【 ☼ 】
𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐔𝐒, 𝟎𝟐
THREE DAYS LATER and Augustus is tapping on Roman's window. It's four in the morning—four-thirty on the dot, in fact—when it happens. It's a rapid, quick; tap, tap, tap that seeps it's way into his subconscious.
In his dream, the tapping morphs itself into a raven picking at the flesh between his eyes. It's peeling back the skin and tap, tap, tapping on his skull. But that doesn't matter, because in this dream, Roman is dead. He's just a floating pile of limbs, being gently rocked by the soft flow of an unfamiliar ocean, with the sun burning his face. The sun, a blaze brightness above him, feels like a taunt. An open wound torn into the skin.
He can't remember how he fell from grace, or why the sun feels like a lost lover that never was and never could be, or how he died—all he knows is that he isn't scared.
And for a boy like Roman, the type to timidly scurry away from his own shadow, it's unheard of. He enjoys the empties of it. For the first time, he isn't scared. And that's a little scary, too.
Roman can feel the raven's sharp claws. He can feel the creature pitter pattering down the length of his face until it's feet are resting on Roman's chin and their eyes are locked. His eyes—not red, but gold—are intense.
"Roman Clark," the raven speaks, "Roman Clark."
He stirs. And Roman isn't fully aware of his surroundings; still drunk on the aftermath of a restless dream. He isn't sure what is real and not. So, carefully, as if still existing in a dream realm, he finds himself tiptoeing to the window.
"Roman Clark, open the window," a voice says, "I'm freezing my bal—"
And then, Roman is face-to-face with him. Roman is convinced that he is still dreaming. So he lets a love-sick smile plaster across his lips and his shoulders sag. He is just as beautiful as he is in real life, Roman thinks. The always battered, bleeding, and bruised Augustus Harris. His bleach blonde hair is lying on top of his head, bits ruffled and out of place, with specks of white snowflakes. Underneath one of his golden eyes is a mean looking bruise; still fresh, pulsing, and blooming underneath the tender flesh.
"Funny meeting you here," Roman slurs.
Still convinced that he is dreaming—because the world was never this sweet to boys like Roman, the world doesn't sent gifts in the form of battered boys on roof tops—he feels untouched by fear of rejection. He reaches a hand towards the other boy, wanting to feel the fleshy bruise with the tip of his pinky. As soon as their skins touch, Roman sobers. He is suddenly wide awake and alert. Because he is real. He is really here. He is flesh and blood and battered bones underneath the flesh of his finger. And his head is spinning.
"Augustus?" Roman whispers, "Is that really you?"
Augustus grins. "It is, the one and only."
And Roman feels ill.
He pulls his hand back like he burned.
"M'sorry! I... I didn't mean to—touch you," he quickly apologies. He places his hand on his own chest. His heart tap, tap, taps against the palm of his hand like the beat of an unorthodox drum. "How'd you get here?"
"How about," Augustus starts, "I tell you all you want to know after you let me in. How does that sound?"
Roman shivers—from the bitter coldness or the intense gaze of Augustus, he can't tell—but regardless, he nods his head. Up and down, over and over again until he worries his brain is rattling inside his skull.
