๐ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐๐ฒ๐๐ฌ. ๐ฉ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐๐ง๐ ๐ฐ๐โ๐ซ๐ ๐๐ง๐ฒ๐ฐ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ ๐๐ฅ๐ฌ๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ก๐๐ซ๐. โ ๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 15 January 2023.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐
๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ the wind has been knocked โ no, squeezed โ out of him. He is an accordion that is strung out and limp as he reaches one trembling hand toward the love of his life. Jamesโs face comes into view, and it takes him a few moments to recognize his lover as familiar. โJames,โ he wheezes, โ...darling.โ Itโs as though heโs trapped in a vicious void in one moment, and then James brings back the light โ it reflects off the yellow walls, bounces around the tiny space that they share and finally โ finally โ everything comes back into view.
ย ย ย ย ย The treatmentโs been unkind to him this time. And heโs heard it said that if misused, it can cause memory problems, among other things. Not to mention, of course ,that heโs heard Zane gloating about what heโs going to do once Francis is gone โ once heโs in some shadow realm of his former self. He wonโt confess it, because it does no good โ but he is afraid. Afraid of losing everything, of losing himself. Of forgetting what heโs writing down in the growing pile of flowers on Jamesโs windowsill for Doris to find. For her to read. The days become long, become desperate, and he finds himself grateful that James is here and not with Doctor May, wherever he takes the one that Francis loves.
ย ย ย ย ย ย Heโs taken to trying to memorize Jamesโs face โ the sparkle in his eyes, the way the lashes flutter against his cheeks, and the way that little worry line appears in his forehead as it is now. He wants to memorize the other things too โ the comfort of their bodies tangled together, the relief that comes from feeling those ankles latch round his. The way Jamesโs hair tickles his nose when they sleep sometimes, and how they always wake in a pile full of one another. Heโs so afraid that heโs going to forget everything. Forget the reason. Heโs all that James has with Sol and Doris away โ and he prays to the God he stopped believing in to please, please not let him forget his love.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย He forces a smile onto his pale, sweaty features โ because James deserves to see him smiling โ always deserves to see him smiling. โWhere would you like to go, mon amour? Anywhere is such an adventure. Iโd very much like to take it slow and enjoy the journey.โ Stiff fingers work their way around one of Jamesโs hands, and then the other until his two are holding Jamesโs one. โOne day, youโll never have to...โ he pauses for air, โthink of this place again. Itโll be us, always, somewhere...beautiful...with real flowers. And Iโll paint you with wings, so that you can fly.โ
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โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย ๐๐ก๐ข๐ง๐ ๐ฌ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ ๐๐ข๐๐งโ๐ญ ๐ฌ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ญ ๐๐ฅ๐ฅ (๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐ฆ๐๐ข๐ง๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐)ย ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 4 January 2023.
ย ย ย ย ย ย "๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐," he says to no one, and to nothing โ his voice gone, and all thatโs left of him the bright and bountiful light light that had been carried within his chest. The human soul is invisible to all โ it even eludes the Fey, nature, and time itself. It is the very base of everything โ the soul, and it is the last to go, if it goes at all. The world will wonder forever about the thing that makes someone what and who they are, but they will never know, not truly. Even he shall forget in time.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Time. Time washes like a wave over him โ in moments, in memory, in things that were once held pressed to the chest, in things that have always been and will always be. The world is still, save for the wind. The wind which whispers the name of his beloved across the forest where his body lay, and calls to him with his purpose. James, James. My love, oh, my love.
ย ย ย ย ย And Francis has died for love a thousand times, and would do so again, and will do so again. Happily is not the word for it, perhaps โ but willingly, expectantly. Among the haze of life ended comes a thought, and then another. And he learns that it is possible to mourn, and to regret, even when you are nothing. Even when the ravens overhead sing your funeral song to the sound of your loverโs tears that fall on you like rain. And when he is done here, where will he go? Will he ascend or will he simply cease to be until he is given reason once more with Jamesโs smile?
ย ย ย ย ย ย There are so many things I have left to tell you. The least of all being how I loved you, how I love you still. Itโs been said that this moment isnโt fair, and as Francisโs light fades into the proverbial clouds of what comes next, perhaps he thinks so, too. But there is music playing โ a familiar song that calls to his heart, beats in tune with it. He can hear Jamesโs singing as well. Itโs the last melody, the last refrain of their song. Heโll finish it in the next lifetime, or...
ย ย ย ย ย ย ...or the one after that.
ย ย ย ย They have time.
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โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย โ ๐ข ๐๐จ๐งโ๐ญ ๐ฐ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฅ๐๐ญ ๐ ๐จ. ๐ขโ๐ฆ ๐ง๐จ๐ญ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ฒ ๐ญ๐จ ๐ฌ๐๐ฒ ๐ ๐จ๐จ๐๐๐ฒ๐ ๐ฒ๐๐ญ. โ ย ๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐๐ข๐ง๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐ ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 16 November 2022.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ โ stroking the soft cheeks of love incarnate. Francis rests beneath a willow tree, autumnโs leaves gathering upon him in what appears to be their final dance. And it is true that there is never a time for goodbyes โย once one falls in love with the story, it is in them, and page by page the book draws closer to a close. Life is such โ so delicate its pages, and not enough words left within them to give it the ending it deserves.
ย ย ย ย ย โIt โ โ Francis gasps, and it burns in his chest, brings tears to sting at the corners of his eyelids as he blinks them back, blinks them down his face, and tries again, โI know, my darling. It isnโt fair, my love โ itโs not โ โ
ย ย ย ย ย ย Jamesโs lower lip trembles and Francisโs heart cracks in two โ would that he could reach in his chest and hand James the part of it that beats for him. Muriel and Coco stand guard, and flowers bloom around them all โ like something out of one of the many stories heโs read. A heroโs departure. But he had not saved James โ James had saved him โ so many times heโs saved him. And Francis understands with a rushing sort of clarity what it is that Coco had meant some time ago. โJames โ listen โ my love,โ his voice cracks as he feels his foundation of resolve crumbling with his failing body. โIt has been you. Youโll find me again, you will...โ
ย ย ย ย ย It sounds like nonsense, the babbling monologue of a man at deathโs door, โAnd when you find me, Iโll be playing your song. I love โ so much โโ his voice cracks again, and the white light overhead seems blinding โ the sunโs final farewell to summer, and the beginning of something else โ a new story...an homage to the cycle of life, and the Universe penning โthe endโ.
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โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย โ ย ๐ข ๐ค๐ง๐จ๐ฐ ๐ฐ๐ก๐๐ง ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎโ๐ซ๐ ๐ก๐๐ซ๐, ย ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐ซ๐๐๐ฅ ๐ฆ๐จ๐ง๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ฌ ๐๐๐งโ๐ญ ๐ญ๐จ๐ฎ๐๐ก ๐ฆ๐. ย โ ๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ฆ
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 25 September 2022.
ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐๐๐๐ โย the moment far too beautiful to exist in the colorless world that heโs come to know. Outside his bedroom window wafts the scents of the moors and the long grass that Francis runs his fingertips across. Outside is the smell of tomato vines, distinct, and the shrill chattering of nighttime bugs โ hosting their midnight meetings with song. What worlds exist just shy of their own? Had he wondered such a thing before? Or is this something that the old Francis had never made way for in his heart โ the way things move in the dark? The way his heart tap-tap-taps beneath the soothe of Jamesโs ear pressed there as though heโs listening to a symphony, rather than a piece of broken music. And James had never treated him as though he was some unwhole thing, some shattered thing. To his love, heโs just always been. And to Francis, they are timeless.
ย ย ย ย ย These are moments that perhaps shouldnโt exist in his dear little world โ moments that fill him so full of joy he could burst at the seams. And James speaks, reminds him that monsters are real โ and they have fingerprints that can bruise, and lips that whisper poisonous treasons. Theyโd both been taken for fools. But if they are so, they are fools in love, rediscovered and ignited against all odds in a place that they are coming to know as โhomeโ, coming to know as โsafeโ.
ย ย ย ย ย Icy fingers card through the labyrinth-like jungle of Jamesโs hair โ gently, always gently. And he wonders if the Francis-before ever noticed how warm Jamesโs body is, pressed up against him โ how well they slot together. He wonders if heโd been too afraid to notice, or perhaps if he noticed more. He tries to make it irrelevant, but it never is. Francis-before remains unforgiven; his mind stubborn and unyielding against his former self.
ย ย ย ย ย โI would never let harm come to you,โ he murmurs, kissing the sweat-dampened surface of his loveโs forehead. โPerhaps in time, it will feel like a bad dream.โ
ย ย ย ย Sometimes, he almost thinks heโll wake up to a world in color, to Jamesโs bright and curious eyes staring up at him from the time they steal together in Francisโs tiny room. Sometimes he thinks heโll remember the exact shade of auburn spanning through the curls tickling his hairless chest. Sometimes, maybe, one day, what-if. But now? Now is good too. Now is better than itโs been in a long time. โYouโre safe, mon amour. There are no monsters here, only love.โ
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โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย ๐ฌ๐๐ง๐๐๐ซ ๐ก๐จ๐ฅ๐๐ฌ ๐ซ๐๐๐๐ข๐ฏ๐๐ซ'๐ฌ ๐ก๐๐ง๐, ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐๐๐๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐๐๐ง. (๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐ง๐ฒ ๐ฏ๐๐ซ๐ฌ๐!)
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 19 September 2022.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ย and his cheeks are dusted with hues of red that match the sunset off in the distance. The race is called, the votes trickling in waves,ย in his favor. As it turns out, hate doesnโt win political campaigns โ love does. And anyone who sees the way he turns to look at his beloved James as France waits dormant below them on the balcony โ they wouldnโt believe his fatherโs vicious lies. Heโd done the unthinkable, once upon a time โ entered into a relationship for the politics of it. But the gold glinting on their fingers now has nothing to do with politics, the campaign only serves to show where theyโve been.
ย ย ย ย Their faces are alight with love, and the traces of laughter. Theyโd only arrived in Paris today, and now theyโre at a chateau. They wonโt move to the palace until inauguration, and he wouldnโt have his family so forcibly removed. This place is lovely, and does perfectly for now. Bigger than the flat above Florets, but still with traces of an old-fashioned life that suits the far-off dreamy look that his love always wears. Itโs almost out of a fairytale. It...well, this life? Here with him? It is a fairytale. โYour subjects await, your highness,โ Francis whisper-laughs, looking down at their locked hands and unlacing them only to pick James up and spin him around and around again.
ย ย ย ย ย โI would be nothing, if not for your love,โ he says when Jamesโs feet hit the ground again, leaning down the centimetres it takes, until their lips lock, and below, everyone cheers as fireworks light the twilight. Itโs how heโd felt when theyโd first kissed, like his heart was celebrating being alive, and being in love.
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โ โฐ โ โโโ ย ย โ ย ๐๐ ย ๐ฐ๐๐ซ๐ง๐๐: ย ๐ฆ๐จ๐ง๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ซ๐ฌ ย ๐ก๐ข๐๐ ย ๐๐๐ญ๐ฐ๐๐๐ง ย ๐ญ๐ก๐ ย ๐ญ๐ซ๐๐๐ฌ ย ๐๐ง๐ ย ๐ฐ๐ก๐ข๐ฌ๐ฉ๐๐ซ ย ๐ข๐ง ย ๐ฆ๐๐ ๐ข๐ ย ๐ญ๐จ๐ง๐ ๐ฎ๐๐ฌ. ย โ ๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 10 September 2022.
ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐๐๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ย that the place is wrought with ghosts and strange happenings. Everything is strange for the son of a government official, fed by a silver spoon and hidden away from a cruel world until now โ when abruptly, heโd been thrust into it head-on. And Francis has always been strange, always had his head a little too high in the clouds.
ย ย ย ย ย Perhaps it is the ghost story itself, or perhaps a night of freedom in a house too big for one person, but he knows heโs dreaming as he comes across the naked figure in the forest, dancing between the leaves and laughing, rainbows lighting the ground beneath gossamer-fine wings. And they say that everything one dreams is plucked from reality. And to Francis, that feels as though it goes both ways perhaps. One foot here, one foot there.
ย ย ย ย ย No matter.
ย ย ย ย ย He has seen this harbinger of doom before โ can feel the tug of his heart toward the captivating being before him, like a child pulling an adult into the forgotten recesses of oneโs imagination. And he shifts branches with long, cold fingers โ tries to follow where the Faery leads. โAnd what of you, darling? Are you a monster, or are you a friend? Would your sweet words lead me into this forest never to come out, or are you trying to save me from myself? Come back, come back...โ
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โ โฐ โ โโโ [๐ญ๐ฎ๐] : ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฌ๐๐ฌ ๐ฌ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ญ๐ก / ๐ฌ๐ก๐จ๐ฐ๐๐ซ ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ญ ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ง๐ฌ ๐ฌ๐๐ฑ๐ฎ๐๐ฅ (๐๐๐ฆ๐๐ฌ @ ๐
๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐ข๐ง ๐๐ฌ๐ฒ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ฆ)
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ โฐ โ โโโ a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 28 August 2022.
ย ย ย ย ย ๐๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โย and if Francis has learned anything at all in his time on the farm, itโs that if you want hot water โitโs best to fit a bath into the tiny window between sleep and wake.
ย ย ย ย Eyes are bleary as he fumbles for the light switch, only to realize that itโs already on, and thereโs already a swish coming from the upstairs bathtub. Heโs halfway to turning into a strawberry and murmuring a flustered apology when he realizes that the person in the tub is James โ ears submerged just beneath the water, and auburn hair fanned out all around. And, well, Francis canโt bring himself to look away. And when James emerges, Francis tries to turn on his heels but finds himself watching as the one he loves flushes to match the shade painted across Francisโs own cheeks, โDid you come for a sneaky bath too?โ James mumurs with a sheepish smile.
ย ย ย ย Francis nods, โI think before this is through, I might become an evening person after all. Ehm,โ eyes flicker to the floor, lashes brushing his cheeks, โI could join you?โ Thereโs a perfectly valid excuse, of course, just on the tip of his tongue. Something about conserving water, something about being able to reach the not-so-easy spots, like his scarred back. โI...โ and no, none of those would do in the end, โI want to be close to you.โ
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