there's a humming in the restless summer air
→he's fifteen and ninety simultaneously with fire in his blood and war in his past and a couple hundred memories of a boy with hair like the sun and a smile to match←
→(suddenly he's...
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CHAPTER ONE: HOLY WATER CANNOT HELP YOU NOW
❝the moon is drunk
and the stars intoxicated,
with the sins of the sun,
and the sadness of the sky,
shifts, blurs from the earth,
and you stare,
and wonder why the universe,
never loved you back.❞
×××
He gets drunk on holy water to feel the addiction in his veins, the ecstasy at his fingertips, liquor in his lungs– and he thinks, holy water cannot help you now, when he traces the scars on his skin and breathes smoke into his burning lungs (burning lungs and swaying hips and holy water cannot help you now).
Tonight the gods are sick of being gods, and he sick of being theirs, and Aphrodite smiles with sugar on her lips and poison on her tongue and suddenly all the butterflies are dead (butterflies are dead and so is a poor poor heart), whilst he walks in the streetlight fog with smoke in his lungs and hands on his skin and–
–(tonight the gods are sick of–
he's sick of being theirs).
–tonight the car lights blur into the darkness, noise dances with the silence, embers twirled in his fingertips and blood staining his sinful lips. The quiet is lulling and his silver glinting– silver ring glinting in the pale moonlight and lips slick with red, with sin.
Boy with smoke on his tongue; boy with rebellion in his bones; boy with a thousand years of heartache in his blood and a thousand more in his gunshot smiles; boy with a bloody red grin screaming his name and fifteen years of ignition in his soul.
(Holy water cannot help you now).
---
A year is a long time and a lot can happen in a year. He sits in a shitty diner with stuttering lights and a crackling radio with an empty mug on the chipped cream table, one he hasn't been to in a year since he ran off with the wind in his hair and burning in his chest (a year can change a lot but still some things never change).
A year is a long time and his memory is foggy, but he can vaguely remember the crimson seats of cheap leather and ugly tiles splashed with green, the walls stained with coffee and floor washed with heartbreak. He can remember the waitress with the gleaming teeth and artificial smile and ocean eyes that made the words die in his throat, the heat rise to his neck and the itch under his skin– remembers the way she looked at him like he was any other angsty teenager who's seen too much of the world, not a creepy son of Hades with a bitter coffee and an attitude to match.
