i could pretend to be real tonight
Being so long away from Eros, not knowing where he was, or if he was okay, or when he might see him again, had left Aion feel lost and empty and utterly alone. All he’d had left were “what-ifs” and a crumbling sense of hope. There were no regrets - falling in love had been unexpected, perhaps made all the more sweet because of it - but he did wish he could have had more time (and preferably would still get more time) with his beloved.
That had been his present for the past year - and a part of him that he refused to acknowledge had begun to believe it would also become his future, perhaps the only future he was likely to have in a world without Eros.
But he wouldn’t need to harbor that secret fear any longer. Eros was back. ’My frøya.’
Their collision is enough to shake all of the spider webs and doubts from his heart, and all of a sudden the day was real, and not just a dream. He shivers at Eros’ touch, and it feels as if he’s finally coming to life, every nerve and synapse waking and firing in unison. The world seems suddenly brighter with Eros as his sun - far more vibrant and beautiful and lovely than any day in the past year had been.
Even when they pull apart he can’t help but touch him: pressing their cheeks together, running his muzzle along his slender crest, touching his shoulder to Eros’. He’s desperate to feel his warmth against him, mirroring his mate’s enthusiasm with his own.
The quip brings a smile to his lips, so wide and bright it touches his eyes and lights up his entire face. It feels strange to smile so genuinely and recklessly, as if the muscles have almost forgotten how to - but there’s time enough to remind them. Aion turns on instinct to kiss his Eros, only to find him already there with his lips waiting. The kiss is the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, made so by how long he has been waiting for it. He doesn’t want it to ever end, wants to keep drinking in his Eros forever; but too soon it’s over.
”These are for you.” It takes a surprising amount of energy to look from face to offering, but he manages. ”I hope you like them.” For a long moment - possibly too long of one - he’s silent. His attention is caught by the arrangement of flowers, his eyes for them alone.
“I love them.” How could he not? His Eros had made them for him - as if he had already known they would find their way back to each other and had made them in preparation. Aion didn’t know how long he had carried them for, didn’t know the habit had started back when they had first lost each other, but it didn’t matter. Eros had planned for him. ”I love you.”
He takes the flowers gingerly, as careful as if they had been something far more precious and breakable, and he has never received a more lovely gift. Aion makes a show out of smelling them, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, letting the soft skin of his muzzle brush against the flowers softer petals, silk to silk.
A flicker of recognition forms in the back of his mind, his own frozen tulip remembered, still hanging subconsciously at his side. As he lifts the creation back to eye level, he can’t help but wonder at how horribly crude and makeshift it seems in comparison to his lover’s bouquet - but he supposes it’s only fitting. A placeholder should never become more pleasing than the real thing.
He has a wild thought then to throw the icy semblance away and to pretend it had never existed, to pretend he had never spent careful hours poring over its details in his carving, because what did a symbol of his loneliness matter anymore? But he stays his impulse, offering the tulip instead to Eros. The flowers - organic and inorganic - hang side by side in the space between them.
“It will probably melt by tomorrow morning,” he begins, a hint of apology in his tone, “but I made this for you.” Just like Eros, he doesn’t need to say why he made it, nor how long it took. Words would only get in the way - they understood each other without speaking.
@eros
I feel like this is trash in comparison to that beautifully poetic piece of literature you gave me
but this is what you get
text. talk.
empluvie art
