Reid
certified jin guangyao apologist 🧚♂️
That morning, he awoke as he always did, a whirlwind swept up by responsibilities. His mind is a cup of water overflowing, his eyes focused on nothing in particular, while his hands shifted in his hair in swift, practiced motions. He is already thinking on what must be done, and who he must speak to. Though the colors of his bedchamber are of different colors from his last one, the days are the same. He finds a smile etched upon his face when ginger fingers crawl over the robes that are draped over his person, cream and gold. And for a second, he fools himself into believing that perhaps he really has found a place in his father's heart.
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Often times, when he is alone, the sky dotted with stars and bouncing off the walls of molten yellows and sea-green, he speaks the name given to him. Syllables and sounds foreign yet familiar. He allows himself this moment of pure vanity, his tongue like fingers threading through the shape of his new identity. It is a bed with the sheets changed, smelling of fresh lavender and when he throws himself in its embrace, his first nights are turbulent. The next few nights are easier, of course. And then weeks go by, the bed of his identity becomes perfumed in his odor, rumbled with the shape of his form and he no longer sleeps so disturbed. He thinks of that fleeting look the man who brought him into this world graced him with that day and he fools himself into the idea that it is love.
"Father, please. Control yourself." His sleeve wipes the offending thing away, and the fabric stinks of bile. Wild, unseeing eyes stare back at him.
He pretends the curses are not for him, he smiles as he must and takes it upon himself to wash the dirt and grime from this man's face and prepares him for bed. He pretends that the name that escapes his father's lips are that of a stranger and not the woman in his father's vision that takes the shape of his face.
And he does this all over again the next night, pulling his father back from chasing feminine laughter and golden-spun fantasies.
He practices his careful smile in the mirror once more.
He fools himself into believing that if he keeps his growing darkness from the light of those skies, that all will be well.
It feels like having ice cold water dunked over his head, knowing that his mind does not so readily take the look on his father's face as love. It translates that expression as contempt and feeds it into his brain, a slow choking poison. He fills his days with preparing the happiness of the other fruit in his father's tree, the one who dares call him brother. He fools himself into thinking that what his brain tells him is a lie and watches as their home is decorated in festive colors at his command. A joining of two souls.
He pretends he does not hear the suspicions that float from his father's voice. The more capable he is, the more worries in my mind.
Each time they meet, his mouth opens and he thinks.... What if...?
And then, he hears the way his name is spoken and the crack in the door slams shut. No, no. He can endure.
The boy gurgles, and his innocence is tempting. A child that was ignorant of everything. He slides off the bed and bends down by the crib, reaching his fingers inside to let the boy hold them, mumbling quiet nonsense and thinking that perhaps all will be well.
The syllables are a song played too loudly, the lyrics a scream, ripped from lungs that cannot pull in air. It is fear, and hurt and---
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He finds that breathing is a strenuous endeavor and it is not the weight in his arms that steals the air from his lungs. A groan slips from the mountain of flesh under him and he lets go, letting it crash into the pillows thrown precariously in this room of luxurious wonders. There is vomit sliding down from this man's mouth and he bends down slowly, posture gentle as if he were dealing with an animal.
"Father, please. Control yourself." His sleeve wipes the offending thing away, and the fabric stinks of bile. Wild, unseeing eyes stare back at him.
He pretends the curses are not for him, he smiles as he must and takes it upon himself to wash the dirt and grime from this man's face and prepares him for bed. He pretends that the name that escapes his father's lips are that of a stranger and not the woman in his father's vision that takes the shape of his face.
And he does this all over again the next night, pulling his father back from chasing feminine laughter and golden-spun fantasies.
He practices his careful smile in the mirror once more.
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He is adept at fooling himself. He is clay easily molded in a variety of shapes for a variety of people. His mouth feels like stretched fabric with how much he must smile. His eyes are puffy and heavy with pretty tears. His lashes flutter, body folding in on itself. He knows this dance as one knows the crevices of a lover's body. And yet, that gaze that catches his show nothing of what is familiar. It leaves him warm, when he has felt icy coldness for years. When hands catch his own, preventing his show of submission, he hides behind a plastered smile to stifle bewilderment. And it happens again, and again, and again. Polite acquiescence morphs into what he believes is called friendship. His new identity (now no longer so new) that had become somewhat bitter on his tongue exhales and becomes momentarily wonderful, wonderful whenever he hears the shortened addition to it, given to him shyly, like a gift. The mornings do not bring quiet dread anymore, all he must do is stick his head out the window and watch the clouds drift through a baby blue sky and remember quiet exchanges snatched in meetings.
He fools himself into believing that if he keeps his growing darkness from the light of those skies, that all will be well.
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He cannot wash stained crimson from his fingertips and palm. At the water basin, he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until his hands are rubbed raw. The water overflows with red while the color remains in his palms. The shatter of glass brings the servants running into his bedchambers. He watches them deftly clear his mess and wonders how he must appear to them. Their eyes are downcast, mute but if he strains his ears, he is aware of what they must think of him. He wraps himself in blankets and sleeps. Morning comes too fast. It is an empty ritual of the same routine that, with growing alarm, he finds it cannot occupy his mind as it had once done. He finds that today, hands do not catch his display of submission in front of his father. His father, who in the day time when he is not chasing that fleeting laughter, demands much more of him.
It feels like having ice cold water dunked over his head, knowing that his mind does not so readily take the look on his father's face as love. It translates that expression as contempt and feeds it into his brain, a slow choking poison. He fills his days with preparing the happiness of the other fruit in his father's tree, the one who dares call him brother. He fools himself into thinking that what his brain tells him is a lie and watches as their home is decorated in festive colors at his command. A joining of two souls.
He pretends he does not hear the suspicions that float from his father's voice. The more capable he is, the more worries in my mind.
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There are days where duties are less than they usually are and he finds himself with nothing much to do. Selfishly, he looks forward to these types of days, when he is allowed to leave the glittering gold behind in favor of misty mountains and pine trees. When he fills himself up with tea and sits across that presence that envelops him in a sea of light blue. He hides how much he needs this by pressing his mouth to his teacup. Friends... Acquaintances... Brothers..? Did the human language have a word for the thread that bound him to this dance he now found himself involved in? Did the human language have a word for this elusive sensation that coils inside of him when his name is shifted into something akin to fondness and offered up to him like yet another shy present? He grips his teacup and sighs. He wonders if his name might still be spoken this way if the other could see his crimson palms. He is gripped by this idea.
Each time they meet, his mouth opens and he thinks.... What if...?
And then, he hears the way his name is spoken and the crack in the door slams shut. No, no. He can endure.
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When he stares into the face of his son, sometimes he thinks what his own father might say, if he was still here. He wonders if his father knew, in his intoxicated state, just how much his never ending chase of feminine laughter would be the destruction of his children. But then again, he now knows the woman that sleeps next to him would not be here if his own father hadn't----
The boy gurgles, and his innocence is tempting. A child that was ignorant of everything. He slides off the bed and bends down by the crib, reaching his fingers inside to let the boy hold them, mumbling quiet nonsense and thinking that perhaps all will be well.
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Humans were extremely capable of weaving elaborate stories. And sometimes those stories become their reality. It is like living your life underwater where noise is muffled and you cannot breathe. But actual reality will one day rear its head, offended by what you've done. Only, for him, it is manifested in the shape of pain, of blood pouring from his mouth and his body shaking with the loss of it. His head being forced out from underneath the waves is the proximity of baby blue, now coated in red, red red red. Of shared panting breaths, and tense stillness, for fear that moving an inch would tip them both off the deep end. He tries to think of a way to keep the darkness from reaching the only light of his life. But it is already there, and he cannot force it back anymore. It wraps its disgusting, pulsing tentacles around their limbs, tying them inside of a blanket of broken promises. When that specific shortening of his name is spoken this last time, it is not cocooned in fondness, it does not make him feel as if he is the most precious thing in the world anymore.
The syllables are a song played too loudly, the lyrics a scream, ripped from lungs that cannot pull in air. It is fear, and hurt and---
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