i wish I could say I am a light that never goes out.
but i flicker from time to time
but i flicker from time to time
There's a certain restlessness that can come from predictability; like the sort of phantom pain which accompanies the loss of a limb. It's hard to define and based in irrationality, sure, and yet the disruption it can cause in the lives of those who feel it is quite real. One might think that for two men who have spent so many years together, that such a feeling might begin to weave its way into their bones, coring out spaces between the marrow where it can rot and fester. Indeed it's happened to better and worse couples than the Taliesins, who, as far as their relationship goes at least, are not particularly unique or masterful.
Having shoved away his pillow sometime in the night, much preferring his own forearm and the curve of Ronin's shoulder, Remi sprawls at an awkward angle to his husband to similarly try and remain nested but cool. It isn't any one thing in particular that rouses the Lullaby from sleep, and so it's with a slow awareness of his surroundings -- his hair brushing against his nose, the husssssssssssssssh of the waterfall outside, the warm streak of light that heats only part of his arm -- that he cracks his eyes open, as if opening them fully might commit him to wakefulness.
At first, it's hard to tell just what he sees: It's a golden ridge, marred by silver crags, but there are filaments of white dancing along its ridges, like very fine tendrils of seaweed. The sun behind this particular mountain is massive and bright enough to blot out his vision if he looks at it too long. After a moment the entire mountain rises and falls, and Remi realizes with sleepy affection that the cordillera he'd been looking at was not a mountain at all, but the jut of his husband's shoulder. Leaning over gently, Remi presses his lips softly against his husband's shoulder blade, inhaling the drowsy and sun-warmed scent of sleep and pine clinging to Ronin's skin.
Having shoved away his pillow sometime in the night, much preferring his own forearm and the curve of Ronin's shoulder, Remi sprawls at an awkward angle to his husband to similarly try and remain nested but cool. It isn't any one thing in particular that rouses the Lullaby from sleep, and so it's with a slow awareness of his surroundings -- his hair brushing against his nose, the husssssssssssssssh of the waterfall outside, the warm streak of light that heats only part of his arm -- that he cracks his eyes open, as if opening them fully might commit him to wakefulness.
At first, it's hard to tell just what he sees: It's a golden ridge, marred by silver crags, but there are filaments of white dancing along its ridges, like very fine tendrils of seaweed. The sun behind this particular mountain is massive and bright enough to blot out his vision if he looks at it too long. After a moment the entire mountain rises and falls, and Remi realizes with sleepy affection that the cordillera he'd been looking at was not a mountain at all, but the jut of his husband's shoulder. Leaning over gently, Remi presses his lips softly against his husband's shoulder blade, inhaling the drowsy and sun-warmed scent of sleep and pine clinging to Ronin's skin.
