A FIVE PERCENTS (CAN BE INTERPRETED AS BOTH AU AND CANON) FIC ☀︎ IT IS A HELIOCENTRIC WORLD AND I AM FLYING TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN
AKELLOS wonders if it ever rains inside his body, because it sure feels like it. I'm drowning, he thinks. Perhaps in an abstract way, but I'm drowning.
"How does it feel to melt from inside out?" Thierry asks him, eyes glinting with a vile something that Akellos cannot quite place.
"Magnificent." Except not really.
The other boy grunts, no longer interested in playing with Akellos's indifference. The latter does not even know why he tries anymore; he is always like this, always has been since he was a toddler. A boy of little words, Akellos's mother used to call him.
Thierry twists to reach into his crimson backpack behind him. Akellos watches.
He usually associates backpacks as hungry mouths, eating up whatever you put inside and rarely regurgitating it back up. At least that's Akellos's excuse for losing all of his books and pencils. His professors are not ones to accept it though.
It is in these quiet moments when Thierry is unaware that Akellos uses for thinking. He likes thinking. But as he watches Thierry dig through the angry red mouth, he does not think at all. Instead, he stares unblinking at the freckles dotting Thierry's skin just at the nape of his neck. If he were to connect them with a Sharpie, it would make a watery heart, just like Akellos's.
He wants to ask Thierry if he can kiss the constellation. Thierry will likely say no. Akellos does not bother bringing it up when he turns back around.
Thierry flips open his textbook, paying no mind to Akellos.
He wishes that he could be like that; aloof to the boy sitting diagonal to him. Akellos tries, but as his eyes skim over the text in front of him, none of it makes any sense. Instead, he repeats the same four syllables under his breath, hoping that the countless times will wring the meaning out of them, but to no avail. Thierry Farren Thierry Farren Thierry Farren.
The name is still as thrilling and breathtaking as before.
☀︎ WILL YOU NOT COME AND MAKE IT HURT A LITTLE LESS?
THE sun is hiding today. A blanket of grey covers the sky from start to finish, wherever that is. The only hint Akellos has of this is from the large windows spaced evenly on the east and west walls of the church.
He is not a religious boy, but his parents drag him with them every Sunday nonetheless. Sunday. Sun day. But there is no sun today, Akellos muses.
The pastor up front continues speaking, his monologue lengthened to a rambling that has Akellos restless, although nobody else seems to see the problem. This particular Sunday with no sun is proving to be eccentric, an oddity in the week. Akellos usually has no difficulty sitting through church, but today, there is an electric hum in the pregnant air as if it is waiting for something to happen. But what?
Akellos turns a feather between his thumb and index finger. He had pulled it out of his pillow this morning, the sharp end irritating him. It is white and fluffy save for the speckles of black dotting the tips. Akellos had pulled out some parts unconsciously, leaving a mess on his lap. Surely his mother will yell at him if she sees. He turns his head to see if she has noticed, but her attention is focused entirely on the pastor, who is still droning on.
Akellos wants to scream. He wants to yell, wants to throw things, but all of his life he has been taught to stay rigid. Let's see who can imitate a statue best. It's a game we're playing, his mother had said. Akellos wants and wants and wants, but he does not know how.
