Charles the Less (charlemoins) wrote in tornuppages,
Charles the Less

scene: after the tragedy, an early moment of peace following great confusion.

It may have been the wine.

Our world began to unravel - just a little,
The boy and I, we had been drinking - quite a lot.
Still, our minds were focused more clearly than we wanted.
So we drank, and I watched him.
He was divinity, perfection - or possibly not;
it may have been the wine.

He turned toward me, unsteadily raising his glass,
losing the thread of the thousandth rambling toast
to pass his young grape-darkened lips
as he gazed at the firelight flooding through his swirling drink.
I thought, for a moment, that he smiled at me; though I admit,
it may have been the wine.

He lowered his glass.
Unconscious imitation set down the bottle in my hand.
I had been pouring out a little repair
to the breach in my peaceful veil of numbness.
Drink rescued me from memory and logic and what I knew I'd feel
when rough edges of the world came back in focus,
but it hadn't happened yet.
I held out a hand to him,
feeling compelled by some sacred insistence -
it may have been the wine.

My eyelids lowered, I was unable to watch him.
I didn't want to see it if he turned away.
A moment longer, and I sighed,
wishing it didn't sound so much like a dying man's gasp,
though truly that is what it might have been.
I was so tired of daylight and responsibility;
it may have been the wine.

Nothing from him- no sound, and I began to lower my hand,
trance-like, waiting to feel the armrest
as it settled down, alone, unable even to clutch.
My open palm sought the softness of the velvet,
but found another texture, warm and smooth
-his hand-
beneath mine, turned upwards, fingers curling to grip
and I collapsed, began to sob, not really knowing why.
It may have been the wine.

He held me though the worst; spoke nothing.
When my breath began to slow, and my eyes began to open,
he hesitantly kissed away the heated redness of my face
and rested finally his comfort on my dampened lips.
His gentle tongue soothed me, and I thought perhaps
I felt his sympathy in the way he moved his mouth,
and how he begged me to know his answering affection.
I understood. I tasted it upon him.
It may have been the wine.

His breath slipped from him and formed the words
I almost didn't hear,
but his lips marked out their shape too clearly.
I answered back before I stopped myself.
I loved him.
God, I really did.

It may have been the wine.
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