daimon, dionysus

[fox]

❦

the air shakes as it fragments, bone white thunder between the clouds.

on the plateaus of nysa, the sky bears witness to his birth. he is heralded, he is lamented, the light is blinding when it touches him.

but the myth before the myth.

the beginning before the beginning, on the slope of the mountain, buried beneath another name.

maybe this is why he comes drenched in the smell of winter rot, the fetor of spring. the blood drips in dark pearls. maybe this is why his mother dies.

they give him the name.

the new name. of a god born again.

raised in the wilderness, raised unknown, nobody’s son. his father finds him.

and the third time,

the third time, he is softened. he is spoiled. he is given to the people. their new age madness. their modern sensibilities. see how heavenly he looks when the light touches him again! see how the kings love him, that beautiful, revelrous boy. humanity forgets, he forgets. his body does not.

on the island, they called him daimon.

in four,

dionysus.

[fox]

❦

cw: nsfw

an opened bottle of red wine gets bitter after five days, the notes of apples and citrus vinegaring, the colour browning in the glass. on the counter, an orange starts to spoil by two weeks, goes soft, then molds in sky blue rings in the warmth of the summer. all things have an expiration date. beautiful, decadent cake, fluffy pink frosting licked off the fingers, perfect like this, before it melts off into sticky decomposition. flesh falls from the bones. buttercream from the crumb.

and how long before an affair loses its goodness? or was it ever really good.

she is thinking this as she stares at his back in the afternoon light. puts her hand between his shoulder blades and feels the pulse of him like a wing beat there. beautiful, angel-like boy. five years younger than her. he turns at her touch and looks very sweet in the sun, the glowing cherry of his lips. she could eat him, she wants to, before the spoiling, before this would begin to rot too.

she brushes his hair back. touches his temple.

they met in this house, her house. months ago in the early spring. his father was her husband’s friend, his family having done business together over the years. the man owned wineries across Four, and she knew his wife, his daughter. but this time, he brought his son.

it was dinner. a modest five courses. they had briny mussels in white wine and herbs, they had crab cakes dressed in pearls of caviar, candied carrots with cheese, and a fresh bass baked in a salt crust. their guests brought a gift from the grapevine. the wine was sweet, served at dessert, very rich, almost chocolate in undertone. she remembers the taste of everything, and she remembers a strange hunger sitting at that table.

at thirty-two, her husband is much older than her. ten years nearly, and she was eighteen when they were engaged. yes, he was rich and respectable, and she could love him a little, she could love him some of the time. between the two of them, he was very stable, and she made him more interesting. they could live well together like this. that was how it should be. life was both crushing and delicate. feelings had to be slight enough to slip between the relentless passage of time.

it was very practical of her.

no one wants to be in an affair. no one sets out to partake in adultery.

but there she was, and there he was. he'd looked at her, intensity in the darkness of his eyes, a fervor that was faultless, so terribly sinless only because it came from him. pure was the evil. and how could it be called evil when it was only animal feeling? when it was so very simple, the act of wanting?

dressed primly, dressed beautifully, sat at a table fit for a king, young in his godhood. in the moment, she swore she could see the curl of horns spiraling from his hair. but the light, the way he shone, all the shadows disappeared as the night wore on.

he touched the spoon to his mouth, he laughed with grace. she was staring at the curve of his lips, and the wine made her cheeks feel the faintest bit warm. his gaze returned to her, strangely innocent despite the appetite. yes, his eyes seemed to say. i am only a beast from the wild. and i am hungry for nothing at this table but you.

the rings were solid gold.

but marriage is a paper.

they fucked a week later.

always in the afternoons, before her husband came home. something about the impermanence of it, the breathlessness of a moment that pulled them together with frantic devotion. for two hours, she was someone else. she was not footnote, addendum, wife of. she could want so freely, she could run her fingers through the joyous filth of life, the terrible, terrible mess that was feeling, revel in it, yes yes, she could.

and yet, how neat. between the hours of three and five p.m. between two numbers. two solid walls.

from the bedroom, to the table of the sunroom.

i did not want to be a wife, she tells him. i do not want to be a mother. the mallow in the vase petals white and pink, deep in midsummer.

he feeds her a cigarette, staring up at her. she can taste him underneath the smoke, where his mouth touched.

why did you marry him?

what else are people supposed to do?

yes, wife of, mother of. why is it in stories that it is always like this? and yet, if she had decided to be alone. if she had been free. what would they have called her? what would have happened to her then? can you tell me a story that doesn’t end in tragedy? can you tell me a story of someone like me. i don’t want to be a myth, a lesson, a devastation. can you tell me.

i was your age then, she answers.

he is kneeling at her feet. touches her knee as she sits. she lifts his chin. the length of his lashes brushes the shadows beneath his eyes.

tell me what it is you wanted before all this.

she lives for the two hours she leaves her life, at least for a while. they stay in the bedroom, in the house, and she does not say things like love, like i will leave him for this, for you.

because she wouldn't.

between the two walls where she is terrible. but it is still a room. it is still her house.

i don't want to hurt you, she tells him one day. and he, dark-eyed and divine, only leans in to kiss her.

summer blooms deep red as the season turns. it is hard to know when the expiration happens. maybe it began when they first met, the heart rot, the moment they had laid eyes on each other at the dinner table. to know dull thirst, to never have her fill. or maybe it was all the way in the beginning, when she was born into this world. when she learned to speak refined, learned to clasp buttons on a shirt, learned to dine with knives and not teeth.

hard to say, but eventually, he stops coming. disappears as suddenly as he came. she knew he would. she has always known.

in autumn, his father arrives again to see her husband. they speak in the office, and when they come out, her husband is smiling. another business deal. handshakes. profit from the wineries. she thinks of him for the first time in a long time.

they eat dinner together that evening. wife and husband. they sit across from each other. the salmon is softer than butter. the beets are sweet underneath the taste of a crumbly goat cheese, bright with vinaigrette. wine again, a bottle left by their guest. tannic, nearly savoury. she is thinking now, she is looking at her husband who is staring down at his plate. she is imagining the way the flies could take over the food.

did you know? she asks.

he glances up, shoulders straightening. expressionless.

darling. of course.

of course, of course. his house too. and a room where he goes to act out his hunger. that's what people do.

why didn't you say anything?

ascetic. supermarket packaged. fruit sprayed with wax. nothing quite tastes right trying to extend the goodness when the inside's already gone. she is not hungry. he smiles thinly.

didn't we both get what we wanted?