black notes on white paper and black soul on white skin
/du-ende/ n. (Spanish)
¬the mysterious power of art to deeply move a person
¬the feeling of powerful awe experienced when viewing a piece of art, watching a performance or listening to music th...
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Everybody knows this one person who just has to touch their pillow to be far asleep, the one who's incredibly hard to wake and who loves to sleep on the belly, drooling a little but not believing anybody that they indeed drool, that it really is no bad joke, no lie, not teasing. (Nikita, finally accept that you're fucking drooling. You aren't crying, no, also not out of your mouth, you idiot.)
So actually, it's quite unlikely you know such a person because that's basically Nikita and usually drooling people admit that there's spit streaming out of their mouth - ask Avery about it, he tells you everything you don't want to know.
Accept that neither you nor your mouth are crying, Nikita, it's just like with your smiles, artificial, everything artificial, boys like you don't cry, they smile.
Unless smiling, Nikita isn't practicing crying and maybe that's the reason he isn't good at it. Don't understand this wrong - sometimes there are liquid crystals rolling over his pale cheeks, sparkling like young stars but filled with old woe, but the sorrow within them appears to be too ancient to stay in their translucent prison, his skin seems to absorbe all sandess and in the end there are just meaningless droplets, nearly dull, filled with nothing, no worries, no weltschmerz, just emptiness.
Maybe that's why Nikita's convinced that he's crying in his sleep - because the saliva on his pillow tells from as much emotion as his tears.
If his tears were paint, they'd be able to create awestrucking masterpieces, colours of seldom vibrancy, sparkling like whole galaxies. Why isn't anybody chatching them as soon as they spill over, bottling them up? They'd be handled like gold on the art market, plain but not to underestimate. But when they finally touch the paper the pages stay blank, everything is drained out of them and the book of his life stays black and white like it's always been, even after he's abandoned music.
Not only because of everyday utensils; documents, ink and quills, chess, fashion, tea and milk; not only because of the bear which is eyeing him cautiously with malicious black eyes; not only because of his own appearance in the mirror; no, the world seems to be black and white in general, especially in Hogwarts. They say one, who's good and who's bad, who's worth it and who's not.
To be honest, Nikita doesn't mind it. It's easier like this and what kind of Slytherin would he be if he wouldn't take the easy way?
Still a Slytherin of course but maybe Gryffindor would adopt him, after all he's soaked in godly gold and nobody'd care that the red Nikita'd had to wear then would remind him of blood.
As if Tom Riddle had heard these sacriligeous thoughts, he bolts up in his, eyes wide, hair messy.
Actually, he's merely heard Nikita snore, reminding his conscience that there's this boy who's been missing in the evening, apparently forgetting about their appointment. And if Tom can't stand one thing it's when somebody's forgetting him - but he's also one of these insufferable persons who can't procrastinate, he wants everything to be finished in a certain time and Tom definitely doesn't want to have this quite boring project on his list tomorrow.
