title; clouds.
pair; ciel/alois.

They're left on a blanket. A stitch-work of peach roses and black peacocks with elaborate golden feathers suffocating flat the little clover beneath. They have cake crumbs on their lips and lavender tea on their tongues, and they kiss half-asleep. Drowsy with sunlight and crisp air pooling slow over them like milk, making pink the insides of eyelids. To each other, they make promises and tell stories, so gentle in their tones the honeybees hum over their affectionate murmurs. They can scarcely hear the other, but it doesn't matter. Fingers are curled into eight tiny valleys and the pulse of lulled heartbeats resonates from one palm into the other.

Then, in all the haze of fighting sleep, of telling stories no one else will hear, of tasting frosting and petals off each other, of never allowing I Love You to make it past tonsils—they find more reason to spur their self-destruction onward. Sweet and tender moments won't matter when their bones are sucked dry.