⚘ ㅤgarden。

let me mourn the loss of a ing beautiful plot

@♥ jino i。 His happenings among the manor are unconventional, at its best. Promising to photograph the landscape for a hefty fee, sinking low in his freelance photography to sell common rate paparazzi clips to pay for feasable debts he has in his name. All for the sake of career, all for the sake of dreams, even if the dreams he has leaves him stumped, and as tired as he had laid down the previous night. The promise of home, shelter, to live out dreams for a price of only their time. Time's something he has plenty of, time is the only thing he can seem to afford.

Even if it meant his soul for a little bit of his dreams, a happiness he seeks after a childhood of revelations of scandals and horrors. To gain affection he often prays for since he'd grown old enough to yearn for the love of anyone, anything, relying on mere toys like fake rocks with drawn on eyes, or the alley cat that wandered around the city bus stop to fill that void that he had seemingly been born with.

Empty arms, a conspiracy of childhood being dreams and wonder. This manor sparkles in its very essence, the promises it holds within the cherrywood flooring, the truth that lays on crisp zephyrs of wind that draft through the large halls, and coils around full rooms. Smile after smile seen on the faces of the men and women around him, living freely, even if the day could very well be their last. And yet, even still, there's that blackhole in his chest that feeds on despair, and grows with each day passing.

His path is pulling him to the gardens outside, sock clad feet stepping on gravel, not paying mind to the uncomfortable pain that pushes through the cotton barrier of the Hanes. His camera hangs loosely at his neck, held in hands that are constantly twiddling. Thumbs mared with scars that look oddly enough like teeny crescents, bitten from stress, from subconscious, fleeting habits, pushing over the lens, over, and back, over, and back, seeing the glass reflect up at him, and catch the rays of the moon that plays her game of peek-a-boo.

It's times like this where his smile is at its finest, caught by himself in the starlight, surrounding himself in the plentiful colors of pretend mystical flowers, because imagining them more vividly than they are is the art of storytelling. Finding comfort on the fountain, casting the viewfinder of his camera over the rippling water, seeing how the coins shimmer with the moon's playful banter, her charm shining on the heads and tails of wishes that he hopes comes true.

His own palm delves into the pajama pockets he wears, catching lint, and a lone coin he'd picked up from travels before his bankrupt self landed this treasure of a chance, comes to rest between his thumb, and forefinger. A quick 'click', and the preview of the penny shimmering pretty in the silver blue light shows on his camera. He flips the coin, utters his wish, and listens to the plop of water as the coin breaks surface.

Never does he see if it lands on heads or tails as it sinks to the bottom, for his attention is being grabbed by the wandering feet that have made their way through the maze of wonders. A man who looks awfully familiar, stumbling out and looking to him with a mixture of pain, and oddly enough, longing. His palm trembles, and for a moment, he swears he's at the end of his dreams once more, but this never stops. The surge in his chest is left unspoken of, the gaping hole that feels more reprieve than he's ever felt grows as he pushes from the fountain.

"Dante?" Is his reiteration, confusion plaguing the furrow of his brows, looking upwards to a man who belongs behind the lense itself. Looking like a model he wishes to photograph, with ink that spreads up the column of his neck, and lips that hint a bitten rouge of prepared lipstain. No, not a model. An otherworldly being, an angel, in all their glory, standing beneath the moonlight and, Lord, does he look like a proper god in itself. Deserving a pedestal, if there ever was one. He assumes that this is a power that he, and his kind, has on every one, and wills himself not to act on it. The fiddling comes a heartbeat later, thumb twitching over the lens, back and forth again, listening to the soft snap of it that brings a sound stability that he very much so needs.

"I took English in school, not Latin." He's afraid that he only speaks Latin, the tragedy of it all. If only he knew the truth of the tragedy that the other's reliving in these very moments. "But I can honestly say I don't know of a Dante," Not yet, "but I'm Jaewon, if that helps any." And he wish it were true, that it would help.

@♡ jaewon j。 Seldom does he dream. In this half state of consciousness, where his mind wanders not for the sake of slumber and recuperation — sleep, a mere luxury to indulge but wholly unnecessary — but rather to inflict malcontent onto his person with visages. He is haunted by echoes of laughter — soft and high, the whistle of bells and trinkets. A glimpse of dark eyes, surrounded by a gossamer of curling wisp, the velveteen labials that fall pliant beneath his own. He is filled with a melancholic longing for that in which he has only sampled. This sweetness, a saccharine, cloying essence that had burrowed into his very marrows, a symptom of affecto.

He is greeted by darkness, shadows folded into the corners, the air damp with humidity. For a time, he does not move as his memories filter through his mind’s eye – a thousand lives, an eternity. A burden. Umber irises illuminate beneath the waning ray of moonlight that had stolen into his chambers. The night was disquieting, resonate with the thrum of morale est; a hundred hearts, steady and strong. Soft breathes, halted whimpers and shattered moans that penetrate the granite exterior to reach for him — an annoyance, easily dismissed.

Thick, coarse digits comb the expanse of sable tresses, his brows furrowed, and lips drawn in a pinch of disdain. “Credula est spes improba,” comes the quiet susurrate of a dead language, fingers burrowed in the dark mane, grip tight.

“Dominus,” a word, a promise that bore no fruit.

“Dilectus,” all that he could have been, water between his fingers.

A heavy palm spreads over his eyes, and he sighs. He remains prone for a time, unwilling to move least these memories of gentle hands and glacé lips slotted against his own. He draws himself upright, with lack of nothing do and finding no respite in these musing; to mourn what once was is foolish.

Dressed in loose cloth of indigo, bare feet move over polished marble. The corridor are narrow, looming expanses of smooth stone and cultured décor fashionable during the Elizabethan era. Appropriate, he supposed, given the nature of the establishment. The manor could have easily been furbished into a cabaret.
The gardens are desolate, balmy from the encroaching heat of summer solstice. Ahead, obscuring clouds of prewet persist in their efforts to shield the moon from scrutiny. And like a coy maiden, she dances beyond their grasp, peeking over rolling folds to expose all that was before her in ethereal luminescence.

He had been in a similar state before – the scene no more different then this one, though the time of its occurrence a grandeur in comparison to this period. He watches as stray winds rustle the crown of proud oaks from their slumber, to the curious eyes of an owl that peers at him from the nest of leaves.

He walks the garden path as he’d done a hundred times over, the very act itself as intimately familiar to him as the backs of his own hand. They have changed over time, of course. Gone was the color of earth tones from long exposures in deserts and hissing wastelands of sand dunes to a paler complexion. The scars remain, a canyon of knitted folds of flesh that are visible under imploring examinations. The stain of black ink has all but consumed his person, a testament to the decades of a discontent.

There are times in which he feels a sense of unease — be it in his existence or the world that surrounds him. It is true that man dies, that cities fade and principalities ebb. Vices and virtues come into play, and he had witnessed civilizations crumble under the weight of corruption and dissent sown into the bones of its people. Disdainful of his circumstances yet unwilling to change his own character. There is no betterment to be found in him, no redemption in his touch, the litany of praises he had whispers into heaving and trembling thighs – lies.

In such a state of mind, he reverts to his memories. Only there may he find some form of happiness – the word itself is alien and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. But there is no happiness in this sufferage, no peace in recollecting ghost of a lover.

It was utterly cruel to taste joy only for it to be taken away as quickly as it had been given. Yet he had done much the same to many others. Perhaps simply this was his punishment – for all the hearts that he had taken from trembling fingers, for all the lives he had consumed with nary a concern for the promises left broken in the wake of his destruction.

There is blood on his hands, and this truth is not lost on him. He is not blind to his misdeeds, his atrocities. His murders. Jino closes a hand into a fist, mouth set into a tight line as he moves through the hedge maze, the path so deeply ingrained into his mind that he need not take notice of the direction in which his feet carried him. He hears the fountain in the gardens center, the steady flow of water and a heartbeat. It calls to him, moth to flame. He closes his eyes and sees the flame of their mortality – it burns bright, a kokhav in the dark heavens and he is fascinated, morbidly.

What he finds alarms him. Teeth bared, and lips drawn back, unsettled at the sight of figure he had buried in the recesses of his mind. Hair so dark it was nearly blue, and eyes a warm shade of earthy brown. If he’d a heart, it would have broken beneath the weight of longing and confliction. He cannot bring himself to speak, though he wishes greatly to do so; to curse and demand an explanation even as his limbs go lax and he finds himself taking a step forward.

“Cor meum,” a word, never again uttered in the wake of a tragedy, barely above a whisper. “Dante.” A name, never to be forgotten.

@♡ alex m。 With a soft exhale, Soohyuk placed his finished book on the bench, satisfaction evident on the corners of his lips. He had been seated on a bench for the past hour, reading what his newest plaything showed interest in. Perhaps out of mere curiosity but mostly to rate the taste of said human. It was only when he heard noises nearby did he get up, footsteps rather light whilst he scanned his surroundings. It was fair to say that rarely anyone stepped inside this garden. Very much so, Soohyuk considered it entirely his. And soon enough, he found the source of the noise in the form of a human eating his very own fruit. the angel tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowed and tone layered with sarcasm. “Look what do we have here.” As much as he wanted to be angry, what he felt wasnt exactly anger, it was irony. Just when he got impressed with one mortal, another manages to balance the scale once more. “Didn’t your mother teach you some manners?”

@♥ soohyuk l。 They had to be here, right? There was no other place for tomatoes to flourish and blossom but here, in this beautiful garden. At least, that’s what Alex thought as he scanned the garden for a red, tiny fruit hanging from a bush. Nope. No where to be found, and the man was growing more sad as the minutes passed on. Apparently, they were the best fruit in all the land, and they belong to Lee Soohyuk. Whoever that was- Alex didn’t care much.
When the tatted man finally came across the bush, his knees dropped onto soil and he shoved the red ball in his mouth, humming at the taste. God, this was the best food he’s had all week. He just hoped no one would catch him indulging in something that wasn’t owned by him.

♡ yukhei w。 6 minutes ago Reply
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