They're two nobodies traveling across Greece, and the countries beyond. Kiku is fascinated by the buildings, he takes endless pictures, much to Herakles amusement.
They see lot of the world when they can pull themselves from the motel rooms, when they can untangle from each other long enough to step into the dark. Herakles turns them nocturnal, for the weather is cooler then, and he does not have to armor himself against the sun. They walk by streetlights, starlight, down the Reine and the Thames. They visit the Louvre barely before closing, when the morning workers are yawning and checking their watches and the night watchmen are coming to duty. They see the Eiffel tower lit up, sparkling proud, rising above the horizon.
Time becomes meaningless to them. A year, an hour, what is the difference, really? Neither has marked it, so much that it seems every watch stopped the day that they met. Kiku always seems to have just enough money to cover their trips. They rarely spend to excess are they are so drunk on each other.
How long is this time? This blissful, captured moment? Two seasons of the year, and no longer.
*
Kiku becomes brittle in heat, as if he might break. His cheeks flush until there is actual color in them, and he grows disoriented. Sweat floods off of him, Herakles is reminded of melting ice, of the perspiration that comes from cold drinks on glasses. Again, it is not sticky, nor does it contain any odor.
It's as if Kiku is fading away right in front of his eyes.
*
He broaches the question one day when they're hiding out in the air. Kiku sallow and skeletal lying on the bed. Herakles can't help himself anymore.
"Have we met before?" Herakles asks.
Kiku stiffens. "I told you never to tell anyone..."
"Tell anyone what?" Herakles lies.
He is not without wiles. He was raised on Odysseus and the tales of ancient Greek gods. He stares back at Kiku, pointed, acknowledging the lie and the not-question between them. The dark expression on Kiku's face fades like storm clouds dissipating.
"No....you have not met Kiku before," he says. He says it pointedly, accenting the Kiku. Herakles knows that it is a razor-thin line that he treads there. He does not ask for more.
"We could move somewhere colder," Herakles says.
"No...my power would grown too strong then and I would kill you," Kiku says. "This keeps me in check."
They skirt around the knowledge of what he is. They do not speak aloud the words. It's always there. He climbs on the covers and kisses Kiku's neck, and doesn't ask anything more than simply another moment, another day, more time.
That's all, just that is what he desires.
*
One day when the heat is unbearable, when summer has taken in its reign, Kiku looks so pale as to be translucent.
"Kiku?" Herakles says, his voice growing desperate
Like Kiku once found him, on the edge of death, he now finds Kiku on the verge of fading away. He remembers what Kiku once told him, long ago when they were tangled together. "Snow never dies. It merely transforms. It's the same sky, the same water. It always returns."
He brushes Kiku's cheek, his other arm tight around him. His hand goes through to nothingness. Kiku turns into mist, in his arms and rises up until there is nothing left. Moisture stays against his arms where he'd held him, like the remains of a kiss, and drying tears.
He turns over and sleeps a long time, but when he awakes, Kiku is not there.
It is not a dream, no matter how much he wishes it to be.
oyuki 4
They see lot of the world when they can pull themselves from the motel rooms, when they can untangle from each other long enough to step into the dark. Herakles turns them nocturnal, for the weather is cooler then, and he does not have to armor himself against the sun. They walk by streetlights, starlight, down the Reine and the Thames. They visit the Louvre barely before closing, when the morning workers are yawning and checking their watches and the night watchmen are coming to duty. They see the Eiffel tower lit up, sparkling proud, rising above the horizon.
Time becomes meaningless to them. A year, an hour, what is the difference, really? Neither has marked it, so much that it seems every watch stopped the day that they met. Kiku always seems to have just enough money to cover their trips. They rarely spend to excess are they are so drunk on each other.
How long is this time? This blissful, captured moment? Two seasons of the year, and no longer.
*
Kiku becomes brittle in heat, as if he might break. His cheeks flush until there is actual color in them, and he grows disoriented. Sweat floods off of him, Herakles is reminded of melting ice, of the perspiration that comes from cold drinks on glasses. Again, it is not sticky, nor does it contain any odor.
It's as if Kiku is fading away right in front of his eyes.
*
He broaches the question one day when they're hiding out in the air. Kiku sallow and skeletal lying on the bed. Herakles can't help himself anymore.
"Have we met before?" Herakles asks.
Kiku stiffens. "I told you never to tell anyone..."
"Tell anyone what?" Herakles lies.
He is not without wiles. He was raised on Odysseus and the tales of ancient Greek gods. He stares back at Kiku, pointed, acknowledging the lie and the not-question between them. The dark expression on Kiku's face fades like storm clouds dissipating.
"No....you have not met Kiku before," he says. He says it pointedly, accenting the Kiku. Herakles knows that it is a razor-thin line that he treads there. He does not ask for more.
"We could move somewhere colder," Herakles says.
"No...my power would grown too strong then and I would kill you," Kiku says. "This keeps me in check."
They skirt around the knowledge of what he is. They do not speak aloud the words. It's always there. He climbs on the covers and kisses Kiku's neck, and doesn't ask anything more than simply another moment, another day, more time.
That's all, just that is what he desires.
*
One day when the heat is unbearable, when summer has taken in its reign, Kiku looks so pale as to be translucent.
"Kiku?" Herakles says, his voice growing desperate
Like Kiku once found him, on the edge of death, he now finds Kiku on the verge of fading away. He remembers what Kiku once told him, long ago when they were tangled together.
"Snow never dies. It merely transforms. It's the same sky, the same water. It always returns."
He brushes Kiku's cheek, his other arm tight around him. His hand goes through to nothingness. Kiku turns into mist, in his arms and rises up until there is nothing left. Moisture stays against his arms where he'd held him, like the remains of a kiss, and drying tears.
He turns over and sleeps a long time, but when he awakes, Kiku is not there.
It is not a dream, no matter how much he wishes it to be.
*