Higher

120°

Indeed, throughout the duration of the play, all eyes were on the spectacular lead actor as he managed to scramble about onstage with the grace of a swan, the aplomb of a Prima Ballerina. Despite the unsophisticated role, his movements were that of elegance, and yet they never ceased to show the vulgar flavour of a life of injustice.

Not only was his gaze piercing and captivating; his portrayal of despair had such an indecipherable effect on the people. The way his features contorted with pain absorbed the attention of the hall, both men and women feeling their throats dry up with something akin to arousal. The minimalism of his laughter accentuated the shift of his body under the pale light, and the movements of his thin fingers completing the expression of the thoughts he had meant to deliver.

This actor was not the best of faces among those of his category, with his sickly pallor and the wild desire for dominance in his glinting red eyes, the curves of his collarbones and wrists obtrusive. One would be able to draw an easy comparison if his photograph were to be placed alongside the Adonis of the world of words and movement, and yet, willingly admit they had fallen inlove with the small form, crumpled on the floor as he was beaten for his apparent crimes.

Left dying and helpless against a stone wall, the peasant laughs bitterly at the skies and at his fortunes, more so at his incapability to procure beautiful decisions in life. By parting his lips, he had already rendered the audience sentimental, their desire to take him up into their arms and save him from his misery stronger than the power of the queen over her people.

As his final toast to Fortune, he raises his flask and, with a tilt of his head— discreet yet remarkable as an ascending swallow— gulps down the contents of the leather skin. The last of this dynamic flow of motion is silenced into a stasis as the stale beer runs down his throat. Moments after he shut his eyelids with a sigh, his body convulses, his features twisting and bending into that of absolutely unholy agony and unforgiving torment. This alarming distress sent the populace at the edge of their seats, marvelling at the excellence of this boy, whose eyes rolled to the back of his head, mouth foaming with the inevitable reminder of something that was not to be.

The silence that followed shattered the whole Earth, the scent reminiscent of bitter almonds suffocating those with open eyes. Tears began to blur the vision of the romantic and the first vestiges of applause that shall never continue echoed from the hands of the critical, as the peasant's body fell limp and unmoving. Absolutely still, even as the stage began to brighten up, even as the rest of the cast began to march towards the spotlight to be recognized.

Oliver knew exactly what had transpired, for there was not a mention of poison in the written script he had beforehand reviewed. It was not a manipulation of events sorted by the production team, nor was it part of anything else other than Fukase's exorbitant intentions to drive his soul away infront of a crowd full of life. Of something he had so soon given up on. The wafting fragrance of almonds began to choke Oliver, his feet leading him to escape the bittersweet farewell of hydrogen cyanide, to a world outside where the panic had not yet began to settle.

No sooner than he had exited the hall, had he realized that the beautiful, gripping aria of wrath that emerged from the queen's lips was simply the warning of a Banshee, heralding the unknowing of an oncoming stroke of grey. No sooner than he had exited the hall, had he realized how much of a burden he had passed on to the boy who was formerly indulgent and nearly always famished for the blessings of living. It was as if Atlas passed the shattered world on to the shoulders of an incapable hermit.

Despite himself, Oliver managed to feel the first traces of remorse and loathing deep within his breast, like a snake feeding upon his conscience, growing ever larger every second, devouring whatever indignation he had been chewing on, replacing it solely with the abysmal chasm that innate humane feeling would allow one to look into.

The hall was evacuated, the impact of a life lost to the hands of its own sustenance strong enough to leave wisps and wraiths clinging to the inexpensive suits of the terrified. Of the innocuous, of the oblivious.

It was too late to wish he had stayed that way.

___

>> i had two routes in mind that this chapter could possibly have taken. the primary— which involves fukase oh-so-dramatically offing himself at the end of a play— and the one i nicknamed "mercy"— wherein the two friends reconcile and end up in a coffee shop at the final chapter.

guess i really don't do happy endings—

also, in case you were wondering why "Fortune" was used as a proper noun in context, it was because i was pertaining to O Fortuna's lady "Fortune", with a full head of hair but bald in blessings xD

Yes, O Fortuna, the emo music of the ancient times lol

Chose it specifically as a symbolism of "despair" and the utter depression of man, questioning the speed at which they tumble down their heap of riches. How was the story so far? (I know it may be confusing ahahahaha—)

Author's note thing brought to you by the worst headache brewing in the summer heat. So was the chapter.