❨ the felling of a sacred tree | clue | hbfa ❩
Jul 9, 2019 14:15:21 GMT -5
Post by eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris on Jul 9, 2019 14:15:21 GMT -5
There is no honey on his lips.
Only the taste of salt,
of fresh tears— and they are not his own.
Not even Adam can claim them. There is no source for this sadness. Because the way Beryl cries, the way his voice breaks and his cheeks flush with colour — none of it is real. This is not the way he mourns, the way he pulls his soul from his chest and lays it bare. This is a performance. His pain and his indifference are a fine calculation.
Beryl has nothing to call out for,
to beg for— because he has lost nothing.
He kissed Adam only an hour ago, when the sky bled from dawn to day and the sun eclipsed them. He held him close, this one sacred thing, and he thought to say, 'Can I show you my shadows?' But the sunlight never faded, and his iron never tore through the silk. There was only softness, a dove in a calloused hand, a gentle cry.
And he lied to his lover.And he doesn't regret it.
"This is stupid." He occupies himself by trying to find his reflection in his nails, entering the office with his group and finding a perch on Malcolm's desk. He does not move. "I didn't volunteer for this. Why can't there just be one team to handle the investigation?" 'Because there is strength in numbers,' he knows. 'Because you can see what I cannot.'It's a familiar thing;
hiding in plain sight.
"Not that I mind the company, of course." He flashes a porcelain smile, twirls a strand of gold around a long finger. "I'd just rather be in bed, or at dinner, or running a warm bath." With Adam. In the light. His legs cross over themselves, tapping his nails against the polished wood. "So let's get this over with. I'll be our manager."
That should mean telling them where to look.
He only sighs, closing his eyes.
"Wake me when it's over."
rIumTKq9Cx1-10
1-10