"You are on the wrong planet, you foul-breathing wretch. If you compare me one more time to that prancing wannabe, I will have your head dangling from the rusted spires of Midgar for the vultures to peck at.”
I already love you. Only you.
Everything else can burn.
He’d thieve away all the stars for his sweetheart so that she may bear the riches of galaxies in the rooted depths of her avarice. Hoping that, within some impending chapter of their forming fable, she would smile in triumph with a lustre far greater than the halo of the moon. Aye— he’d wish. He’d wish that his hands could stretch beyond the vault of heaven, through the final layer of life, until he could grab handfuls of all those things that folk would stare longingly to, towing them into fuller pockets until their lives were fulfilled— until his love was returned.
Alas, they were human and monster.
Plain and Sin.
Only Gods gave stars as gifts.
So, he can only offer her flowers. A beast whose hellish claws, so laughably human in shape, would deliver Asters, Brooms and Jasmines in crafted coils; the sweet mists of summer’s pall having permeated their bracts with accompanying helpers of dew and rose-water; appurtenant structures of folded paper maintaining the boon’s shape. Autumn is still, peaceful yet spirited in hue along the noble banks of his shoulders, like late maples that courageously fought through the last days of Fall. And their leaves tumble; fire upon the shingles, seas of the red that coat the muscular design of his arms, splitting into quintuple creeks of dragon-slaying hands as he warms the entirety of her existence with the florid colours of his creation. Mayhap one would find this so uncharacteristic of him. Giving and giving, until his hands stung far too much under the forcible strain of geniality, as if it were a crime for him to be kind when the burden of all sin had him spiraling deeper into chasms she could not follow.
His benevolence, lenient and merciful, was only for her to see.
In their hearts, they know they will meet again.