wanted selenelion | sbi

chandelier chrysanthemums

1 - while the weary nations sleep, awakening me from a dream.

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tommy adored his older brother very much, and the curly haired brit adored his little brother as well; whenever wilbur smiled, he resembled the moon as it shined above the earth - the crinkles right next to wilbur's eyes left the impression of something beautiful, like the stars as they blinked and created an illuminated path for tommy to follow. not to mention the older boy's etherealistic voice as he played his guitar underneath the pale moonlight (they often snuck out to do it, though. their mother, kristin, didn't like it when wilbur played or sang soft-spoken syllables - she was afraid whenever he did it, but she wasn't mad - kristin was melancholic whenever wilbur sang, and whenever tommy's fingers skillfully moved across the piano's ivory keys; but the villagers simply shan't hear her boys play.), tommy just found himself leaning onto wilbur's shoulder, feeling nothing but warmth and love. the curly haired boy's collarbones was dusted with moondust and sunshine, his face shadowed by his locks as the wind tousled the fabric embracing his form. it was no secret that tommy adored wilbur, and it was no secret either that wilbur treated tommy as if the blond hung the sun, the moon, and the stars all by himself. their mornings were always filled with peace, as the woodshadows and the cottonwood floated silently in the air - the leaves rustled as the wind caressed the trees, wilbur and tommy's birthmark shined underneath their clothes, burning gently.

kristin hummed as she swirled the contents of the rabbit stew above the flames gently licking the bottom of the pot, slowly cooking the dish. she smiled and thanked wilbur and tommy for hunting rabbits. the aroma of coffee and syrup wafted from throughout their home as the hollyhocks and the lavenders poked their way in through the window. tommy and wilbur sat next to each other, with the former fiddling with the hems of his shirt and the latter focused on the paper he's writing on. the sun gently rose over the horizon, warming the earth and its inhabitants - the deity of the wind hummed a small melody to herself as she observed the sky get painted with the most vivid of colours.

"mum, why don't we just start a bunny farm? hunting them is tiring, they're too fast!" tommy loudly whined, bouncing on his toes lightly. while wilbur was comparable to the moon, tommy was wilbur's sun. where wilbur was the mark of the nights, tommy was sure to open the mornings. kristin adored her children, and she was very careful and protective when it came to raising her boys. her husband, philza, left when their first born was ten years old, when wilbur was three years old, and when tommy was only a few months old. "bunnies are easy to breed, right? and we can just control it."

it had been a normal day thus far - the lavender scented candle on the window of tommy and wilbur's bedroom burned gently, the gentle, mellow, earthy smell wafting over and clinging onto clothes and fabrics. the curly haired boy was prone to having nightmares - visions of a golden scaled beast with obsidian coloured wings, their colours shifting from green to purple as the crystals that healed it lit the environment - and tommy often lit a candle to calm wilbur down. 

"prime knows you won't have the heart to eat them, toms." wilbur hummed, looking up from the piece of paper he was writing on - the curly haired boy was a talented lyricist, as well as a talented poet; writing and creating came easily to him like breathing, and as much as he adored writing - wilbur loved hearing stories from his mum; he loved listening to his mother speak about the wonders of the world - and his and tommy's favourite story was the one about the snake-headed man and his blind lover. "look at henry." the curly haired boy teased; one time, they decided to try and hunt for beef, buf when tommy gazed into henry's eyes - he just couldn't do it.

they've lived a life on the run; it was common for the lonely watson matriarch to uproot their cottage and use the leaves and the lilies to make it float in the air. kristin ran, with her children within her arms - lungs burning and her eyes glowing gently. they had to run, for the deity of the wind shan't allow the villagers hear her curly haired son hum the dragon's lullaby absent mindedly. (she's just prolonging the inevitable, brushing off the seer's reassurance and warnings. kristin tried desperately to save her children, to keep them safe. she has succeeded for eight years now.)