act III: pose
So this is what it feels like.
Suspended in the space between dream and reality, Simon spirals into thoughtlessness---stuck in the endless push and pull of the boy's dark brown eyes, his favourite Americano bottled into two glittering irises, silk and velvet spilled amongst the stars. He knows he should move, should say something, anything---but he can't. He's sure that the moment he opens his mouth again, this young god will dissolve into starlight and drift back to heaven. Because the boy in front of Simon can't be more than a hallucination, a mirage conjured up by his love-starved mind.
I'm dreaming. I'm definitely dreaming. Maybe I just miss Tom too much.
"I'm Vincent," the boy greets, his perfect lips parting in yet another large grin. There is nothing shy about the way he smiles, and Simon can almost sense the warmth radiating off him. His gaze flickers over one of the chestnut curls tumbling over the boy's forehead, and he wonders if his hair is as soft as it looks.
You're not real, are you?
"Hi." Simon swallows. "Vincent." The name sends moonlight spilling over his tongue, and he feels unworthy---unworthy to even look at the beauty before him, unworthy to say his name. If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up. "I'm..." Fuck, what was my name again? "Simon."
"Gorgeous name for a gorgeous guy." Simon's jaw drops as he watches Vincent casually hop off the table like he hadn't just openly flirted with him. He barely measures up to Simon's chin, but he seems so much bigger, life bursting from every pore in a grandiose illusion of towering height. "I think you're the guy Otis was talking about?" Vincent cocks his head to the side, a silly little tilt that makes Simon's heart skip a beat. "He didn't give me much detail to work with." Another big grin. "But it's okay. Even if you're not the guy he was talking about, you're even better."
Otis? Does he mean Professor Kelle? Why does he...wait. What guy?
Up close, Vincent smells like strawberries and summertime---bright and soft and delicately sweet. Everything about him radiates sunshine, from his huge smile to the way his skin almost seems to glow. And with every moment that passes, Simon is more convinced than ever that he's dreaming, because Vincent is too perfect to be real.
"What guy?" Simon blurts.
Vincent's laugh is a spark, setting fire to the tinder of Simon's heart. The flames lick at his chest, spraying sparkling embers into every darkened nook and cranny. The chills running over Simon's skin dissipate, leaving nothing but uncanny warmth, because Vincent's chuckle is infectious. It's nothing like Tom's dry bark---but then again, that had been one of the many things Simon had loved about Tom. The thought sends water crashing over the fire in his heart in a heavy wave, extinguishing every flickering cinder.
Simon turns away, just a little bit, just enough to see the rakish twinkle in Vincent's eye dim slightly. Guilt threatens to swallow him whole, but he can't---he just can't. Not now. Not when the scar Tom had unknowingly left behind is still carved over every inch of his soul. A bruise that never heals. A cut that always bleeds. "Never mind," he mutters. "Forget I asked."
"Definitely the guy," Vincent declares decisively, all sunshine and rainbows again. There's mischief dancing in his coffee-shot eyes, a strange sort of gracefulness lining every twitch of his flapping palms---he definitely seems to be the type to talk with his hands. He's so natural, so dizzyingly real, and it only makes Simon doubt his existence more.
"Are you new?" a voice echoes from behind Simon. Reece, one of the usual back-benchers, has somehow managed to make it into class without Simon seeing him, which isn't a usual occurence. Usually, the rest of the class is so noisy that it's impossible not to notice them.
Then again, usually, Simon's not distracted by a boy too perfect to be true.
Reece has one curious finger jabbed over Simon's shoulder. His pupils are wide, almost owlish, and Simon's fairly certain he's high as hell. "Are you new?" Reece repeats. Maybe he thinks this is the first time he's asking it. Simon wouldn't put it past him.
"Yeah. Just landed in America last week." Vincent flashes a winning grin, and Simon's beginning to think that Vincent and smiling are synonymous, an inseparable pair. "I'm Vincent."
"I'm Peanut Butter Cups," Reece says, and apparently, Vincent understands both nicknames and high language perfectly, because he nods understandingly. Everything's suddenly almost awkward---probably just on Simon's end, though---and Simon feels guilty to be relieved when Reece ambles off.
"So," Vincent begins, but he doesn't get to finish his sentence. For once, Simon's slightly pissed off when Professor Kelle strides in, because his entrance had cut off Vincent's voice---a voice Simon wants to tape and play on repeat forever, a voice Simon wants to hug to his chest and cry over everyday.
Professor Kelle's surprisingly dishevelled for once, perfectly pressed tie and tucked vest replaced with a crumpled shirt and day-old stubble. He stops short in his tracks when he sees Vincent and Simon in front of his desk, and for a second, Simon freezes too. He catches himself quickly, though, bowing stiffly like his mother always tells him to do. "Morning, Professor."
"Good morning, Simon," Professor Kelle mumbles tiredly. His gaze cuts over to Vincent, who's still leaning against the teacher's table---except Vincent looks like a completely different person now, head bowed demurely. Then he's back, beaming as if he owns the universe once more. The change is so strange that it gives Simon whiplash, sends his feelings careening off the road and onto the highway. "I see you've met my son." Then he spins around, clapping his hands twice. "Alright, class! Get back to your seats and pull out those textbooks, because we've got a pretty heavy poem to discuss today."
Son? Simon thinks, mind reeling even as he settles himself into his chair---right at the front, like his mother always insists on. His seating position hasn't exactly done anything for his social life, but he supposes that doesn't matter as long as his grades are good. Professor Kelle has a son?
"I'd ask if this seat is taken, but no one ever sits at the front." The chirpy voice, too bright for the Monday gloom hanging over Simon's head, barely cuts through his foggy brain as Vincent Kelle---because he finally has a surname to put to that beautiful, beautiful name---swings himself into the chair next to him. Simon can't control the surprise that flits through his mind at that, but when he lets his thoughts run away over just how effortlessly good Vincent looks perched in an actual chair, he can't help imagining Vincent pressed up against him, can't help wondering what it would be like to run his hands over the milky skin pooling over Vincent's wrists, can't help envisioning swiping a thumb across those perfect pink lips.
Stop it. That's creepy.
Remorse drips through the shot glass of his veins, even when Professor Kelle clears his throat against the lazy chattering filling the room. "If you haven't already noticed, we have a new student. Vincent, would you like to..."
"Love to." Vincent practically flips out of his seat, and for a moment, the world seems to stop. Simon watches as the rest of the class swivels around, their gazes turning from casual disinterest to intrigue. It's almost magical to watch, the way confidence oozes out of Vincent's every step, how there's a childish tonality to the way he walks, something bubbly and bright and so, so addictive. He commands the room with a single sweep of his chubby hand, and Simon's suddenly jealous, unsure if he wants to be him or be with him.
Because Vincent is music in its finest form, and Simon wants to play him over and over again.
"Hey!" Vincent salutes, a quick press of his hand against his milky forehead. It's silly, immature, and would look stupid on anyone else---but it fits Vincent like a picture in a frame, clinging to his delicate figure and booming voice like a second skin. "I'm Vincent. I'm kind of British, but I travel a lot, so at this point I'm not really sure anymore. Hi. What do you even say in an introduction?" He laughs, and like ripples on a pond, the class does too. Simon feels ecstasy bubbling up to his own lips, and although he can't quite bring himself to let it out, it's tempting, a fleeting allure that trips him up and makes him forget everything---everything except Vincent. "I like cats. And dogs. And animals in general. People, too. Especially you guys." Vincent blows a quick kiss, eliciting another wave of chuckles, and Simon imagines catching it in the palm of his hand.
Now you're just being delusional.
"Thank you, Vincent," Professor Kelle interjects, and when Simon glances over at him, his lips are pressed in a thin line. That's weird. Isn't Vincent his son? Wouldn't he want him to---
To his credit, Vincent seems unfazed. "I hope you guys will treat me well, especially in bed." Then he scrunches up his nose, although Simon doesn't miss the way his chest puffs up in pride at the roaring laughter that rolls through the room. "Sorry. That was inappropriate. Point is, I'm here, I'm bloody fantastic, and I love this place already. And that was probably a really bad introduction, but I made all of you laugh, so I see this as an absolute win!"
Then he winks, so classy and crude at the same time, and Simon almost hates him for it. Because he's fucking beautiful like this, disguised in an angel's visage and a devil's charm, and Simon can't help falling for it. He can't help letting this unconventional Adonis steal his heart, and he can't help the way he doesn't want it back.
(´▽`)ノ♪
"Bury me where..." Professor Kelle trails off and shakes his head. "Never mind. All of you are obviously not listening, so let's try something different. Since Vincent's done such a great job of capturing your attention, how about he reads the first half of the poem? Simon can do the second half, since he's the only one who takes this class seriously."
Simon pauses, looking up from the textbook sprawled over his desk. He's never seen Professor Kelle like this---so agitated, so short-fused, so worn. But he doesn't have time to mull over it, because Vincent is rising to his feet with unconventional grace, and Simon briefly wonders how someone could be so delicate---and yet so strong, not a hint of fragility lining the curves of his body or the edges of his smile.
Truth be told, Simon actually likes the poem they're doing. It helps that it's by one of his favourite poets, even though the title is a punch in the face, especially with all the thoughts he's been having ever since Tom dumped him.
"Right, so that's Bury Me by..." Vincent pauses, squinting at the textbook in his hands, and Simon marvels at the way he manages to make even squinting look weirdly attractive. "Adrianne Hurroo---"
"Hruška," Professor Kelle corrects. "She was part Czech."
"Jeez." Vincent scrunches up his nose again. "No wonder I can't pronounce it."
"None of us can," someone cuts in from the back of the class. Maybe Natalie or Sara---Simon always has trouble telling them apart.
"I hope her poetry is better than her name," Vincent says flippantly. Simon feels personally offended at that---after all, in his opinion, Adrianne Hruška was a genius---but he elects to keep his mouth shut, like how he always does. And besides, he's sure Vincent will change his mind once he actually starts reading.
"Vincent," Professor Kelle says. His tone is hazardous, a thin layer of warning barely hidden by the surface. The temperature in the room seems to lower, turning Simon's bones to ice, and he watches Vincent's lax smile shatter into a thousand snowflakes.
"Right. I'm sorry." Vincent clears his throat. "I forgot I'm not in my old school anymore."
"Professor," Gina whines from the back, twirling a lock of reddish-brown hair around her index finger. "Don't be so uptight. He's funny."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Gina. Would you like him to teach the class, then?" Professor Kelle snaps. Gina recoils at that, her hand freezing mid-twirl. Simon jerks back too, more of an involuntary reaction than anything.
Vincent looks like he's just been slapped.
Then, like a flash, tiredness crosses over Professor Kelle's incensed features once more. "I'm sorry. Didn't have enough coffee this morning. Vincent, please begin."
"Okay." Vincent doesn't smile this time. Instead, he seems to transform completely, a moth emerging from a chrysalis. He is suddenly a black swan, elegant and dark, ink dripping off the curve of his rose lips and staining his aura ebony. He takes a deep breath, and a heavy chill sets itself over the room. Simon feels it. It curls itself around him, leaking over his skin, his hair, his jacket. It turns his lungs blue and steals the breath from his heart. "Bury me where the violets lie, where the poets go to die."
It's just one line, but it feels like a revolution.
"Bury me where the lake runs cold, where the grass never grows old." Vincent's voice is a million harmonies in one, and Simon's never felt so cold in his whole life. The ragged anguish in Vincent's words make him shiver, because this---this is poetry.
"Bury me where the stones cry for spring, where the doves no longer sing." It is then that Simon lets his mind wander, because an interpretation this tragic cannot come from thin air, and he wonders, wonders how Vincent can smile with such cheer and read with such sorrow, wonders what he's thinking, wonders what it would be to crawl inside his brain and live there forever.
"Bury me where the sky turns blue, where my weary soul can never come back to you." There's something on Vincent's face, something despondent, and Simon is transfixed---transfixed by the raw pain written across those angelic features. It shouldn't suit him, but it does, and Simon hates it---hates the way Vincent wears grief like a thousand masks. "Bury me where the angels cry, where the stars kiss the sun goodbye."
The melancholy dissipates. The cheer returns. Simon realises he's staring---and that he's not alone. The blown-out pupils of the rest of the class are fixed on Vincent, mouths set in owlish gapes. Even Professor Kelle looks shocked, staring at his son in barely-concealed wonderment. But Vincent doesn't seem to notice them, and when his dimples flash at Simon once more, Simon realises that he doesn't just look like he owns the universe---he actually holds it in the palm of his hand.
Because the world is Vincent's stage, and everyone else is just an actor.
Simon shouldn't be envious of that, but he is.
"Your turn," Vincent says, and like everything is okay, he smiles.
every chapter gets progressively worse and i hate that but i'm studying for my exams at the same time so f#k it
anygays, Adrianne Hruška is not a real poet. and Bury Me is not a real poem. i wrote it myself, using William Wordsworth's 'She Dwelt Among The Untrodden Ways' as inspiration, which is the reason why Bury Me is so crappy. because it was written by me. and everything i write is crappy. (also, i literally cannot poetry.)
how is everyone doing? are y'alls staying hydrated and taking care of yourselves? if you aren't, you better, if not i will appear in your bedroom with the hydroflask i don't have and shove it down your throat.
my exams start on my birthday, so i personally could be better. (yes, i get to grow old and do the paper for my SECOND-LEAST FAVOURITE subject on the same day. wonderful.) but that's still like a little over one week away so wHaTeVeR. (i get old on the 18th. save the date and feel free to get/make me a present <333 jkjk)
if i wrote a Stray Kids mystery fanfic, would y'alls read it? just asking cause i've been toying around with the idea for a bit lmaooo
anygays, let me know your thoughts on this chapter! personally, i really hated it, but i would like to know your opinions anyway because i live off people's opinions instead of fresh air and sunshine. feedback, constructive criticism, praise ;) etc etc is welcome. (also, do let me know if there are any typos or whatever since i wrote this,,,TODAY,,,)
stay safe, stay healthy, keep shining, see you next Saturday, and i love y'alls!
xoxo, Alex
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