Soundless, weightless, painless relief broke with the skin of sleep in a sudden pop. Yet, no vital fluids could push their way out as consciousness crept its way in. It settled into various pockets of awareness, this cloying presence like peanut butter forming to the roof of the mouth. Myk mumbled in his state of half-sleep and nuzzled his face into the downy pillow. If he could suffocate, it might just be perfect; such was his unwillingness to let acuteness sweep him up just yet. Not just yet.This thread is back-dated to 1st January 2016
It was all too faultless, too sweet, and to be awakened from a dream that lingered on his tongue like cotton candy would be too cruel. He was relishing in the feeling of sleepiness that sheathed his body in a warm cocoon, mewling like a cat drunk on milk and fawning beside a fireplace. He was so blissful in fact, that he didn’t want to even think about how nice he felt, just that sleep would come again and wash him away. It wasn’t to last. The Telepath made a small noise somewhere between a groan and a whine as his body tugged itself away from numbing comfort. Myk drew his chin to the side as he felt heat ghosting its fiery fingers against his cheek. Pewter eyes fluttered open and dim light raced in as the last amber slivers of sunlight slipped in through the drawn curtains, dissolving the obliqueness of daytime. Myk’s eyes swirled to the clock on the wall almost instantaneously: 5:58PM – sunset, but just barely so. He could easily squeeze in a few more hours of slumber before it no longer became socially acceptable to waste away in bed. Not that anyone would judge – he reminded himself. They couldn’t judge when they didn’t know because they didn’t ask and he didn’t tell.
Myk stubbornly squeezed his eyes shut again, breathing evenly through his nose in an attempt of self-hypnosis. If he could convince his mind that he was still asleep, perhaps he could return to nestling under nonsense thoughts piled precariously high like stacks of folded towels, where the walls of his mind were fluff and stillness and safety, where reality could just... bother someone else for once. Myk didn’t care if he could never dream again, just so long as he could dream once more and dream right now. He would make the trade; sign his soul away – if he had one – on the dotted line of the Devil’s contract. He would make a wish on any budding star in the heavens just for sleep to wipe his mind blank-white. He would even get down on his knees and profess his unswerving servitude, his whole being, to any deity willing to accept him if they could catapult him toward the blinding light of obliviousness until it engulfed him completely for one perfect, weightless moment. Myk simply wanted peace, only, it was already too late.
With the skin of sleep peeling further back with every moment, struggling against the ripping force now felt as pointless as carrying an umbrella in a hurricane. Pewter eyes slowly climbed out of their shells, flexing like newly emerged silk moths. Myk was already aware of the dying light and how it cast orange and indigo shadows around the room, the room which was familiar and safe even if it was chaotic. He knew where he was and that knowledge was the force that stole a contented sigh from his lips. Crepe paper streamers danced haphazardly from points of height, threaded from lampshades and bookcases and shelves like the web of spider on LSD. There were reams and patches of cloth too, their textures and colours as varying as the leaves of a forest, and hung just as elegantly about the corners. The room was more of an artist’s den than it was a bedroom, and because it looked like Mardi Gras had swept through recently, there were beads, paint, glitter and feathers as far as the eye could see. The space was cluttered and colourful and gaudy, but it was a place that Myk considered a sanctuary; somewhere safe that was his own, something like a nest for his insanities. As a result, it was a rare thing for anyone to be invited here…
It was typicality that convinced Myk not to wonder as to whether he was alone tonight. Myk always heard sounds around him, ones that felt as close to the ear as a lover’s whisper at times and those that seemed so far away, as distant as colic cries. There were always scents and perfumes clinging in the air like memories too, pictures of Christmas and birthday cake and long ago romances. Myk could barely distinguish between reality, phantoms and fantasy as it was, so it never occurred to him that the sound of peaceful breaths, the perfumed whisper of cinnamon and nutmeg, and the gentle undulations on the mattress behind him could be anything more than some mucilaginous dream that had yet to detach itself from his consciousness. Myk’s mind was a jumble of timelines as well, and without a clue as to which day it was, he was unable to recall which day it was before – let alone what exactly he’d gotten up to. It was only when he shifted around, wriggling like a botfly maggot, that recollection came crashing against him. Pewter collided with cerulean like competing marbles, and Myk felt the singing of their impact lucidly along his spine.
So he and Fable had… Oh dear.
A corset of complicated emotions bound itself around Myk’s torso next as the horror of these new feelings emerged like corpses, popping up onto the surface of his thoughts from their watery graves. Myk would have liked to take a very long stick and beat them until the air burst from their backs and they sank away again, but he was having difficulty locating said stick. A very, small, insignificant part of Myk’s heart – which, really, could barely fill the space of one pulsing chamber – decided that seeing Fable herein the bed of his private space was actually a good thing. Myk recognised the emotion immediately and stomped that corpse back into the bulrushes before he could even observe the swollen wrinkles and purple-blue colour of its skin with clarity. As that sentiment was brutally pushed back down, a more primal urge bobbed up to the surface in its place. Its bloated, worm-riddled form gave Myk the compulsion to run, like he had come face-to-face with his most intimate fear. But how could he run when he could barely even move?
Pewter eyes stared into those longing blues until his eyeballs felt sore and scorched, like they’d been sanded down. With much of his willpower, Myk finally broke the incredulous stare he was giving, and blinked repeatedly to halt the burning sensation before it set off the sprinklers. It wouldn’t look good to weep in front of the other Telepath now, would it. Despite it all, despite that deep-seated impulse to flee, Myk was absorbed in the feelings of his companion. Myk didn’t need to see himself to know that his pale-as-paper cheeks were stained a gentle pink from the heat that had been dragged up deep from within, didn’t need a reflection to know that his eyes were dull and submissive, looking unfalteringly at empty space. Myk felt utterly embarrassed for his silent outburst, and completely ashamed that he had allowed that perfectly composed mask of loveliness to slip from his features. He didn’t want to reveal how ugly he was to the veritable angel before him, let alone anyone at all, and now that an inch of his true form was showing – as bare and vulnerable as a vein – Myk wanted nothing more than to reach for the concealer.
The Telepath moved to sit up slowly, pewter eyes glancing nervously around any space that Fable wasn’t occupying. The sheets dressing the bed pulled with the movement, pooling in his lap and making his lower half disappear into indiscernible white. Myk clutched the sheets desperately to hold them still around him; he was no shrinking-violet, but the need to be on guard had turned his hands into balls of iron. He was aware that he wasn’t looking his best either. The weight of his hair dragged bony tendrils down his shoulders, their edges frayed like over-worked wool. Much of the Telepath’s white foundation had come off too, revealing his buttery complexion. No red lipstick was there to define the sensuous curves of his lips as he bit down on the lower strip of flesh. No mascara and glittering paint remained to shadow the look of insecurity in his eyes either. Nakedness was an uncharacteristically harsh reality, as he felt bare and raw in every sense of the word, but he had to remain composed if he was going to claw back some of his confidence.
Pewter eyes set themselves on the man beside him at long last, the metal in his eyes appearing a little leaden. Myk pursed his lips, parting them ever so slightly as if expecting some careful, elegant words to slip out on their own accord and remedy the situation. When nothing came immediately and Myk realised how dry his lips were, a small pink tongue lathered a diamond sheen over them, a glossy coating that made his weak smile seem bright and friendly.
“Good… morning,” Myk said, his voice a crotchety layer under velvet tones. “Did you… um… sleep well?”
It was a preposterous thing to question, and the well-groomed mannerism came with its archetypal British accent wrapped snugly around it. Myk felt himself cowering inwardly at the voice that had slipped out from his lips, that stupidly polite tone having no real place on his tongue save to mock. It was almost as though he’d been possessed by Rutherford, but even the Wraith was dark enough to reserve pleasantries as offenses. Myk seemed genuine when he’d asked Fable how he’d slept, but then, he had to say something. He had to say anything but the words which had pushed their way into the centre of his face, refusing to budge: “Why are you still here?!”
