What luminous light came to life ‘pon dawn’s ascending mount ‘pon congruous horizons — what light was consistent of this life, given of his genesis a commencement of splendor and of sheen – ‘twas he who passed ‘cross the lucent sun, ‘roused ‘pon its circumscriptions the lambent glow here glittering as a semblance given to this chosen one; he was born from his golden basins, he had bathed within the sacrosanct, spiritual of holy waters and had washed each of all the graphic roses tinctured of a colour red in eternities of his home-garden.
What light — his light — now here laid ‘pon the lenient, starless masses conforming of their solacing sheets; a beauty ‘pon black, and gossamer was the projection of his astral brilliance so translucent to his unharmed skin, so luster ‘mid an all-consuming nightfall, so coeval ‘mid a co-existence ‘tween his copious shine and his clandestine ache t’ward twilight. Kisaki raised ‘pon one of two fair thighs austere his fingers weak — what recognition, what heartening performance the muscles did wonder him with when ‘twas these yearned such kindling touch, when ‘twas these ‘roused here ‘neath his hand so much. ‘O, angel dear, how is ‘t thine physique so sinful sweet must conquer me in means of heat?’ No, let him sleep, this precious child; few more minutes and then ‘twas soon he smiled. And here the jovial sigh he’d drafted ‘pon his flushed lips did pass ‘cross of glimm’ring curls — these shook, transiently, waving him t’ward the candle-lit passage built ‘pon a path of scattered, rosette petals. Today, Kamijo’d bathe and baptize in his sacred spa — today, he’d follow him ‘pon his careening trail; where measurements in curvaceous so his birthing waist here’d sway and pendulate, here’d weave and fluctuate ‘pon sounds of serum’s spray.
He’d follow him — convey ‘pon routes where now his shambled robe may lay, conduct on this aisle, this scintilla of fulgent flambeaus and flower-fields reigning way t’ward their steam-room where guilelessly he’d wait, submerged ‘mid of Eden’s bath-waters and its rose-tinted crystal clears.
Oh, but how well the ear could perceive! The softest sound which mankind knew very well of ways to place inside soundproof dimensions, to this golden glory, was the most notable of audible noises which surrounded them in their quarters. And oh how it tumbled down a trail to rise in pace. How full of his egoist musk might the deity be, how full of love. Hands, he noted, had fled down to where his hips were constructed and the angel had only to pressed in closer. Gently conducting the spot of where his lips were engaged a pinpoint of his intimacy; all the vessels would swell upward with the color red. He maneuvered slowly, with all the love brought upon by his tender care, doing nothing for the golden tresses which curtained his features and draped beautifully across his beloved.
“Kamijou..,” such a beseeming, heartfelt manipulation these lips impress ‘pon the sweet-scented skin — such delightful and decorous red did rise ‘pon swelling vessels, such mannerly and refined crimson blood did ‘rouse ‘pon the very surface of his flesh! O, how close was he, and how much closer wished he, he were; how stout these fibrous hips did manoeuvre ‘neath his mellowing, assuaging hands, how firm the curvation of this flexing arse pressed ‘tween the sweltering confines of darkened leather did feel within this cradling assemblage of his flound’ring fingers — and how worrying the heat arise ‘round the center of his bosom here embraced in golden sheen. What creature this was, what beautiful evil, and what unruly spirit did rise these flames within!
At the breath of words to be released from his plump tiers; the rivers of depth they run as she flinches from his slightly maneuver to turn, to face her. So unsure she is of his mannerisms and how she should accept them. His kindness was wholesome, wholeheartedly, and she meant no disrespect to him— the one whom tried to make her feel more worthy and less alone. The halting gesture of her hand raises so swiftly; a palm to rest upon his covered chest and the sensation of vertigo fulfills her with the small forward fall it takes to rest one full cheek upon the center of his breast. “True words, Tadashi…”
“Gospel words befall ‘pon mine capricious lips — and ‘pon them I taste now thine dire devoir for truth; yet is what I speak guileless in this world? Is it — authentic to this earth mine soporose feet may here embed?”, what slumberous, conjectural uncertainness raised ‘pon the zephyrs secreted from ‘tween oriel of his impaired, floral mouth; so that it smoothed ‘pon her glossy, webbing hair, so that it brushed ‘pon her sinuous and upturned cheek a wave concealed in misgiving inconclusiveness, his concern, so that each heartbeat cached ‘tween his rural cave did throb ‘pon her listening ear in time of finger-strokes ‘pon her back. “An unlikeliness may never speak of truths…”
How subtle such twitches to his father’s frail fingers were that he noticed and engaged with them by occupying his glance to stare upon their movements. He was so graceful and his steps were silent and angelic as if he were now walking upon the stillness of water smoothed over like glass on the calm of a sunny day. Regardless to his father’s mood everything was still peaceful and in his father’s presence the world was quieter and dull, bright with tranquility whilst without him— his world was this barbaric chaos instilling fright and death. It was a good vacation in other words.╚ You move sheepishly— quietly, father. You wish to proceed with something? ╗ He was indeed the reckless one, but there were others just as reckless.
╚ Consider this a vacation from my intolerance…╗
What comeliness of arborescence did he bring — Belial; ‘twas of where his classic uniform of ramous finish, of arbor vitae shrouded ‘mid the imbalance ‘tween his divers wings, took sheen within an ochroid lapse of reconnaissance in his eye. He, the second son, ‘twas he bestirring semblances of fraud-and-guiled deception of perfection ‘mid the primrose center of perception. ‘Belial! These wan and leucous pennons I still see, ‘twas never of thine comedown which decayed thee!’ — “Mine wish to proceed..,” how dared he so converge to hither ares, come nearer so to one of his impending stars! Teetering, his panic-stricken fingers outstretched ‘pon foreign fields, — foreign, yet ‘twas so were terraces of this square chest still stamped ‘pon his memory, were so familiar to his feeble touch — their poor impression weightless to this one.
“You remain a charlatan, still.”
— J.S. Bach - Passacaglia and Fugue, in C minor BWV 582 —
her brass in yellow gold; saffron-sense saturation but sumptuous, sensational this splendid statuesque stateliness now stood — her keenness contiguous sunken beneath smoothness were each quintet’s squad-segment aware; her heat » O, but lest she smouldered to his fingers, her heat arise of copper-gilding gingerbreads of fandangle-sizing embellishments, of fleurs-de-lis on every key — yet here she laid in her dormancy still, as such did he, when spurs in limbs graceful in proportion saw her surface; Kisaki found her in his eroticism indiscernible, surreptitiously and screened when sequestered hidden beneath the shallow bloodlessness – that of spread a tale of snow-white, unsubstantial winter’s flakes unto him. Minacious fingers had clutched on to her there; of her mellow aurulent and caramel carcass, her curve cut out of timbers told.
He’d breathe upon her easy… follicles, his hair dithering, these were the shivering isles ‘pon which he staggered; palter would he furnished of his flesh abraded – bare, dishabille of habiliments but sparse his caparisons were; in form his velveteen gown seldom seen in sufficient days. Loose of the shoulders, threadbare and barren the rendezvous between a man and his machine proceeded but in guileful quiescence. He’d draw her in, digest her, fathom in to dearth the lungs of desiccation her concupiscent, erogenous salaciousness and swallow here her sudden nectar. Exile, but one threatened insinuate and chime through the cathedral’s halls, in their contemptible thoughts inharmonious to her concern; she exists of correspondence of his granting antithesis; symmetry she followed in arborescent sighs and ultimates of many of his forms. He was versed in her cogitating meditation, he knew of her obstinate and perennial love for him. It was of this, ‘I remember the little things you’ve done for me,’ when she sang for him in inflexible affairs the symphonies she was made love to with – the Renaissance she saw, Romanticism had she sighed… and here the Baroque in classic catastrophes was in woe and wretchedness etched on to her carcass, and effulgent of her reflection in her colossal pipes sat he; the scarlet show of sumptuousness, an incarnation of the one, he whom garnished now her sweet tempting tantalization in aphrodisiac, impassioned amour.
Such a heartfelt downpour of words; and not just mere words but true emotions filling the depth of each letter. They tugged further upon heartstrings that already played a lovely tune for his beloved other half, and forced out as much of the angel’s innermost adoring vibrations as would ever he could. This was his salvation and his breath of fresh air, and to love was a joy thought lost. “I know, my Tadashi, I know…” The radiant creature who basked in the color gold, he forced his lips gently upon the pair that spoke, softly imbedding his understanding upon each petal for a good while before giving his kiss unseen wings on a flight of devotion. Down, they soared, to graze upon the chin, and then the prominent angle where neck met the bone just below the ear.
What discernment and percipience in their fraternal brothership conveyed en route ‘pon the impressment of their swell, and decent lips — merrily emulous were these twinklings of time ticking ‘way ‘mid of their concurring kiss, and covetous was his craving to endure in perseverance of their woven units of flushed, florid flesh ‘rousing his vagrant palms ‘pon a straying byway t’ward his lover’s hips. How compelling, how captivating this momentous morsel caught in an instance of lastingness, in space! — ah, what blessing… what grace of consecration did these rosette leaflets leave ‘pon his vanilla-imbued skin, what impassioned course of conduit did these steaming, inscribing kisses follow and ‘wake what furious charges of fiery heart-throbs ‘neath his breast, upheaving t’ward Kamijo’s chest.
There had been little doubt of what the rise of love would ascertain, as for certain the golden beauty born in lands far evanescent of the one they stood on together in present day could give accession to the red of love. It gleamed as though awakening the very distant horizon of blue skies and green foliage. All was a backdrop to what was central to his very own gaze in this moment as had always it been in times long past. This was natural, all of it. The caress of the northern wind against the cheeks, the trickle of restless waters as they flowed onward toward their heart within forested paradise. The very way in which two hands would interlink fingers and connect two souls in the most simple of physical ways. The grasp was gentle, neither clutching too tightly nor needing the support of the other so as to not fall away. They were on equal terms in this state called love.
“Shall we?” The words were but a vague intonation of what resonated deeper within the soul, it’s ability to communicate with the other half making itself useful to deliver the more well-formed meaning, ‘May I indulge you in this dance beneath the skies we live?’ A second hand, both having been astonishingly free of silken confines on this day, found its way without guidance onto the curve of the deity’s waist.
Their dance ought be to see of reins in solemn muteness — none the remonstrances or clamours given rise to through the medium of bestridden lands and depths did serve an overt orchestra or symphony to the fashion of movement in their spring, enfranchised feet; ‘twas of preeminent, and paramount a private-played performance conjoined of frantic heart-beats and endless and short-winded whispers fled of lips predestined as each other’s nemesis — a concentus of the compendium of abstractness exhausted in the language of their love. And he’d fit within the confines of that temperate, clement hand — he’d shape his formless figure to these fit and robust fingers as were he ichorous a sorbile form; of water and weather laid he ‘pon his life-long, lasting lover. Of extracts and elements did he curl his balled fist ‘pon the balancing shoulder serving him stability in life; and would he sigh of complacency and his fine feats and finishes of fulfilment, when a’press his seraph’s golden cheek his canny and insightful nose would lay. So soft, was he. So soft by heart and soul, so soft by skin and joy.
The earth; ‘twas now their dance-floor marrying the bracing, green grass to each a space ‘tween their tweaked toes — each burgeoning, verdigris petiole a parable of words coming in poundages from their faint hearts, its gravitation but yet another cause of mass and denseness revolving ‘round the pressure of their sunken cavities of breast-works, to yield to one another.
“The real lover is the man who can thrill you by kissing your forehead or smiling into your eyes or just staring into space.”
This is but a quote from some off-skelter author of mortal ideals, and yet, this one statement struck home with the very image of you. You in folds of rich crimson robes, pale skin graciously thrust from the materials into visible sight. You who dons the crown of scarlet locks, bathing everything you gaze upon in your molten sight. You, who at times can seem so distant in a world of flighty visuals, yet return to me within the span of mere seconds once I call out with the syllables of your name.
Truly, how accurate is this statement that I stumbled upon? For my lover is the one with whom my chest may swell into sizes unheard of through natural perception, all because a glance was sent upon my other-worldly figure. When you catch me in your embrace, as thin as each of your structural bones may seem, I harken to bleat that little lamb tune as result. I appropriate my imploding poor heart with a gentleness the world may never know of me otherwise. A kiss to the forehead by lips so consumingly plush as only yours can be, and I feel that thrill spoken of. I feel the rise of inward tides crashing through the soul you breathed life into, and like this, I know you often see such manic tides of love within the deep blue of my own eyes.
Perhaps it is that I feel such thrill because you hold me higher than any other, loved beyond all else. Father, brother, friend, lover… You are all titles to me, and I love each one. How beyond the realm of fortune have I climbed, to have such perfection by my side always in mutual love? Perfection of the red ruler, astride for an eternity by the side of an aristocratic golden prince. We make an incomparable pair, I believe.
Always, always, will my love for you last. Eternità
You were my first thought after I were the one to search for you, too. To this day, I still wish I could have learnt more from you. I still wish I experienced more with you. And I still wish, I could have discovered more of our coexisting worlds together, with you. I still await your grand return, my gaze lost on the heralding horizon which shall bring you within one of my days again. Sincerely, the Love of your Writing Life. ♡
From what the angel could douse the worlds in there was no comparison. Nothing alike the tones of his secular vocal chords to be reiterated or duplicated. One could try, and yet would always without doubt fail. This was the gift of the mighty Seraphiel alone, and whilst the margins of his brethren would fall prey to the envious strike, he feared not in his willingness to flaunt. It was, after all, a preemptive trait of this solid golden creature. Each note seeped deeper than the vibrations of knowledgeable tone, and instead imbedded their deepest passion within the listener. Today, that audience was his one and only. Yes, oh yes, the birds that chirped might have also so been touched as they fell silent to listen, the wind dying off so as to not deter the path on which his voice carried, but none of it was so gratifying as the expression that brimmed over within those amber eyes. He, the one of many titles, was receiving the Seraph’s most affectionate song. He, and none other than He.
Whirling full circle ‘round the ground where he stood, curls of the sun-kissed golden sheen were sent on a trajectory of fluid motion all about his figure; some falling over his eye whilst others bounced onward over a shoulder. “Tadashi, love…” The first words not involved with the song, yet melodic all the same. The angel stepped forward and offered a hand to he who had been called upon, beckoning him up from that rock with the gleam of oceans amassed within his eyes.
These doldrums of deliquescence, this inertia of imperturbability — their quietude in quintessential sang-froid washed ‘pon each deep-seated, anchored crease and upland seam embedded within porcelain, pastel skin; no longer roughened were his equitable expressions, no longer coarsened were his weather-beaten, marble features sculpted ‘pon his foreign flesh of sterling, consummate hands congruous to none other than the most paramount of sans-pareil an artist. O, Seraphiel! — how is it still, still that this seraphic susurration of symphonious sonorousness was a seepage through his system, still that this breathless murmur instilled ‘pon his frail heart the anthesis of efflorescence; how it was, that he’d be harrowed to eternal trees and fountains of spring, crucified ‘pon the shedding of seedlings and enshrined to the basins of the earth. By this voice, his endlessness prevailed — by this voice, each his buried bone here stagnant ‘mong planets’ rocks and roots did fadeout of its old, and ancient age. By this voice, lifelong locks of bittersweet were carried ‘pon such mistrals in the dying wind, did perennial crimson lift ‘round his continuous head, and did his heart undo itself the stone-encased entombment wherein it’d onward lay.
And in the concert joined by their aged hands did he rise to these restless oceans persisting in these eyes; he, an abounding, transcendent mosaic belonging to his incarnadine colour of all that was, and would be ever red — and he, an angel suffusing on the golden mouth of sunset-kissed lagoons, would accede to all this love imbrued, and everlasting.
What love was in constant bloom between these two divine creatures, never able to come to a definite end, and unable to quell the emotions which swelled and shone forth from within. Even from the perspective of the unambiguous insect on the passing path, the sincere affections must have been very well recognized. “Each pasture of pale flesh, each and every inch of that which is your composition, I do so very well to show my tenderness.” And thus said, that where lips had grazed upon his wrist in a heat so comforting, the angel moved in closer so that again lips of his own would press unto the deity. This time, at a corner of the lips. For there was no restraint that the angel could, nor would, have excessed. This was his beloved, and beloved was as how he were to be treated.
“Mine poor indigent heart — ‘tis bygone, yet yonder of mine breast ‘t swells on, and on… when ‘tis you in which mine little soul may bide, no longer do I know mine pride..,” sweetened, sodden stations — lips; pleasingly plump, butterballs of commiserative saturation, esculent engorgement — sighed ‘pon the snug cheek isochronous of his angel so soft, “’twas foolish of me… to forestall mine cotton closeness to you longer than I ought was fair. I love you so now, mine Kamijou… when elsewhere of mine sanguine silhouette you dwell do I know just how in love I am..,” august, artistic limbs lay ‘cross of shoulders wide; complaisant, courteous extremities their summits press’d ‘pon of an arresting, peerless spine their oft compound of pressure. How in need, was he – how recurrently in foremost, fundamental love.
“How, I am fairly certain you know.” The chuckles which spilled forth every incremental span of seconds here and there seemed to never falter, only keep along a steady tide of joy. With the deity safely grounded upon soft bedding, the angel threw his head back so that long strands of hair would be sent back over a shoulder, interfering with his vision no longer. No longer framing his masculine profile. “Beautiful, the imagery which sits before me. You, who is swathed in luxurious airs as well as premium fabrics I chose by thoughtful hand.” Notable was the inhale of crisp air within the lungs, so that his chest rose and fell though it could have gone without a second glance as to that same cheek his hand went; brushing a thumb across the cheekbone all aglow.
O, how was this undying beast of roaring, high hauteur, of haughtiness instilled ‘pon thrones homologous to his fustian, flowering cheek, so self-assured, so serene and sedated in an illusionary, narcissistic stratus, effervescent in nephelognosy and nimble atmospheres — and yet uncompromising of his certainty. He’d nevermore of know; of what did cross this angel’s fallen mind, of how in kingdoms wide could he still choose this man over his pride. “Mine beauteous face – O, is it real… when thee becometh near ‘t but chooses this here to unveil..,” he referred of heat aflame ‘neath palm pristine and thumb embellished of a ghastly gleam, his lips to touch ‘pon sacred grounds of a fleshful, unmarred wrist in remnants of a kiss foreseen.