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Aion
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#1














The ice crystal hovered in the air in front of him, glistening and unmelting. 

It had taken admittedly far longer than he’d expected to craft such a small arrangement. It was hardly the size of one of his canon bones—and yet…

It was a tulip. Beautiful and icy in its frozen display, complete with a long stem boasting a pair of serrated leaves.

He had carved it from the compacted ice he’d found in the northern parts of the Rapax, where he’d been wandering prior to coming to the festival. He’d managed to keep it alive with a combination of his frosty breath and sheer will: it turned out the new magic that coursed throughout his veins was useful for something after all. Not that he intended to spend his life carving out figures from ice; but it was something.

It was supposed to be his gift to the celebration—the invitations had all said to bring something of his own artistic talent. He’d nearly scoffed when he read the sign because he never had been the creative child, Aion was far more likely to buy a million paintings to frame his walls than to so much as lift a finger to a paintbrush. He almost hadn’t made anything at all, almost hadn’t even come. But once he’d first started molding the ice… he found he couldn’t stop. Not until it was finished. 

Yet he still couldn't convince himself on that stage with it.

He’d nearly thrown it away instead—it was useless, after all. Not to mention it required a fair bit of work to prevent it from melting into a puddle of water, and Aion wasn’t about to spend the rest of his days breathing frost on a carving of ice to keep it preserved.

But something stayed his hand, and kept the frozen flower close to his chest, where the chill of his body might protect it from the warming spring days. 

The tulip wasn’t perfect by any means, a better artist may have made its edges smoother and more even, may have peeled away the petals to show the flower in bloom. Aion wasn’t an artist, and he didn’t have the skill to accomplish perfection. Nonetheless, he was proud of his creation, and of what it represented to him. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t been able to get up in front of the crowds: a fear of his hard work being mocked, or worse, that he’d be asked to describe his muse. His muse that had been missing for over a year now, no matter how many places he looked.

Still cradling his flower within his invisible grasp, he turned away from the stage and the crowds. He wasn’t going to present his creation, nor was he in the mood anymore to see what any of the others had to offer. 

After a short walk he found himself in the fields, where thousands upon thousands of blossoms greeted his eye. Almost without thinking, he held his frozen flower out to another far more vibrant and lively one, as if to compare the two creations. 

He already knew the real one would be better, but still he couldn’t help himself from at least looking, comparing the two side by side. A frown slipped onto his face, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he scraped away one more imperfection from his tiny sculpture.






@eros 

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Eros
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#2

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. “Beautiful.”

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.

“I’ve missed you—“ he begins, extending his nose toward his mate, “so, so much.”

@aion
aimless | enfanir










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#3
Heart 












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 


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Eros
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#4
Heart 

an intuition that
this is where i belong, standing with
you in my arms
They’d met in the fall; under a wise, ancient oak, Eros recalls. A thunderstorm had shaken the valley, sent fierce rains battering upon them. They hadn’t talked for long, only until the storm waned, but he vaguely remembers making a thorough embarrassment of himself. And yet Aion hadn’t laughed, or turned tail. Meek, a persistent stutter; Eros marvels at how far he’s come since.

A bud, properly tended, blossoms into the most beautiful of blooms.

He remembers the early days of their relationship, hidden glances and hesitant touches. When Aion would shy away from him if he got too close. When they didn’t know how the other’s lips felt, or skin tasted, but their hearts were full of anticipation anyway.

And then, how they did, how they—slowly, haltingly—came to know one another so intimately that they became intrinsically linked; where there was Aion, there was Eros and Eros, Aion. Losing him was, in principle, losing a piece of his heart itself.

No wonder it had rattled him so deeply; to go without a part of oneself is to be wholly incomplete.

And then, it is to notice bit after bit abrade in the prolonged absence of unity, the way seaside cliffs continue to erode in the waves after a violent storm first splits the stone in two. Arches form, reaching out to the lost fragment, but later splinter off themselves. Still, they try, forming and reforming until there is no rock left.

Eros has never seen a sea stack rejoined with its lost half, has never seen a weathered cliff reform. And yet, he somehow finds himself standing in front of his lost half, only steps away from his long-awaited homecoming.

They collide, like crashing waves, thoughts and emotions a glittering sea spray around them. Eros holds him tighter, nuzzles at his withers and down his spine and positively glows, as if Aion is all it takes to restore his radiance. (Not that it would surprise him, surely a soul burns brighter when its halves become whole again.)

Eros presses his nose to Aion’s back once more, then they untangle. He knows that they’ll have to talk, eventually, inevitably, but discussing their time apart seems inconsequential, irreverent even, when they’ve only just been reunited. When Aion asks, a subtle sadness dims the glimmer in his eyes, but he blinks and it’s gone as fast as it had appeared. “Looking for you, naturally,” he quips.

He rests his head against Aion’s, ever-eager for the reassurance found in comfort and closeness. Eros kisses down his cheek, the feathered bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth, his lips. “These are for you,” he says, drawing the bouquet of flowers delicately from his side. “I hope you like them.” A sheepish smile quirks the corners of his mouth upwards. I carry them with me everywhere, just in case, he doesn’t need to say.

@aion <3
aimless | enfanir










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#5












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


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Eros
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#6

an intuition that
this is where i belong, standing with
you in my arms
Most young children yearn for attention from their parents, for affection. Eros was no exception; parents are meant to nurture their children, after all. Boys, though, are “nurtured” to be “strong”, “independent”. Eros’ father evidently believed the best way to do so was starve him of touch: hugging, cuddling, was for daughters of their herd, not sons.

So Eros left, not immediately, of course; he looked for that comfort where he could find it, but when that wasn’t enough, he left. He became a sex worker, a profession in which touch is never lacking, and yet, it was unfulfilling. It didn’t matter who he touched, who touched him, or even how they touched; it never brought him the comfort he sought.

It took him until he met Aion to realize why. Touch, without meaning, is a book without words: insignificant and ineffectual.

Once feelings developed, it was hard not to touch him; Eros had finally discovered the affection and emotions he found necessary to meaningful touch, but for a man who did not immediately welcome it. He waited, however, (albeit rather impatiently), and it was worth it; every touch from his partner is comforting, a subtle reminder of the love he found with him—either in the gentle weight of Aion’s nose on his back, or the warmth of Aion’s neck around his. Some of those touches are electrifying; a delicate brush of Aion’s lips against his jaw or tail on his flank holds the power to send sparks tingling down his spine.

When they were separated, Eros knew better than to look toward others for the comfort he missed so. He knew it wouldn’t—couldn’t—be the same without the affection he had for Aion and Aion for him. So, once more, he took to waiting, tolerated the passing of days uneventful and empty while searching for his beloved, his best friend.

Again, it was worthwhile, of course. He hadn’t doubted it—the surety he has of Aion’s incomparability is unshakeable—but it was rewarding nonetheless. Worthwhile not only for the closeness itself, but also because distance and time had eroded neither the meaning nor emotion behind it.

Waiting had made evident the endurance of their love.

“It’s perfect,” Eros tells him, despite the the rough edges and impermanence. It’s perfect because Aion made it, for—and because of—him. He presses a kiss to Aion’s cheek in appreciation and lets his head rest against his beloved’s—to stay, this time.

“I love you.”

@aion def not trash
i wanted to make this as pretty as the last but it didn't happen sry
aimless | enfanir










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Aion
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#7












i could pretend to be real tonight







For a moment, he’s hesitant.

It’s almost as if the old Aion is back, the pre-Eros Aion who feared touch and leaned away from every kiss and every caress. It’s been so long he’s almost forgotten what it feels like, or perhaps he cannot remember how to accept love, and it’s like their first time all over again.

But if Eros notices the hesitation, he doesn’t show it. He showers Aion with caresses and kisses freely, and each one feels like a breath of fresh air after days without breathing. Because that’s what it’s been like: Aion has been suffocating, drowning without water. Living without his amour was as if he was living without his lungs - or perhaps, even more fittingly, his heart. That was what Eros was to him: he was more than just the love of his life. Without Eros, he had no way to love.

But now, there would be no more waiting, no more searching; no more cold nights spent alone with only his dreams to make him forget the chill.

He leans into Eros’ touch, hardly daring to believe that this moment was real. After so many days and months of searching, of wishes and dreams and memories - it seems surreal. And when the effeminate man leans into him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and resting his head against his, Aion closes his eyes in repose.

“I love you.”

But just saying it wasn’t enough. Eros had always showed his love - and Aion perhaps was finally starting to understand why. He lifts his head, and there’s his hesitation again: a slight, nervous flutter of his heart, a moment’s pause with his muzzle hovering less than an inch away.

But then he remembers all the time they’d spent away, and all the kisses they missed, and the hesitation vanishes.

He presses his mouth to Eros’ temple, his throat, his cheek, and finally his lips. He kisses anywhere he can reach, loving the taste and the feeling of his skin, how solid and warm and soft and real he is.

He opens his eyes, and there’s so many emotions he’s feeling that he can’t seem to pick one to focus on.

“You know, there’s a party going on,” he murmurs, but he’s far less worried than his words suggest. Already his head is falling back to its resting place against Eros’, as if he can’t stand to be more than a few seconds without his touch.

It wouldn’t matter if they went back or stayed, or if they found somewhere new to go. What mattered was that they had found each other.






@eros 
see I did it

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Eros
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#8

an intuition that
this is where i belong, standing with
you in my arms
Aion is many kinds of warmth to him: a soft blanket to wrap himself with on chilly nights; his sun on grey, windy days; the fuel that ignites a fire in his belly. A soft gasp escapes his lips, as if taken by surprise, his breath catching in his throat when Aion kisses him. It won’t take him long to remember how Aion’s mouth feels on his skin, but the fact it had become a novelty again at all tugs at his heart.

Each successive touch, however, becomes more and more familiar, more instinctual; it’s reassurance the muscle memory will come back with time.

“We could have a party of our own, instead,” he suggests, golden eyes glittering with a reflection of the setting sun. “Come with me?”

There were so many places Eros wanted to show him: the view from the mountain peak, the privacy of the canopied creek. Tonight, he leads Aion to his forest clearing bestrewn with flowers grown just for him. There were so many things he wanted to do with him, too, so much lost time to make up for. We have the rest of our lives, he reminds himself.

And I’ll savor every moment.

@aion and i did it too C'x
aimless | enfanir










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