A smudge of charred black against a sun coming to terms with its loss. They say that Icarus was a shooting star against the dark sky. But just as it seemed simply a moment while Icarus and Apollo were together, the sun’s lifetime of grief lasted only minutes for those below. Black grief consumed the world as the lovers parted. They say that when Icarus left Apollo, the sun died. So, as inevitable as running and climbing so foolishly, so ambitiously, Icarus fell. And Apollo could not hold him close forever. Even with a bird’s wings, even with a bright grin and a love as big as the sky. They say that Icarus was never meant to fly that high. They say that Icarus spent his entire life in his lover’s arms, bending the laws of time because how could such simple rules apply to them? Icarus and his burning, blinding, intense love, and Apollo with the human who was too much like a star to let go of. They say that Icarus was up there for years. Icarus lost in his blue sky and Apollo shining gold, gold, brilliant gold. Finally within reach, Apollo cradled him close the man who burned as he did. They say that for a shining moment, Icarus was with his beloved. For how could Apollo resist the man who lived so viciously that he learned to run before he could walk? A love that, unbeknownst to those on the ground, was pure and curious and longing and needing. The sun’s warmth seemed to reach for him that day a promise for the love that Icarus already possessed. They say that Icarus had to be descended from a god, for who else could fly like the birds up above, as free and sure? For who could love the sun and shun the earth? His wings were magnificent glistening and attractive, fit for the boy who loved with all of his being. To the winds that coaxed his arms up, up, up, until he felt nothing but heat and weightlessness. For how could he love anything else? How could he dream of loving something as tame, as soft and mundane as humans? No touch, neither feminine nor masculine, could compare to that sky. They say that Icarus fell in love with the sun. Every day, he would lounge outside until his skin burnt, until his arm grew tired of reaching for the sky, until he began to learn to fly before he learned how to walk. A young man with a desperate need to fly, to run, to touch that alluring sky. He stayed, locked away in his room, studying and crafting and testing. They say that after that day, Icarus wanted too much. He could only stare up at the blue of the sky, and the brilliant gold of the sun. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything except of the warmth of the sun, soft and calming and burning as a caress. When he hit the ground, the hand that had stretched for the blue blue blue sky laid awkwardly at his side. Arms outstretched like wings, too shocked, too afraid, too in awe to think of screaming. They say that one day, Icarus fell from that tree. A flash of earth brown against a blue he almost thought he could touch. He would climb the trees, the sturdy and withered branches, until he was perched on the very top, his hand outstretched. The pure blue stretching everywhere and just out of reach. But most of all, he fell in love with the blue of the sky. The blue of his mother’s eyes, the blue in the wildflowers outside his house, the blue of wonderful, expensive clothes, the untouched dye that stained his fingers for consequence of his curiosity. They say that when Icarus was a young boy, he fell in love with the color blue. He ran and ran and ran, always too afraid to be left behind, too afraid to fall, to slow down. ![]() Pudgy legs and a bright grin, he hopped and skipped, always going too far, too fast for fear of stopping. They say that when Icarus was born, he ran before he could walk.
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