#you can pry me using hozier song lyrics from my cold dead hands

[skost-skribbles]

Shrike

He wakes to the steady, slow motions of the shoulder he claimed as his pillow from the previous night. The chest rises, falls, then rises again in step to a rhythm known only to the man’s body. The morning sun, painting the sky in warm streaks of orange and pink, begins to peek over the rolling hills past the small village.

Faramund’s eyes flutter open upon a particularly deep inhale, and the sight before him is far more glorious than the sunrise and her growing canvas.

Slowly, he sidles closer to Tomas and tugs along the thick cover. With one hand gripping loosely on the blanket, the other finds refuge on Tomas’ chest, on a spot graced with the approaching light. Through the nightshirt’s fabric, the man’s heartbeat rumbles softly beneath Faramund’s hand, and a flush of pink touches his face. 

Each night, they found themselves weary in their aimless journey. Each night, they found shelter by way of a roadside inn or hostel in a town along a road overwhelmed by weeds or fauna seeking to take back what was once theirs. They would share their meal, share the same lie on their names, their desire to tour the southern shores of the isle to anyone curious enough to ask. Each night, they would retire to their room, throw their bags and clothes and shoes on one bed, and fall victim to sleep in a warm embrace in the other.

And each morning, Faramund woke first, first overcome in silent joy at finding himself so close to a man he dreamt of for so long, and eventually, overwhelmed with a crippling, stabbing fear.

Is this real?

Curling in on himself, a heavy sigh escapes through his nostrils. His hand trails up to cup Tomas’ cheek, careful of the bruising that is now an ugly stain of black and blue beneath his left eye. A limp strand of dark hair brushes along Faramund’s fingers and he pauses, a nostalgic yet melancholy look sweeping his eyes. Once beautiful and shining locks of hair held together by a silver ribbon have turned short and unkempt, an unnecessary casualty in Casimiro’s brutality. 

Still, he finds his fingers twisting and combing through ghostly strands, brushing his thumb along a thick lock seen only in memories. Deep down, he hopes Tomas will grow it out again, and he’ll rake his hands through those locks over and over. Perhaps, he thinks to himself, he should learn to braid. 

If this is a dream, may it be one I never wake from.

The last year had been pure agony. To be by a man he wanted to embrace, to take his hands and never let go, to welcome Tomas’ smiles with ones of his own, to care for him, but to force his wants to remain only desires for fear of rejection, repulsion. How painful it was to keep it buried when Tomas sought his company only, hiding within the confines of the willow tree in the garden from afternoon to the late evenings; how he fought to restrain himself from blurting it out during conversation.

He pauses in his reflections, throwing a glance to his love’s sleeping form. If it ate at him, Faramund can only imagine it was torturous for Tomas to quell his own wishes. 

Tomas breathes sharply, sucking in a deep breath, and Faramund is snapped from his thoughts with a felling swoop. He lifts his head and props himself on his elbow, eyes softly watching as the man sits upright with stiffened arms, his own eyes still closed as his lips crack open upon a silent yawn. Faramund looks on in a silent calmness with a fond smile and lowers himself back to the bed, resting his head on the goose down pillow left forgotten from last night.

Tomas licks at his lips, and eventually his eyes creak open. Half-lidded, they stare at the blanket before turning to his left, falling to Faramund. One arm bends and reaches, cupping Faramund’s stubbled cheek as if it were a fragile work of art; not so long ago, Faramund would have surely melted from such a touch, but now it spreads a soothing warmth through his body.

Leaning down, Tomas presses his lips to Faramund’s brow. Once, twice, three times. “Is this a dream,” he mutters sleepily, his eyelids drooping closed once more.

Outside their window, the constant chattering of a shrike reaches through the glass, and with it comes a comforting ray of sunlight that falls on their faces.

Chuckling, Faramund wraps his arms around Tomas’ shoulders. “No,” he answers in a soft voice, and lays a kiss on his lips.