laminated lavenders | dreamnotfound

10

10 - letters

~

george and techno got home, hay and other supplies for friend the sheep hung over their shoulders. the short brit stopped by the 7-11 nearby, picking up a white monster and packs of watermelon flavoured gum. "techno, can you tend to them for a while? i know i'm not being the best host right now, but..." george trailed off, looking down at his hands. techno smiled gently, helping george set the supplies down.

"yeah, sure. you need a break, they could be a little too much." techno replied - he adored his sibling and his friends, but their loud natures can be tiring at times, techno totally understands. turning to look out the backyard. "wilbur! we got the stuff for your sheep!"

"thanks! i'll pay you back later!" wilbur yelled out, smiling widely at friend. "friend, they got you food and all the other things you could possibly need." he cooed gently at the sheep and pet its head gently. "now, i'll just have to tell dad about your existence."

at the span of time that techno and george got food for friend, nick has left wilbur and crashed on the couch - sleeping face down on the cushion, the couch reverberating sapnap's loud snores. but they couldn't blame the youngest as to how tired he was - they did just exert all of their energy towards fooling around the town for a bit.

"if you need anything, i'll be at my room upstairs." george told techno, wiping his sweaty hands on his shirt, "it's the cream-coloured door down the hall. you guys can pick your rooms and settle, there's three spare." the pink haired man nodded and smiled, patting george's shoulder in an attempt to reassure him that everything will be fine.

george walked up the familiar stairs, his legs feeling quite heavy and his feet planting itself on the steps - feeling almost magnetic and monotonous. there was something about this house that just attracted him to it, george felt like a flimsy piece of metal trapped on a circular plate of neodymium magnet. once he finally entered his childhood bedroom, everything was still the same; too many plastic plants, too many books, pillows andblankets. too many paper flowers, old vinyl records, pill bottles and scentedcandles, except for the old creases that looked new to george left on the bed - george swore he smoothed his bed sheets out before he left. had clay been here? no, that's stupid. he doesn't care about george that much.

the brit dragged his suitcase into his room, unpacking his clothes before reading what clay has written for him, in reality, george was just procrastinating - he yearned for clay's words and poetry, yet, it is already here, and george is terrified to read it. was clay mad at him? he doesn't know, not until he gets on with it and reads the letters. george pulled his sluggish body along and forced himself to stop procrastinating.

his fingertips ran across the dust covered box, finally mustering up the courage - george gently hooked his fingers underneath the box's top, pulling it up. george sat back and gaped at the overflowing light, spark, love and ink that exited out of the layered pieces of paper, glue and cardboard. george's shaking hands reach out to touch the box, tears welling up in his eyes, but they never fell; this was clay, in the form he wanted to be remembered as - art. the blond so desperately wanted to paint himself as his very own magnum opus, and even though he himself couldn't see it, george thinks clay already did it even before he wanted to. clay wanted to outdo himself in every piece he has written and in every painting he has made - but that always inevitably burnt the teen out.

clay loved writing, effortlessly allowing words to flow from his pen, lips curling around beautiful and vivid imagery, prose and poetry. his passion towards writing is so strong that even george felt it through the scrap pieces of parchment paper. with feather light gentleness, the brit pulled the box close to his chest, and with a deep inhale, george fished through the box and pulled out a bright, lilac tinted paper, undoing the folds to marvel at clay's neat, curly handwriting - one of the things george adored about clay was his handwriting, and the way his fingers wrapped itself around the pen. the ink has long dried out, but george can notice the smudged part where clay either dripped tears or water onto.

-

george,

i don't understand why you left, my parents won't tell me as well, but i'm not angry - more sad, i guess. i miss you, george. i miss you so much. 

you don't know this, because i chose not to tell you, but you are my muse - i can only find myself writing about your eyes and your smile, the way i can vaguely hear your heartbeat when we danced together before you left.

i miss it, our feet buried within the ground and into the earth's crust, dancing out and silently yelling out our reasoning and adoration for each other. we danced, to insist and show everyone that we belonged together, our outstretched limbs molding into one and our fingers entangled together - imitating constellations and depictions of star-crossed lovers, stories and fairytales that go beyond books.

the distance has made my heart grow fonder and softer for you, thinking about you every time something happens. still, it's painful how my heart aches and clenches at the thought of you and your presence. i'm so lonely, george. everytime i apply peach flavored chapstick, i can feel your lips against mine, i can feel your fingers running through my hair and i can feel your warmth.

what are you thinking about, right now? i yearn to see the sunlight fall on your skin, accentuating your beauty and etherealism - flaws and all. 

but despite all of this, it comforts me; the fact and knowledge that we're both staring at the same sky. i just know that i'll meet you again.

all yours,
clay

-

02/23/21 - first draft
03/09/21 - edited