i fell in love with a war
Icarus is pretty sure Deimos is lying about not being good at things, and suspects that if circumstances called for him to successfully backflip, that the Warden wound find a way to pull it off flawlessly on his first try. Whatever flaws and cracks the man is privy to, whatever grief and tragedy wrings his bones, Icarus only senses through his years serving under the man, from rumors in the barracks, from his own keen eye and sharp propensity to sense the things that hurt from where they linger in the shadows. Still, it all floats in the realm of inferences and keen observations; it’s not real. Icarus does not think someone like Deimos unfolds their depths to someone like him. And so, even with his gathered knowledge, the myth overlays what he knows of the man, leaving Icarus’ picture blurred and unfinished.
There’s so much that burns at the back of his throat to say, to ask, but his flower crown is finished and it needs to be witnessed. He follows the jut of Deimos’ chin towards the pool and carries the crown over. It coronates itself on his head, settling into his dark wreath of curls, and after only taking a second to gather his courage, Icarus peeks his head into the shining mirror of water.
He looks the same as he always does, his hair windswept even as it’s tied back, his eyes dark and empty. The curve of his mouth is a severe slash across his face, and he tries to pull it into something a little more befitting of someone wearing a whimsical flower crown. He looks tired, he thinks. He looks like his father.
Icarus pulls away from the pool a bit hastily. ”Looks good to me,” he says, and he’s not even lying; the crown fit nicely on his head, the mismatched flowers working together in a strange harmony. He could say something in that lightly familiar tone about how he had a good teacher, but the crown on his head feels like it’s too delicate to be jostled by true words hidden in insincerity.
”Thank you. For your instruction,” He says instead, and then gestures to the crown in Deimos’ large hands. ”Are you going to try yours?”
There’s so much that burns at the back of his throat to say, to ask, but his flower crown is finished and it needs to be witnessed. He follows the jut of Deimos’ chin towards the pool and carries the crown over. It coronates itself on his head, settling into his dark wreath of curls, and after only taking a second to gather his courage, Icarus peeks his head into the shining mirror of water.
He looks the same as he always does, his hair windswept even as it’s tied back, his eyes dark and empty. The curve of his mouth is a severe slash across his face, and he tries to pull it into something a little more befitting of someone wearing a whimsical flower crown. He looks tired, he thinks. He looks like his father.
Icarus pulls away from the pool a bit hastily. ”Looks good to me,” he says, and he’s not even lying; the crown fit nicely on his head, the mismatched flowers working together in a strange harmony. He could say something in that lightly familiar tone about how he had a good teacher, but the crown on his head feels like it’s too delicate to be jostled by true words hidden in insincerity.
”Thank you. For your instruction,” He says instead, and then gestures to the crown in Deimos’ large hands. ”Are you going to try yours?”
Icarus
and nobody told me it ended
