Work Text:
There is no such thing as loving someone unconditionally
Humans, by nature, desire something in return, if only the others happiness
Would it count as loving someone if that same love made them miserable?
If you could truly love someone with nothing in return, would you even bare to?
Whenever he didn't know the answer of something, he deemed it a riddle and passed it on to others to inspect
But this was no riddle, for the prose didn't vail itself with vain metaphors and cryptic language
Still, he deemed the answer in the positive, but hoped to not reach that point
He'd serve her himself on a silver platter, ensuring she'd never go hungry
Yet she was revolted as a result, for he'd butchered himself in front of her very eyes
The fact leaving her unable to taste- unable to even look at the grotesque avatar of his affection
So she turned on her heels and fled, taking the only immortalization of their history with her
A locket
The same locket now draped around the pillars of a candelabra, adorning it like a ribbon, presenting a newfound gift of warmth in place of its prior one
The ombre of the flames kissed and glinted off of both the metal and the porcelain plate in front of him
The spectral emerging from the wick snaked through the air in front of him, a result of one of the candles being snuffed out by something obscure
He took that as an omen, one down, will the other two follow?
The smell came first, its origin and its composer after
He was greeted with a bitter aroma, one laced with citrus and desperation; his nose wrinkled involuntarily in response
A gummy smile followed, showcasing an unsightly yellow
Then came a quiet clatter - dinner had been served
In the dark of the hall, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the crude mockery of all that food stood for, all it was supposed to mean, in front of him
Its skin was charred, stretched as though it wasn't meant to fit
Flesh that was never meant to be cooked
A dish that was never meant to be served
And a dish made with love, as its architect puts it
There was no appetizer, no side, no dessert
Just the main, the wine, and the hopeless wish that the man would enjoy it
An eternity occurred between then and the first bite, in which his skin grew clammy, the ringing got louder and the candles flickered on
Eventually he held the ordinances in his hands, their weightage on his wrists and their cool indents on his fingers suddenly alien to him
Tender is the flesh that was once caressed by an object who adores
by flesh and bone, by a fork
Metal prongs acted as a bayonet, tearing at the buffer
He looks at the meat, holding it up to the light
He thought again to the not-really-a-riddle
Love was no queer word, it was concealed, sure, but only where easy to find; at least for him
It was in the flowers he'd given, the songs he wrote, and, perhaps, he could find it in the dish he'd been served
To indulge in the love now presented before him, he'd receive nothing in return, and neither would its tailor
They both knew that
Yet he continues to choose to love without inhibitions regardless
He brings the commissary to his lips, parted and almost as dry as his throat
He chews, but doesn't swallow
A beat of silence
He immediately spits it out
