LOVE: UNLIMITED - D.K X READER

12 - SERENDIPITY

Placed in a field of flowers. Unrestless, ever-changing, ethereal. Soft and tender touches and the light graze of lips. Strings of the violin correlated to their movements, holding eachother in peaceful tranquility. Protecting eachother through the look of one's innermost thoughts; feeling eachother, truly. A sky of which's colour was far too forgettable, glazing the tint of orange upon their features. The butterflies danced in a rhythmic pattern, almost like they followed the movements of the instruments.

They themselves were wicks of two different candles - practically estranged, brought together by chance. One no more burnt-out than the other. They were the same in all the ways they were different. The spark that could light them both wasn't hard to find - they just needed to search through the flower field a little longer.

What mattered most in the moment was them, feeling it all. Nothing and everything, all at the same time.

The grace of lightly holding the hand of the other was nothing short of bliss. Tender, gentle. Innocent. In this flower field there was nothing left to hide; no mountains to climb, no rivers to cross.

No walls to break.

In the flower field danced a man in a well-tailored suit, his jewellery long gone in the pits of his mind. He fitted every-most thought with the lady he'd been given the privilege to call his own. Babbling brooks, riverside creeks and even the flowers could not amount to the intensity of her light and peaceful stare.

In came the keys of a piano, singing a familiar tune. Etched within was the face of his mother and the warmth of her smile.

Strings attached to the keys. Opposites in frame, in stature, but it didn't matter. Similarity through glances reminded him that he was no different from her, his lady.

They made music together in that flower field, and suddenly it felt like all those walls were never worth building. No matter how different the instruments were, they sounded better together than alone.

Daisuke danced in the flower field with you, his lady, in the pits of his mind. The insides of his wall he fortified. The seemingly gruesome barriers, bartered and crumbling, were nothing but protectors to something much more tender, and gentle.

His happy little flower field where nothing could hurt him.

Oh, how he wished it was real. Something he could touch; could feel, with every fibre of his being. He wanted to feel.

-

Slurred words and neon lights. The overbearing crashing of the overrated songs the bar had managed to afford rights to on the radio. Intoxication of the mind through a liquid substance thought to ease your senses. 'Forgetting tragedy' as a means to escape what you'd created. Nightmares plaguing the thoughts of so many — achievable by the release of one's stress. Tranquil and still, but terrifying.

A breath would contribute to a rhythm created by the inner works of his body. An exhale would finish the sequence, and the next inhale would start it again. Two minutes without it could kill him. A person could crave oxygen with every fibre of their being and still take it for granted. It was something people didn't have to worry about doing; their body kept it covered, manually pulling and pushing the parts that needed to be messed with to create the song of breathing. He took it for granted. Each breath was a reminder to those around him that he was living, and each exhale was a reminder that he was more than something to stare at. He breathed, and he moved, and he did things like any other human. Even in that humane peacefulness, there were the people who breathed and forgot about his breathing, treating him like the green paper they'd use to buy something irrelevant. Nothing mattered in the end, and they still managed to mistake him for an open wallet. They used him.