it is not the butterfly with wings ripped and body pinned with needles
A drabble requested by Chaer~♥
This In which Reborn is a civillian and Fon takes a sudden interest.
~ * ~
Blurs of reds and blacks and whites linger and fade with each passing moment -- it's always there. Perpetual yet transient like the seasons, there is a dainty figure flitting past. It's as if he's going mad. He sees him everywhere, feels those dark, dark, beautifully dark eyes watching him, lingering at the back of his head, if not boring into his own eyes.
On the glass of his window, office or home, there is a butterfly dyed red.
Floating with silent chuckles and the flap of paper wings, it flies by with ease, patching together words never formed and lives never lived. It perches on his shoulder, and its touch burns. Hot. Burning hot and smoldering, and the gentle swaying of reds and blacks and whites are like harbingers of nightmares he had never wanted and dreams he had never dreamed and love he had never cherished.
He remembers so clearly that onyx gaze so naked yet secretive, and the twitch of lips, the curve of a half-smile, and he sees it on every faceless face. It makes him want to run, want to escape, but even he knows it is for naught because even in dreams, he's too fascinated with the sheen of moonlight reflected on a black river and precious, even blacker stones. There is always a shadow creeping over him, cast on the walls and formed by the clouds on the sky. It is always there, and he is choking, drowning on reds and reds and black on reds and red within whites and whites surrounded by blacks.
When he wakes, he is shaking, and the marks of palms and the warmth of fleeting touches just don't go away. They follow him like those eyes, imprinted so darkly in his mind not in memories but in desires too human and terror so violent. The breeze laughs at him, he knows, when it dances past and circles him, carrying those warm, vibrant colors and the sweet tenor of gentle laughter. And that insane insect, floats in the same way the wind reveals secrets:
Whizzing past, black and red and white like the black of midnight hair and the red of silken robes, the white of pale flesh -- and the onyx of paper wings glimmer like the eyes of a haunting gaze, the touch of the wind currents like the fingertips which caress his cheeks and the lips pressed against his own -- captured so utterly and burning, crumpled into tiny fists of a tiny body, pinned with sharp needles, framed with glass.
And the butterfly rests on the glass still and stares at him with those dark, dark, beautiful eyes.
~ fin ~
this turned out rather weird. >3>;; I don't know anymore. OTZ;;
But yes. We all know Fon is the butterfly I'm referring to, right? ♫
and here he is, Chaer. ^_^
shenhongsejia
This In which Reborn is a civillian and Fon takes a sudden interest.
~ * ~
Blurs of reds and blacks and whites linger and fade with each passing moment -- it's always there. Perpetual yet transient like the seasons, there is a dainty figure flitting past. It's as if he's going mad. He sees him everywhere, feels those dark, dark, beautifully dark eyes watching him, lingering at the back of his head, if not boring into his own eyes.
On the glass of his window, office or home, there is a butterfly dyed red.
Floating with silent chuckles and the flap of paper wings, it flies by with ease, patching together words never formed and lives never lived. It perches on his shoulder, and its touch burns. Hot. Burning hot and smoldering, and the gentle swaying of reds and blacks and whites are like harbingers of nightmares he had never wanted and dreams he had never dreamed and love he had never cherished.
He remembers so clearly that onyx gaze so naked yet secretive, and the twitch of lips, the curve of a half-smile, and he sees it on every faceless face. It makes him want to run, want to escape, but even he knows it is for naught because even in dreams, he's too fascinated with the sheen of moonlight reflected on a black river and precious, even blacker stones. There is always a shadow creeping over him, cast on the walls and formed by the clouds on the sky. It is always there, and he is choking, drowning on reds and reds and black on reds and red within whites and whites surrounded by blacks.
When he wakes, he is shaking, and the marks of palms and the warmth of fleeting touches just don't go away. They follow him like those eyes, imprinted so darkly in his mind not in memories but in desires too human and terror so violent. The breeze laughs at him, he knows, when it dances past and circles him, carrying those warm, vibrant colors and the sweet tenor of gentle laughter. And that insane insect, floats in the same way the wind reveals secrets:
Whizzing past, black and red and white like the black of midnight hair and the red of silken robes, the white of pale flesh -- and the onyx of paper wings glimmer like the eyes of a haunting gaze, the touch of the wind currents like the fingertips which caress his cheeks and the lips pressed against his own -- captured so utterly and burning, crumpled into tiny fists of a tiny body, pinned with sharp needles, framed with glass.
And the butterfly rests on the glass still and stares at him with those dark, dark, beautiful eyes.
~ fin ~
this turned out rather weird. >3>;; I don't know anymore. OTZ;;
But yes. We all know Fon is the butterfly I'm referring to, right? ♫
and here he is, Chaer. ^_^
shenhongsejia