|Repose Remembers (reposeremembers) wrote in repose,|
@ 2020-04-17 18:30:00
|Entry tags:||damian wainright, plot: memories|
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing
Warning, this memory contains: Love feels
The hallway you walk down is long. The floors are made out of something expensive, something you have no language for. You wear Doc Martens, untied and with gardens messily painted on them, and the intricate design of the hardwood is lost beneath oft-scuffed black. The walls, they're of a similarly expensive ilk, but you barely notice the pattern of the paper as you approach the long staircase ahead. A staircase which leads to a door, and it's a door which looms.
The door is no bigger than any of the other doors in this vast mansion you're currently residing in. This feels like no home you've ever been to, and the ceilings are tall enough that you regularly feel that tipping your head back would make you see right to the very heavens. You don't look up, but that's as deliberate as the loud clomp of your feet as you approach. You're giving a warning to the person inside. The idea of coming upon them unexpected is a dauntingly frightening one, and it's powered by a fear that you'll be told to get out. It's a ridiculous kind of fear, because you know you won't be turned away. There will be no rebuke or rejection in the eyes that turn to look at you as you walk into his sanctuary.
You push the door open, and the air inside is a little warm, a little stifling, and piano music is playing from somewhere in the room. You seek it out, but only as a momentary play for time, a moment where you haven't turned your head to look at him.
The bray of your heart repeats it. It's been with every footfall down that hall, with every step up that stair. You felt it in the knob of the looming door. You feel it here, standing in his room, in his space, in this square of walls that envelop something that can only be described as him.
He's sitting on the bed, dark skin and darker curls, eyes the color of beach glass in the evenings. The room smells of incense, heady and thick and dark, rich, and suiting him perfectly. He's shadows and shade and opulent. He sits there, and he barely moves. His legs are crossed beneath him, and you do not wait for a greeting. Like a tide coming in, you walk to the bed and do not stop until your knees bank against the side. His cheeks are sweaty, which you can tell now that you're close.
Kneecaps to the side of the mattress, you stand there. You're poised, a thing with muscles tightened and ready to spring. You're a statue, and you hold your breath. You look down at him, and you wait.
"You may sit," he finally says, and it's all the invitation you require.
You sit, one leg off the bed and your foot planted on the floor. He smells of sweat and cool air, and that's the last thing you manage to parse in any true way. He leans against your side, and you turn your face and press the tip of your nose to his neck. You nose there, and you breathe him in, and you're lost. You tip your head up a little, and your nose finds the soft and warm space behind his ear. You wonder if anyone's ever touched him there, breathed in sweat and him and everything he is. The world fades away to nothing, and there is nothing but this boy in this room. There's nothing but the two of you, your nose against his warm and sweaty skin, a lifetime and forever stretched out before you.