So, all he can do is cry.Ī process that should take about two hours at most is drawn out to four, which slowly grows to five as Diarmuid constructs yet another excuse - letting his hair dry by itself. For him.ĭiarmuid lays in his cold, empty bed, and longs for the warmth that can’t ever come.
He wants so desperately to hold their hands in his, to kiss their lips, and tell them, remind them, make sure they know without a shadow of a doubt, his unshakable love for them. To hear the piano play from the floor above in the morning, to taste one last time the food they were terrible at cooking together. To watch the inseparable two dance a dance they should’ve practised beforehand, drinking the family’s wine to celebrate a most joyous occasion. To pull them as they were from the canvas, to return to the moments before the piece was done, to the beginning of their beautiful wedding night. He wishes, beyond anything else his selfish mind could concoct, that they could live once more. He can’t stop staring at the painting, at the men that are now gone and dead. You couldn’t have asked for better leaders. Their love was pure, he knows this as fact.
That man worked his way from nothing to stand by the heir’s side - he was brilliant, and the calming force that Cyrus needed. The difference that man’s presence made in their life, how the aimless son with all he could want found clarity in his husband’s voice, his touch, his warmth.
No one that’s still living, save for the man admiring the canvas, was around to know how the man was before meeting the one he wed, the dark-skinned man named Ridgeway. The heir of the family, the sole son that was lovingly named Cyrus, carrying too many middle names of those that came before. Softer features, with bright-blue eyes shining alongside their happy smile, their own white hair being much longer and more dramatically depicted. His hair is short and white, slicked back to be seen as more professional, much unlike the pale man on the left. The dark-skinned one on the right portrays a serious expression through his hard features, mixed with just a shard of tiredness that they can spot around his soft green eyes. Hanging off the wall above the bed, is a hyper-realistic portrait, painfully so, of two men standing arm in arm. The right side of the bed is obstructed by a litany of dirty clothes, muddy shoes, and chipped jewellery that isn’t his own. The image depicts one half a pen, and the other half, a dagger - he always liked how it looked.
In the middle of the wall to his right is the bed, covered with a mostly clean red duvet that’s emblazoned with the long out of use crest of the Jingke family. The door is immediately opposite, with a small, messy desk just to its right, and two bookshelves covering the left wall. Turning his back to the window, the view is the same as it always has been. An icy breath, waiting until they’re truly out of view before he steps away. With an emptiness in his stomach and a phantom taste clinging to his tongue, his fingers mindlessly meet the cold glass. Between the raindrops, he watches the faintest outline of a man and his dog gain distance from his home, unable to explain why that leaves him disappointed. A black dress lays discarded on a mess of other clothes on a king-sized bed, the pale figure that once wore it now only wearing a pair of tightly-fitting white pants as he leans by the window.
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