an intuition that
this is where i belong , standing with
you in my arms
Hot, bitter, frustrated tears burn in his eyes as he adds another smear of paint to his canvas. The colors, the shapes he knows like the back of his hand, but however how hard he tries he cannot capture the sparkle in his mate’s eyes that always made him feel so special, that smile reserved just for him. The memories are but water in his hands: no matter how tightly he tries to hold on, some will inevitably spill out the gaps in his fingers. Still he clings, for Aion is his most precious memory.It’s startling, how much is forgotten when you’ve lost someone. First it’s the small details, the quirks and oddities you always found so endearing. Then it’s their scent, their voice—oh, how Eros’ heart aches for the comfort of Aion’s. It is the texture of their skin and the taste of their lips that are just out of reach. And you remember their face, but it feels distant, hazy.
A warm, sticky tear rolls off his cheek. It lands with a gentle “plop” on his painting, sending the pigments running and marbling and bleeding into each other. If it hadn’t captured what he’d wanted before, it certainly didn’t now. One more teardrop falls from his face, then another, and another. Disappointment weighs heavy in his chest; art was one thing he thought he could be confident in.
Golden evening sunlight streams through the treetops canopying the spot he’d been keeping his painting: just across the meadow outside the festival, shrouded by vegetation. It isn’t like him, hiding away. He’s never really minded being shown off or admired before, not for his looks. But his heart is a different story, and that is what he’d courageously tried to paint a part of. He’d found it harder than imagined, couldn’t suitably express his wealth of feelings for the man he’d attempted to illustrate. So he’d kept it here, hidden away lest a stranger discover his purported failure. His insecurities are vulnerabilities confided only in Aion.
Except Aion isn’t here to soothe his worries, and his fears have only multiplied over the past year. He has always been afraid that he isn’t smart enough, or strong enough. But now he worries too that he’s getting old, that his mate won’t find him pretty enough should he notice he’s (supposedly) aged when they’re reunited.
When we’re reunited, Eros considers. He lets the thought blossom in his head; he could use a happy daydream right about now. When we’re reunited… I want to look beautiful! I want to give him his flowers, I want to hear his voice, I want to kiss him and tell him how much I love him. We’ll dance under the sun, and watch the stars wrapped up in each other all night.
He lets himself bask in his imagination as he traipses through the meadow toward the festival. Although he may no longer have anything to present, he is still eager to enjoy the remaining days admiring others’ creations, not to mention there is always the chance Aion will be in attendance. Eros had brought the bouquet he had arranged for him just in case, carries it close to his side as he walks.
Refracted sunlight glints in his peripheral vision, immediately drawing his gaze up and toward the source that hovers only a few feet in front of him. An icy tulip, clearly crafted with exceptional care and love, rests in the air beside an organic one.
Just beyond them stands the man Eros has spent the past year searching for: his best friend, his greatest love.
He’s so overwhelmed with emotion he can’t help but begin to cry—months and months of anxiety and grief disappear with one single glance. Replacing the worry, it’s relief and joy and love that swell in his heart. He takes a step closer to the flowers, a wobbly smile on his lips as he blinks away the tears.
But he’s not looking at the tulip, or even the ice replica, not really. His eyes are tracing the contours of Aion’s face, the lines of his body. Even after all their years together he can still give Eros butterflies, can still make his heart flutter.
@aion
