14 March 2012 @ 08:48 pm

“Quite the storm,” Ellis comments; quiet, calculated. He weighs every word off his tongue. He always does when talking to himself. Ellis is his own worst critic, picking apart everything he does and says into miniscule bits and pieces, unraveling them into dust motes and raindrops.

[A noncommittal hum from to the left, right on cue.]

Ellis likes the rain. The rhythm and the torrential downpour dims out his thoughts to a quiet murmur. He watches raindrops chase each other down the windowpane. Thunder rolls overhead. As a little boy, he hid his face in his mother’s lap when he heard the thunder and saw lightning flash. Now, he takes comfort in the chaos of nature.

A twitch of fingers; Ellis remembers his audience. Fingers twine, a heart flutters. The soft sound of a kiss. “I’m a bit chilly, love. Move over.” Sheets rustle, and Ellis is again in a familiar spot. Aidan is a bit warmer than usual. It’s the fever. Nothing too drastic, of course. Ellis has nursed him back from worse.

His silly love. Always doing unnecessary things.

Aidan does not like rain. He knows that, and he has not even had need of asking. Aidan is a sunny day, and he is a summer forest fire.

[e per quanto tempo fino a quando mi struggo—

burned melted destroyed devoured exhausted incinerated wasted

nel calore del tuo cuore]



you should let go.

…non ci riesco.

Minutes pass, the rain sifting static overlays into the spotted scatterings of thought; the storm hushing all speech.

Their minds speak in cryptic riddles of silence and pressure, weighted by calloused fingers and fragile fingertips meeting. Ellis yearns, Aidan takes. The pattern is steady. They are the rain and the sun, they are the tears and smiles of past hurts and pleasures.


he doesn’t hear, but he does it anyway.


he doesn’t hear, but he does it anyway.



They pass through their seasons, la primavera, l’estate, l’autunno, <vieni da me, lo vi riscaldera>. They protect, they are protected.

For now, they can hold harmony and let it be washed away in the onslaught. There will be more pain, and more pain, though the heavens stop weeping. “Why did you come out to see me in this weather?”

[mi sentivo solo.]

“Just felt like it.”

[so che.]

“You are truly ridiculous.”

and so they waste away, they burn, they blaze, as rain pours down around them, but the flames do not die.

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