#♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain.

[flownintothesun]

A sappy little something from my pack to their loves over @batteredoptimist . They had an incredibly hard time picking only five each, for how can you contain your entire heart to a set of five songs? ♡

#♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ but i’ve no need for mighty deeds when i feel your arms around me. #♡ 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ calm my storms and make me brave ; do not go where i can’t follow. #♡ 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ and in the bad times i hear your voice. #♡ 𝚁𝙾𝚂𝙸𝙴 & 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽 ⤷ and both shall row… my love and i. #♡ 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽 ⤷ it’s not fair ; it’s not fair how much i love you.

[flownintothesun]

an official request for @batteredoptimist 's James, Muriel and Rosie's hearts this Sappy Day.

                                                                    𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒,                                                                     𝐹𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑠, 𝑊𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑦 & 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛 ♡

#batteredoptimist #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ but i’ve no need for mighty deeds when i feel your arms around me. #♡ 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ calm my storms and make me brave ; do not go where i can’t follow. #♡ 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ and in the bad times i hear your voice. #♡ 𝚁𝙾𝚂𝙸𝙴 & 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽 ⤷ and both shall row… my love and i. #♡ 𝚁𝙾𝚂𝙸𝙴 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like the moon you pull me closer ; bathe my body in your lavender skies. #♡ 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽 ⤷ it’s not fair ; it’s not fair how much i love you.

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    "𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬? 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦." ( 𝐅𝐞𝐲!𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 )

                              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝟒𝟎𝟒 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.. ( @batteredoptimist )

        𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 filter softly between the trees, casting rainbows on his face from his companion’s wings reminds Francis of all of the things that bring him happiness and joy. Here, in this dream, his heart is at rest. He has nowhere to go, and no one to be — content to spend his hours lying among leaves that crunch beneath him and leave confetti in his hair. He plucks one up by the stem — holding it up to the light and twirling it between his pointer finger and thumb, studying it for a moment before a lazy smile spreads across his features. The color of autumn suits his companion very much, he thinks. This nearly-auburn leaf, for example, perfectly matches the beautiful lad’s hair. Of course, things do so often tend to be perfectly lovely like this in a dream.

      His father would tell him to wake up, and to get his head promptly out of the clouds — but he finds that he wants to linger for awhile longer. It’s nice here, and quiet. There are no forests like this in Paris — nothing that feels old and rife with the unknown, with the possibility that anything could happen. This is the kind of place, he thinks, where fairytales are born — where the great heroes start their ‘once upon a time’. It’s too beautiful to be real — and so is he with his creamy skin, and artist-sculpted body. Any maestro of the arts would look upon Francis’s dream lad with envy — for if he was a monument in a museum somewhere, the artist behind him would have captured wildness, and the beauty therein. Francis has always been able to see beauty leaking through the mundane — but with this lad, it’s utterly blinding. Time with his father, though, has given Francis one foot in reality — and he can see the Faery-lad for what he is — the most desperate cries of Francis’s heart.

     In this lad, he sees everything that he wants to be — beautiful, free, magical, light — and he also sees everything that he wants for himself. He doesn’t want a mundane love, or a conventional love — nor does he wish for a lover who has forgotten how to laugh and play and smile. When his dream lad smiles, Francis forgets the sun — a dangerous thing, when one is flying in the in-betweens of life — beware of Icarus, for the fall is great. “Of course I believe in faeries,” he muses. In reality, he isn’t certain that he does — although he wants to believe in them very badly. “You’re here, aren’t you?” he ponders, letting his gaze drift along each of his muse’s lines — swallowing hard and pointedly looking away with a blush as his gaze lands between his dream-lad’s legs. It’s not the nakedness that bothers him — it’s what his reaction to it implies. Shame is a learned thing, a gift from his father to a lad who has seen love in all of its forms and thought it beautiful.

    Propping himself up on his elbow, Francis suppresses a hiccup. Strange, the things that follow him into dreams. “And which do you plan to bring me, I wonder? Mischief or luck? Perhaps a bit of both,” he teases. In your dreams, you can be whoever you want to be. You don’t have to be what the world expects — no — what your father expects. “I’ll admit, I could use a little luck,” he says softly. “Though I’ve met you, so you see — something good has already happened to me today. This could very well be any other dream, and instead it’s this one. I didn’t think that I’d see you again after the last. I’m glad that I was wrong. Will you tell me your name this time?”

#batteredoptimist #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #⋆ ⚓︎ ⋆ ── 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 ┊ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑢𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔?

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    [ 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊 ] : 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲. 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬

                          ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝟒𝟎𝟒 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝. ( @batteredoptimist )

      𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎 𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐍𝐎 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 — and were he in a forest, he would be battered by any number of branches or roots, and still, he would try to run. In reality, he is frozen in place, frozen in time, standing in his room with boxes half-full, no real organization to them — just the action of moving because you must move, because you’re not given a choice to stay still and process. The voice at the door makes him jump, and draws him back to painful reality. The copy of Coelho’s The Alchemist slips from his grasp and hits the floor. His eyes are burning, but tears won’t come. He had always told Robin that he’s a coward. The truth is, he should have sought him out immediately. Francis is not used to asking for comfort, no matter how badly he wants it.

      The picture won’t be published, of course. The one depicting what was meant to be the end of the world as he knew it in one way, had become just that in another way entirely. His mother had intercepted it — and his father had intercepted her. What had there been to say to them that the picture had not already said in a thousand words, as pictures so often do? He imagines that by now, word has made it around the campus that the golden son is leaving — that he has been disowned. There is nothing that could be worse for his reputation, though Robin’s had thankfully been spared.

       Perpetually cold hands tremble, and his eyes are glassy as he looks both at and through the person he has come to love. The first words to tumble from his lips should be to ask if Robin is okay — but instead, there’s a shaky and offbeat, “I can’t find Percy,” Francis says, referencing the beautiful dove that keeps him company, and that Robin had helped him to name. “I don’t want him to think I’ve abandoned him. Nor you — I haven’t abandoned you, I... I’m leaving.” And if his once-tutor had still been alive, there may have been a saving grace for his reputation. Alas — his beautiful romance is turning into a tragedy. In society, one cannot be associated with someone who has been cut off.

      He trembles — wants to gather his darling lad into his arms — wants so desperately for it to be just like the stories where love prevails and love conquers all. He can’t ask that. He doesn’t even know *how* to be poor — the romanticism of it had always just been that. The whispers have already started. They wonder what he did. His father will release a statement that their views no longer align and that he will not be associated with what is no longer his son. “There is a section — “ he says, almost nonsensically, fumbling for a brick of a book on a half-depleted shelf, “ — in Les Miserables that reads ‘It is a bad moment to pronounce the word love. No matter, I do pronounce it. And I glorify it. Love, the future is thine.’” He turns right to the page, as though it makes a difference, only to set the book down and walk to his door frame to let his loved one in. The door closes behind him. Francis is damned, but Robin is not.

      “I don’t know what I shall do next — isn’t that strange? I had everything figured out once — and now I don’t know what will become of me. But I know I’ll never forget you. I don’t think I could,” his voice is cracking proper now, years and years of weight dissolving the unbreakable dam into absolutely nothing. “ — even a million years from now, in a different life. I don’t think I could ever forget you. Perhaps to tell you that I love you is cruel and yet — I do. I love you. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be a tragedy. And Percy’s missing — and I — I can’t be what you need me to be without a name.” It’s almost worse than being dead, this kind of erasure. Perhaps it would have never worked in the end, with their circumstances. Perhaps they were only fooling themselves. “You’re still such a mystery to me, Robin — and I thought at least — maybe — “ he thumbs over those precious, soft cheeks, draws him in close. “If I couldn’t be a real prince charming — maybe I could...maybe I could at least be yours.”

#batteredoptimist #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #homophobia cw #⋆ ⚓︎ ⋆ ── 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 ┊ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑢𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔?

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    [ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐲 ] 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫'𝐬 (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬)

                          ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 & 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡. ( @batteredoptimist )

       𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐙𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘 — the kind with no expectations — no one to see and nothing to do, nowhere to be except in each other’s company. There are forevers that are filled with chaos and raucous laughter, and Francis is certain that those can be every bit as lovely — but he and his beloved find comfort in both the talkative moments, and the quiet ones like this, where there doesn’t need to be more than what they have just draped on their comfortable and dilapidated old sofa, James’s head pressed tenderly to Francis’s heart, and Francis cradling his darling’s fluffy head, bending to kiss it dearly every so often.

       They traverse in and out of sleep to the sound of the rain and distant thunder that once, Francis might have feared — but with James has come to love. Their wind chimes tinkle just outside, making music of the rain — and Francis finds that it’s a beautiful sentiment. His tutor had once taught him that a piano has dark keys and light keys — and that you need both to create a beautiful melody. Sad or tragic things can be beautiful too. When most people think of rain — they think of the gray day. Francis thinks of rain boots and splashing in puddles and hot baths and the plants growing nice and steadily in the ground. Rainy days are good for reading books, or having a nap with the one he loves, or slow dancing in the living room.

       Autumn rains are perhaps his favorite of all. They’re a little colder — but that’s all right, it just means that he and James get to wear the oversized sweaters knitted with love. They too, are imperfect, and that’s what makes Francis treasure them the most, he thinks. Anyone could go out and buy a sweater in a perfect color and with perfect stitching — but no one could recreate a James Pollard masterpiece. It’s full of tiny little imperfections and strange colors and one side might be a little longer than the next because his dear one loses count. These sweaters will always make Francis smile.

       On the coffee table, tea is steaming, filling the air with the smell of light floral tones, with a hint of berries. James still makes the tea for them — Francis probably wasn’t meant to get it right. That’s all right — one can’t be good at everything, and together he and James make do just fine. Maybe not conventionally, but that suits them just perfect, thank you very much.

      Craning his golden crown of hair down, he buries his nose into his darling’s hair. He always smells like their garden. It’s his pride and joy. They sell to Mr. Morris’s sons — James gets to do the thing he loves most, and everyone’s happy that he does. No one can make them grow like his darling — it’s as though he speaks magic into them in every instance. Perhaps it’s just his kindness and his gentleness that makes them grow so beautifully though — a ‘thank you’ for caring about them so dearly.

      Absently, his hand begins working along James’s spine beneath the blanket, and then, beneath his sweater and over the jagged scars that linger on his delicate skin. Francis remembers telling him that scars often are stories of a different life — a life before. That maybe he was a creature of magic who once possessed wings. His beloved had liked that, and held tight to him, and Francis had felt such a profound sense of happiness that regardless of such things — past lives or current circumstances — that the world had brought them together, and had given him James to love.

      His darling’s face is humid from being burrowed into him, and it makes Francis think of how he wakes up every morning, entangled in love almost like it’s thread. Fate has made it so clear that they are destined for this happiness. To share this life. All of the bad in the before is gone — all that there is is here and now — James’s pinky entwined with his, Francis’s hand tracing James’s spine like a well-loved book, and forever ahead of them.

       Here, like this, he’s really, truly happy.

#batteredoptimist #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #⋆ ⚓︎ ⋆ ── 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 ┊ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑢𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔?

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    𝐢 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐢 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝)

                          ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬. ( @batteredoptimist )

       𝐃𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒, and elsewhere — birds sing in their symphonies, creating nature’s song all around them. It’s beautiful — and in Francis’s old life, he would never have noticed. Certainly, he’s always been called toward the odd and unusual — and it doesn’t entirely surprise him that he’d ended up in a manor in the middle of England having sex parties and drinking and trying every substance imaginable. Why should it surprise him, then, that James exists? Is it because with every word his darling speaks, he feels more alive than he’s ever felt? More whole than he ever thought possible?

      The effects of the drugs still linger — and Francis is grateful for them. At some moment in the future, he will have to consider that he’s wandered into the forest with his lover again — that he’s naked and lost. But it seems inconsequential with James around. The time before and the horrors he had seen feel so far away now, and all that settles over him now is peace. There could be nothing else in the presence of a love that is so all-encompassing that Francis doesn’t know what to call it either, if not fate. Madness, perhaps — an illusion of everything that is beloved to him, wanted so desperately that Francis has created him. Has he gone mad?

      Cool fingertips reach up to ghost across James’s wings so delicately he can barely feel them — but James can. They flutter for him, and feel like tissue paper. How easy would it be to break something so perfect and beautiful? Real, or not real — no one can ever know. People destroy beautiful things, like his darling, his dear one. James’s skin reminds Francis of the glow of the moon, or of the stars. More credit is given to the sun — but the moon provides her light when the sun is tired, making sure an otherwise dark world is never fully ensconced. The moon is much more romantic than the sun, if people cared to look.

        Perhaps he should be done with trying to make sense of his life. Perhaps one day, he’ll wake, and this will all be but a dream — but for now, being here in the grass and leaves with James is the only thing he ever wants to be real — and he draws his love closer for it, pressing a kiss against his head. It’s different with him. An artist should treat their muse with utmost care — and still, James is much more than even that. “Promise me that you’ll stay this time, darling?” Francis asks, tracing his fingers down James’s spine like a well-beloved book. “If this is fate, then shouldn’t we be together always?”

      He cannot shake the feeling that he isn’t meant for that drafty old house, and parties with nameless and faceless men and women. He cannot accept a world that is just as void of magic as Henry Devereaux would claim. And what is love if not the greatest magic of all? “Your eyes remind me of the forest,” he says cryptically, moving to stroke up James’s hip. Their legs are entangled, and Francis only wants to bring them closer together. “Won’t you keep me with you always?” And somehow, he knows that his beloved already has. Perhaps not in this life — but in the others. The one before, and before, and before.

#batteredoptimist #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #⋆ ⚓︎ ⋆ ── 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 ┊ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑢𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔? #suggestive cw #drugs cw #alcohol cw #addiction cw

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞, 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲 (𝐅𝐞𝐲!𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞!)

                          ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬. ( @batteredoptimist )

       𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐑 — a beautiful something to close the book of one’s life. He had grown up Catholic, but neither his mother nor his father were really practicing so much as using the notion of ‘God’ where it best served them. He supposes that means that when they think of death, they think of heaven and hell. How would they feel to know that their son is dying in a forest surrounded by the Fey, and other such impossible creatures. He’s so young still — and yet, it does seem like his journey has been a long one. His only regret is that there was so little time spent with James. It doesn’t seem fair — though he supposes that most things in life don’t, when all is said and all is done. James gets to live forever. Francis’s life to his most beloved will be a drop in an ocean.

       The light, as it turns out — isn’t a metaphor after all. It starts with spots around your vision — like the kind you get when you’ve stared too long at the sun. But what he’s staring at now is James’s face — grief-stricken, tears falling down the apples of his cheeks. It’s so rare that one attends their own funeral. So fitting that he will return to the Earth. It had taken him so long to learn, to understand — and there’s still so much left to go. He never got to finish James’s song. He supposes that his darling will simply have to carry it with him wherever he goes. Coco and Muriel say that there’s nothing they can do — that his death must happen. It’s connected to James somehow, though that’s where it gets fickle — that’s where he doesn’t understand.

      In one of his episodes, he’d been given wings — wings like James’s, like a Faery. He doesn’t understand why they can’t make the change permanent — why he has to let go now, and find out what comes after James’s sweet face succumbs to the light. He’s never been one to push back too hard — but if not now, then when? His brow furrows as James speaks to him. Francis wants to ask what comes after death — but his tongue is heavy, and there are more pressing issues at hand. Hand. He seeks out beloved’s hand — soft and warm, and James fiddles with his fingers. It’s almost human. Sometimes, he’s almost human — and sometimes he’s so wholly magic that Francis simply looks on in awe. He wants to stay — wants to be a part of James’s story — or at the very least get to watch him, help him.

     “No,” he croaks, “You’ll find me.” It’s desperate, and Francis feels two tears trickle down his cheeks, “If I come back, you’ll find me, right, mon amour?” This time it’s him squeezing James’s fingers — and he shoves back at the light with everything in him. “I don’t want to live in a world without your kindness and your goodness and your magic. It would be empty. Like a book unwritten.” There is no Francis without James — there never could be — never a whole person, anyway. “You’ll find me, darling — and we’ll do all of the things we should have done. We’ll dance under the stars and I’ll finish your song. I’ll remember.” How could he forget? It’s clear that if multiple lives exist — that his have all been connected to his darling. He’s been dreaming of him forever. He would try again for James. “I could never forget you.”

#batteredoptimist #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #death cw #ugh how many times must i rewrite this #and break my heart in the process? ;_; #⋆ ⚓︎ ⋆ ── 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 ┊ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑢𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔?

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    ❛   𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞.   ❜  (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐦)

                          ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 & 𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬. ( @batteredoptimist )

       𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 — a language gifted to him by another man — one who smells of wood-shavings, and whose body vibrates when he speaks. Muriel Bernardi is a blank page, and a clean slate — and Francis would be lying if he said that there wasn’t a sort of comfort that came with that. Since everything had happened at Parkwood — the well-meaning people in his life have all made a great fuss over his needs and his care. With that has come a certain expectation that Francis is certain they don’t realize they’re setting. But when they tell him about things that he likes and dislikes — it doesn’t feel like they’re talking about him. Whoever he was before is lost to him. He knows that he’ll never be the same. He wouldn’t know to mourn it so much if it weren’t evident by the people around him that they are buried in their grief — good intentions aside.

     So, Francis has been spending a lot of his time away from the well-meant reminders and the heaviness that comes with them. When he’s playing the violin — it’s the closest he feels to....well, to something. Maybe not to who he was before — but who he is now, who he could be. Muriel doesn’t ask anything of him — but listens to him and what the music has to say. Pages of his new story are being written not in words, or in paint as he might have apparently once done — but in musical notes. Still, there is a disconnect — but he’s known that all along. If Francis is to be and write the melody, James is the harmony — without him, the song isn’t really a song at all. James will always be his music and his muse, in everything he will ever touch or do.

     But there are still pieces of both of them that have slipped away — and remain in that place. Francis carries so much guilt and shame for what he cannot be for James, though he knows that James loves him regardless. It’s only that he can’t help but think of the person James had originally fallen in love with. Valery and the woman that had been his mother had both spoken to him in a ‘don’t you remember’ way. They had both cried, and Francis had comforted them, even though he no longer remembered them. They were grieving a student, and a son. And Francis was the one who had taken him away. It’s because of that that he frets at his gentle love, his good-natured darling — who would never dare to tell him that he’s not the person that he was, and that he can’t quite measure up. Francis hasn’t wanted to hold James back. How to blend the melody and harmony when you’re missing pages? He hasn’t quite figured out how to fully bring them together, or if to do so would be selfish.

      James has his own demons lying in wait in the dark. Francis hears pieces of it when they think he isn’t listening — from Sol or from Doris, sometimes from James himself. Francis can never understand the pain that he witnessed James going through at the hands of Edward May. He can never understand fully what it must have been like to be trapped in that place with that man, and the fear and uncertainty that had ultimately ended in a swell, a crescendo, a crash. Francis had lost his memory and his sight. They focus on those things because they’re tangible. But Francis isn’t naive — he knows that James has lost things too, even if he doesn’t recall the whole story. James’s innocence, his joy, his peace — all stolen from him. His loved one worries about making mistakes, worries that he’s doing the wrong thing. He gets nervous, tries to be strong. How long had he tried to be strong?

     Frowning, Francis reaches across the garden, wobbling a little bit on his knees in the dirt as he fumbles for his darling. He hasn’t meant to be so absent. He’s trying so hard to figure out their song, their story, how they can speak it to one another in a language both of them understand. He feels James jet out to catch him — and it — it shouldn’t be so hard. He wants to catch his love, too. Protect him. “You’re wrong,” he says, scooting over to James and hoping he’s not crushing any plants or flowers along the way. “I see no ugliness in you, my love — only light. You are my constant, shining star — with you, I see only the beauty that remains.” Thumbing a dirty finger across James’s cheek, he leans slowly, slowly in to rest his forehead against his beloved’s much sweatier one. This is his love’s language — soil and plants, seeds and flowers. These are how he writes his new chapters — drawing them into the earth where they will rest for awhile, and then flourish and grow and bloom. “Darling, you could never be anything but beautiful to me.” When nothing else had made sense, James had. He always will. One book has closed, another has opened — it’s a different story but the same love. He’ll do better this time, he swears he will.

#batteredoptimist #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #⋆ ⚓︎ ⋆ ── 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 ┊ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑢𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔? #brain injury cw #amnesia cw #implied abuse cw #trauma cw

[flownintothesun]

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍 :

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── with all of the love to nonny's ( @batteredoptimist ) muses, as always and as ever. of course i couldn't do a meme without mentioning my muses' darling loves.

#batteredoptimist #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ but i’ve no need for mighty deeds when i feel your arms around me. #♡ 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ and in the bad times i hear your voice. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ however big ; however small… let me be part of it all. #♡ 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽 ⤷ it’s not fair ; it’s not fair how much i love you. #♡ 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ calm my storms and make me brave ; do not go where i can’t follow. #♡ 𝚁𝙾𝚂𝙸𝙴 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like the moon you pull me closer ; bathe my body in your lavender skies. #♡ 𝚁𝙾𝚂𝙸𝙴 & 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽 ⤷ and both shall row… my love and i. #calling myself out for needing to make more tags >_>

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    ❝ 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬. 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞’𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. ❞ 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 15 January 2023.

         𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 the wind has been knocked — no, squeezed — out of him. He is an accordion that is strung out and limp as he reaches one trembling hand toward the love of his life. James’s face comes into view, and it takes him a few moments to recognize his lover as familiar. “James,” he wheezes, “...darling.” It’s as though he’s trapped in a vicious void in one moment, and then James brings back the light — it reflects off the yellow walls, bounces around the tiny space that they share and finally — finally — everything comes back into view.

      The treatment’s been unkind to him this time. And he’s heard it said that if misused, it can cause memory problems, among other things. Not to mention, of course ,that he’s heard Zane gloating about what he’s going to do once Francis is gone — once he’s in some shadow realm of his former self. He won’t confess it, because it does no good — but he is afraid. Afraid of losing everything, of losing himself. Of forgetting what he’s writing down in the growing pile of flowers on James’s windowsill for Doris to find. For her to read. The days become long, become desperate, and he finds himself grateful that James is here and not with Doctor May, wherever he takes the one that Francis loves.

       He’s taken to trying to memorize James’s face — the sparkle in his eyes, the way the lashes flutter against his cheeks, and the way that little worry line appears in his forehead as it is now. He wants to memorize the other things too — the comfort of their bodies tangled together, the relief that comes from feeling those ankles latch round his. The way James’s hair tickles his nose when they sleep sometimes, and how they always wake in a pile full of one another. He’s so afraid that he’s going to forget everything. Forget the reason. He’s all that James has with Sol and Doris away — and he prays to the God he stopped believing in to please, please not let him forget his love.

        He forces a smile onto his pale, sweaty features — because James deserves to see him smiling — always deserves to see him smiling. “Where would you like to go, mon amour? Anywhere is such an adventure. I’d very much like to take it slow and enjoy the journey.” Stiff fingers work their way around one of James’s hands, and then the other until his two are holding James’s one. “One day, you’ll never have to...” he pauses for air, “think of this place again. It’ll be us, always, somewhere...beautiful...with real flowers. And I’ll paint you with wings, so that you can fly.”

#batteredoptimist #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux.

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞)   

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 4 January 2023.

        "𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐈 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃," he says to no one, and to nothing — his voice gone, and all that’s left of him the bright and bountiful light light that had been carried within his chest. The human soul is invisible to all — it even eludes the Fey, nature, and time itself. It is the very base of everything — the soul, and it is the last to go, if it goes at all. The world will wonder forever about the thing that makes someone what and who they are, but they will never know, not truly. Even he shall forget in time.

        Time. Time washes like a wave over him — in moments, in memory, in things that were once held pressed to the chest, in things that have always been and will always be. The world is still, save for the wind. The wind which whispers the name of his beloved across the forest where his body lay, and calls to him with his purpose. James, James. My love, oh, my love.

      And Francis has died for love a thousand times, and would do so again, and will do so again. Happily is not the word for it, perhaps — but willingly, expectantly. Among the haze of life ended comes a thought, and then another. And he learns that it is possible to mourn, and to regret, even when you are nothing. Even when the ravens overhead sing your funeral song to the sound of your lover’s tears that fall on you like rain. And when he is done here, where will he go? Will he ascend or will he simply cease to be until he is given reason once more with James’s smile?

       There are so many things I have left to tell you. The least of all being how I loved you, how I love you still. It’s been said that this moment isn’t fair, and as Francis’s light fades into the proverbial clouds of what comes next, perhaps he thinks so, too. But there is music playing — a familiar song that calls to his heart, beats in tune with it. He can hear James’s singing as well. It’s the last melody, the last refrain of their song. He’ll finish it in the next lifetime, or...

       ...or the one after that.

     They have time.

#batteredoptmist #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #death cw #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾���𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux.

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    ❛ 𝐢 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐠𝐨. 𝐢’𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐭. ❜  𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞  

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 16 November 2022.

            𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 — stroking the soft cheeks of love incarnate. Francis rests beneath a willow tree, autumn’s leaves gathering upon him in what appears to be their final dance. And it is true that there is never a time for goodbyes —  once one falls in love with the story, it is in them, and page by page the book draws closer to a close. Life is such — so delicate its pages, and not enough words left within them to give it the ending it deserves.

      “It — “ Francis gasps, and it burns in his chest, brings tears to sting at the corners of his eyelids as he blinks them back, blinks them down his face, and tries again, “I know, my darling. It isn’t fair, my love — it’s not — “

       James’s lower lip trembles and Francis’s heart cracks in two — would that he could reach in his chest and hand James the part of it that beats for him. Muriel and Coco stand guard, and flowers bloom around them all — like something out of one of the many stories he’s read. A hero’s departure. But he had not saved James — James had saved him — so many times he’s saved him. And Francis understands with a rushing sort of clarity what it is that Coco had meant some time ago. “James — listen — my love,” his voice cracks as he feels his foundation of resolve crumbling with his failing body. “It has been you. You’ll find me again, you will...”

      It sounds like nonsense, the babbling monologue of a man at death’s door, “And when you find me, I’ll be playing your song. I love — so much —” his voice cracks again, and the white light overhead seems blinding — the sun’s final farewell to summer, and the beginning of something else — a new story...an homage to the cycle of life, and the Universe penning ‘the end’.

#batteredoptimist #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #death cw

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    ❝  𝐢 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞,  𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞.  ❞ 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐦

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 25 September 2022.

       𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌, 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 —  the moment far too beautiful to exist in the colorless world that he’s come to know. Outside his bedroom window wafts the scents of the moors and the long grass that Francis runs his fingertips across. Outside is the smell of tomato vines, distinct, and the shrill chattering of nighttime bugs — hosting their midnight meetings with song. What worlds exist just shy of their own? Had he wondered such a thing before? Or is this something that the old Francis had never made way for in his heart — the way things move in the dark? The way his heart tap-tap-taps beneath the soothe of James’s ear pressed there as though he’s listening to a symphony, rather than a piece of broken music. And James had never treated him as though he was some unwhole thing, some shattered thing. To his love, he’s just always been. And to Francis, they are timeless.

      These are moments that perhaps shouldn’t exist in his dear little world — moments that fill him so full of joy he could burst at the seams. And James speaks, reminds him that monsters are real — and they have fingerprints that can bruise, and lips that whisper poisonous treasons. They’d both been taken for fools. But if they are so, they are fools in love, rediscovered and ignited against all odds in a place that they are coming to know as ‘home’, coming to know as ‘safe’.

      Icy fingers card through the labyrinth-like jungle of James’s hair — gently, always gently. And he wonders if the Francis-before ever noticed how warm James’s body is, pressed up against him — how well they slot together. He wonders if he’d been too afraid to notice, or perhaps if he noticed more. He tries to make it irrelevant, but it never is. Francis-before remains unforgiven; his mind stubborn and unyielding against his former self.

      “I would never let harm come to you,” he murmurs, kissing the sweat-dampened surface of his love’s forehead. “Perhaps in time, it will feel like a bad dream.”

     Sometimes, he almost thinks he’ll wake up to a world in color, to James’s bright and curious eyes staring up at him from the time they steal together in Francis’s tiny room. Sometimes he thinks he’ll remember the exact shade of auburn spanning through the curls tickling his hairless chest. Sometimes, maybe, one day, what-if. But now? Now is good too. Now is better than it’s been in a long time. “You’re safe, mon amour. There are no monsters here, only love.”

#batteredoptimist #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #trauma cw

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐧. (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞!)

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 19 September 2022.

        𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑  and his cheeks are dusted with hues of red that match the sunset off in the distance. The race is called, the votes trickling in waves,  in his favor. As it turns out, hate doesn’t win political campaigns — love does. And anyone who sees the way he turns to look at his beloved James as France waits dormant below them on the balcony — they wouldn’t believe his father’s vicious lies. He’d done the unthinkable, once upon a time — entered into a relationship for the politics of it. But the gold glinting on their fingers now has nothing to do with politics, the campaign only serves to show where they’ve been.

     Their faces are alight with love, and the traces of laughter. They’d only arrived in Paris today, and now they’re at a chateau. They won’t move to the palace until inauguration, and he wouldn’t have his family so forcibly removed. This place is lovely, and does perfectly for now. Bigger than the flat above Florets, but still with traces of an old-fashioned life that suits the far-off dreamy look that his love always wears. It’s almost out of a fairytale. It...well, this life? Here with him? It is a fairytale. “Your subjects await, your highness,” Francis whisper-laughs, looking down at their locked hands and unlacing them only to pick James up and spin him around and around again.

      “I would be nothing, if not for your love,” he says when James’s feet hit the ground again, leaning down the centimetres it takes, until their lips lock, and below, everyone cheers as fireworks light the twilight. It’s how he’d felt when they’d first kissed, like his heart was celebrating being alive, and being in love.

#batteredoptimist #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain. #politics cw

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    ‘  𝐛𝐞  𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝:  𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬  𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐞  𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬  𝐚𝐧𝐝  𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫  𝐢𝐧  𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜  𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬.  ’ 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬  

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 10 September 2022.

       𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒  that the place is wrought with ghosts and strange happenings. Everything is strange for the son of a government official, fed by a silver spoon and hidden away from a cruel world until now — when abruptly, he’d been thrust into it head-on. And Francis has always been strange, always had his head a little too high in the clouds.

      Perhaps it is the ghost story itself, or perhaps a night of freedom in a house too big for one person, but he knows he’s dreaming as he comes across the naked figure in the forest, dancing between the leaves and laughing, rainbows lighting the ground beneath gossamer-fine wings. And they say that everything one dreams is plucked from reality. And to Francis, that feels as though it goes both ways perhaps. One foot here, one foot there.

      No matter.

      He has seen this harbinger of doom before — can feel the tug of his heart toward the captivating being before him, like a child pulling an adult into the forgotten recesses of one’s imagination. And he shifts branches with long, cold fingers — tries to follow where the Faery leads. “And what of you, darling? Are you a monster, or are you a friend? Would your sweet words lead me into this forest never to come out, or are you trying to save me from myself? Come back, come back...”

#batteredoptimist #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain.

[flownintothesun]

⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── [𝐭𝐮𝐛] : 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡 / 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐦)

              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── a legacy post for @batteredoptimist dated 28 August 2022.

       𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 —  and if Francis has learned anything at all in his time on the farm, it’s that if you want hot water —it’s best to fit a bath into the tiny window between sleep and wake.

     Eyes are bleary as he fumbles for the light switch, only to realize that it’s already on, and there’s already a swish coming from the upstairs bathtub. He’s halfway to turning into a strawberry and murmuring a flustered apology when he realizes that the person in the tub is James — ears submerged just beneath the water, and auburn hair fanned out all around. And, well, Francis can’t bring himself to look away. And when James emerges, Francis tries to turn on his heels but finds himself watching as the one he loves flushes to match the shade painted across Francis’s own cheeks, “Did you come for a sneaky bath too?” James mumurs with a sheepish smile.

     Francis nods, “I think before this is through, I might become an evening person after all. Ehm,” eyes flicker to the floor, lashes brushing his cheeks, “I could join you?” There’s a perfectly valid excuse, of course, just on the tip of his tongue. Something about conserving water, something about being able to reach the not-so-easy spots, like his scarred back. “I...” and no, none of those would do in the end, “I want to be close to you.”

#batteredoptimist #NONNY I MISSED THE PROMPT OOPS #IT'S CUTE! #➤ 𝚅𝙸. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂 ┊ francis devereaux. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙸𝚂 ⤷ like a night in the forest ; like the mountains in springtime ; like a walk in the rain.