i could pretend to be real tonight
For all the time they had spent apart, Aion had not put enough thought into what it would be like to finally be reunited with his beloved.
He had spent hours upon hours daydreaming about all the things they would do together when they were together again - it was the in-between that was ever hazy. He had vowed to himself to take Eros to the lake in Vitreus, whose surface was so still it became a mirror for the sky; and also to the Oasis in Solterra, because even though Aion despised the heat he knew it would be a perfect vacation for his mate. He had heard there was a library hidden somewhere in Delumine, and a hospital in Terrastella, and he would never dare go looking for them without his partner in crime back at his side. So many people, places, and things filled his mind - all of which he wanted to share with his beloved.
Nor did his dreams provide any relief. He went to bed at night missing his lover’s warmth, and awoke longing for his embrace, and more often than not his waking moments only ever felt half-full.
But truth be told, he had never been able to bring himself to imagine the moment itself - as if he superstitiously believed that doing so would somehow jinx it and lock away his mate forever, so that he might never see his face again. Or maybe it would be like ruining the surprise; and although any homecoming was better than none, he was loathe perhaps to get his hopes too high up. But the longer he was alone, the harder it became to recall those memories: the sound of Eros’ laughter, the crease of his cheeks when he smiled, the way his skin would shiver at Aion’s touch. And it was made all the worse by the subconscious notion that maybe, just maybe… by forgetting his memories, he might also forget the person responsible for them - and that was something that hurt more than the physical separation.
So Aion stubbornly ignores the fact altogether, going about his life as if nothing has changed. Refusing to accept that the love of his life was missing, perhaps for forever. Sometimes, he could even pretend that Eros was right alongside him to ease the pain and longing; although the games he played always fell short of his memories and left him wanting more, feeling as if he might never be truly happy again. But he dreamed and pretended nonetheless, because at the end of the day it was better than nothing. And he carved his frozen flowers, tossing tulip after tulip back into the stream when they failed to capture his vision.
”I’ll never be half as good as Eros.” The thought leapt unbidden to his mind, taking him by surprise. He paused, his heart growing tight and heavy in his chest.
And all the while, the tulip hangs icily in the air before him.
It shines iridescently, refracting the light in a hundred different patterns around them. The tulips are captured in all their magnificent colors, their reflections pale and silent and trapped in the edges of his sculpture. As Aion stands there looking into his creation, a face appears alongside the fields of flowers.
His breath catches in his throat - he knows it to be a figment of his imagination, knows it has to be his own wishful thinking conjuring the image - for the face was far more beautiful and lovely than his sculpture and all of the flowers combined. As lovely and unexpected and familiar as it was, he didn’t dare look away.
The face grows bigger, as if moving closer; and a smile shy and tender crosses the ghost’s features. Aion hardly dares to breathe - he can only watch in awe, desperate to look up and see for himself, yet afraid to break the magic and lose his beloved once more. ’It’s only a trick of the light,’ he tells himself, yet still he cannot find it in himself to even blink.
”Beautiful.” Only at the very real-sounding voice does he finally dare to look up and risk reality with all its crushed dreams.
And the image doesn’t disappear: it magnifies and sharpens, solidifies into a person, his person, standing mere feet away. His tulip is forgotten, and only some thin tenor of his magic keeps it aloft as he throws himself forward.
For a second, he expects himself to fall through thin air; but he doesn’t, and the feel of skin on skin is overwhelmingly wholesome and reassuring. His chest presses against Eros’, heartbeat to heartbeat, muzzle hovering mere inches from the skin of his back.
His throat feels is ragged and painful when he breathes in.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he finally whispers, hugging his beloved tight. “More than anything.”
A thousand things press on his mind, all his thoughts from before fighting to be heard, to be spoken. Aion pulls back, Everything slips from his mind, and he struggles to speak once more.
“Where have you been?”
@eros
text. talk.
empluvie art
