brass heavens

Each stolen fragment chips away at the skies. Splicing the brass fabric of the heavens into thin ribbons, allowing light to pass through. Moments later, the slender threads knit themselves together again with the practiced grace of a weaver. 

But the memory of universes opening at Rook’s fingertips is fresh, a cellist pulling at the strings, building to a crescendo in his chest. The careful awakening of peering into the dark cavern of his bones, breathing shallowly, waiting.

His lips part in a breathless scream, burning his lungs as rain soothes his skin. The loneliness in his gut as rich and bitter as dark chocolate. The drops tangle their fingers through the loose strips of brass curling in his hair, mirroring the threads shimmering in the skies overhead. The thick scent of ozone prods its way through the pollution, gripping Rook’s senses with the firm strength of a wrestler before a match.

Thin curls of grass nudge through the cement at his bare feet. Their tiny heads curl around his toes, waiting to embrace the rain with open arms. 

With a threadbare smirk, worn thin from constant use, he pulls the tattered newsboy cap from his head, folding and creasing it between his fingers, watching as the Seconds approach. They clatter over the sidewalk, slipping between the taxis crowding the rush-hour streets, passing through people as if they were made of dust.

The curtain separating reality glimmers at they pass, shivering in the unfelt wind.

Everything slows around them, slipping through their fleeting grasp, conversations slowed to the wounded cries of animals. Insects caught in honey.

“Thief!” the words grate through them, turning the shining metal of their bodies to a smoldering red.

He watches each moment, with pools of the sun in his eyes, waiting in childish wonder as his body splinters away from Time’s grasp.

The honey-comb sweet stench of sweat bleeds from their pores, pouring as steadily as golden syrup drizzling from a scratched metal spoon, into the warm bliss of lemon juice.

Ori’s laughter rings out, the high soprano startling, drawing the gazes of people nearby with indifferent confidence. She hands her sweat dampened shoe to the person next to her, watching with wide eyes as he takes it. Her wind-blown hair curls against her lips in the soft breeze.

His fingers trace the soft indents, following the letters of her teammates’ words drawn in unsteady multicolored whorls, matching the way they would smile, white teeth glowing against sun-stained skin, and light kissed hair. Thin limbs blurring in constant motion, adrenaline coursing through their veins, fingers quivering as they gripped the pen.

Like golden laughter suspended in the amber rays of the sun. Long runs turned scavenger hunts. Doors painted and hidden in the backs of trucks. Spaghetti spun around plastic spoons, stuffed through chapped, sunburned lips.

Rook sits a few feet away, the flattened grass stamping his legs with patterns of washable ink. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her, trying to read the small letters despite the distance between them. The sunlight that dyes their words whispers around him, glistening off the brass that holds him together, lining his skin with taken cobwebs as permanent as scars, refusing to leave a shadow. His brows knit in concentration even as his fingers twirl, absently curling the threads around his fingers with the careful movements of an artist. With a sharp pull, he tugs them loose, twisting them around his wrist. His body relaxes with relief as they tighten, biting into his skin, sinking into his muscles. Every subliminal movement at odds with itself.

The holes the threads leave behind, slack with the surprising speed of pulling a loose thread from cloth, only to feel everything fall apart around you. With the openings, a rush of euphoria fills his veins. He grips himself tightly, holding his breath as the tide of power rips at his fingers, his pounding rapture curling in upon itself into a minuscule bead of joy. The raw emotion that only destruction brings. But the filaments work quickly, repairing the damage his theft created. 

I cannot let the Seconds destroy this. He thinks the words to himself over and over, the mantra engraved in his bones like a tattoo needle pressed into skin.

Ori’s sagebrush eyes widen as the felt-tipped pen curls and dances around careful letters. 

Sonder. The letters throb with a hidden grace, a pointe dancer poised on her toes, muscles tightened, preparing for the aching grace of pure creation.

“Sonder.” The words drift through her lips like ribbons curling against scissors. “What does it mean?”

“Well,” the boy next to her whispers, “it is realizing that every person around you, is living life as vividly as you are.” The words bruise against his lips, like overripe fruit dropped to the ground, causing him to recoil. 

“That’s beautiful.” She sighs, the hot flush from her cheeks being pulled into her fingers, the tip of a brush absorbing the rich color of a palette.

Her eyes dart over to where Rook sits, eyebrows pulling to a knot in the center of her head. The single shoe on her right foot makes her steps uneven, staining her left sock green with the grass. 

She reaches out carefully, tracing her fingers over where Rook sits, holding his breath, waiting for the moment of curiosity to pass. Her fingers splay against the invisible layer separating them, curling gently against the brassy, gossamer silk. One by one, her fingers loosen the threads. 

Her pinky finger slides through first.

She recoils, almost losing her grip as the charred cold singes her flesh. The soft smell of honeysuckle nibbles at her nail, tiny tongue flickering out and tasting her skin. Her fingers curl as she forces the rest of her fist through.

She plunges her other arm in, struggling to force the curtain open. Rook watches her progress, pupils dilating with the throbbing surprise of a fist uncurling after a punch. Carefully, he grips the threads around him, parting them to let her through.

The force of her body against the curtain carries her to the ground. Mascara smudged beneath her eyes highlights the innocent wonder that pulls her to her feet. Rook peers at her in the reverent, nearly sheepish way a professor looks over a much-loved book.

His head bows, pulling curls into his eyes. Absently, he pulls a thread and wraps it around his wrist. 

The thunder of the Seconds sings in the distance, their mechanical creaking and groaning biting into her. The heady scent of burning oil dances with the honeysuckle, twisting around it with the deadly flicker of a snake. The leading ones skate into view, slipping through her teammates like they are nothing more than smoke. 

Rook’s teeth catch his lip as he grips her arm. 

He pulls the curtain away with a flick of his fingers.

His fingers tremble as he whispers to her, despite the roaring, creaking, clanging mass rapidly approaching.

“Go,” The words echo and tumble and bounce when in his mind, he mumurs, stay.

His pulse flickers on his neck, faster and faster and faster. He heaves it closed and disappears.

Light sparkles off the dignified face on a coin, flickering and shimmering before it hits the water. A couples’ laughter skips across the garden, a stone thrown gracefully against water, Rook watches, waiting for the delicate ripples to glide over him. The man's fingers curve around the woman's cheeks, covering her eyes as he slips around her. Dirt smudges on his jeans as a single knee hits the ground. The threads around them melt from stiff brass to molten gold.