[Love is the only rational act
—Levine]
Those beautiful words fit the glove perfectly. They hugged the lush curves of the hand that squeezed his heart. Love was the only thing he wanted from him, yet time and time again, his lover failed to support him. Pushed him into deep depression while yearning for the soothing touch of his paramour over his skin.
Love, like the devilish being they were, worked through his veins, pumping his blood with sweet, sweet illness. He was sick with love—ill in the heart for his lover.
Hearts bled out in anguish when it rained tears, and when it rained, it poured.
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"This ends it." The voice of heartache spoke, notes trembling, eyes watering, yet the sound was ever-so sweet to the ears.
The simple man plucked his clothes from the wardrobe, stuffing them into the overflowing suitcase. He placed the items inside with such care and grace that it offsets the quaking, shaking, trembling hands of the beholder. Unease ran through the man as he took a moment to breathe; his hands were placed square on the perimeter of the suitcase.
The air was stuffy, clambering up his chest to choke him in its deafening torture. This was going to happen, no doubt filled his bones when he decided on his lover to be his. Yet, in his silly thoughts, he believed.
The years went by with him and his lover, and nothing changed. They cared, shared, and loved each other…
He… this simple man… he got too comfortable. Got too close to the sun. My, was he such a silly man in his conjecture— his hope had failed him.
But he was a cautious man as much as he was simple. The man knew society like the back of his hand, and nothing about this was kind or gentle to a blooming man such as him. He grew to be cautious, wary of those closest to him, different from him. Learned not to worry or tarry with gossip, for he was the difference in the sea of crowds; he only meant to protect himself. Such protection harmed others, and him as well.
Lost were great connections, lost were the relationships that would end in ruins. But for a cautious and simple man, that was a win-win.
He built his tolerance to pain, so when it happened, it would hurt less. He created plans for when others failed him. He produced heaps of affirmations for those in need. He prepared himself for this.
Every math equation had its proofs, its fail-safe for why it was this way. He had his fail-safes for why it would become this way when the time came.
He was bent over sick.
Such a wary young man, ripe in love and heartache, yet he danced with fire and got burned—knowing it would hurt.
…comfortable in his suffering….
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How sad the cheat was that he could not have his cake and eat it at the same time.
"Do you, Michi Detcha, take… as your wedded wife?"
The simple man could hear his ex's thoughts from a mile away. His lover, ex, was nothing but a two-faced snake who wanted to have it all without the consequences.
His body and heart were meant for the cheat, Michi, but his status as his lawfully wedded was never meant to be.
That was why he was here. Sitting in front of his ex's wedding, a looming kiss of what could have been if familial pressure was not there— if Michi was stronger—if both of them were stronger to swim against the tide. But this was no fairy tale.
He wanted to be loved and give love, for he was a simple man. Not to be shoved away for money, influence, and power. He cried at night for the man he loved. He mourned for the ache inside. His heart bloomed, flourished under the nourishment of his ex, and without him…
He was truly a simple man.
How was he so compliant yet thin-skinned? It was a whirlwind of back and forth, and the simple man was caught in the middle of it. His feelings held no right on this joyous day. None of his budding anger and sadness was meant for this auspicious day.
The wedding was his goodbye.
And he had front row seats to it.
So he toughed it out. Pushed away his feelings of dread to watch the ceremony in hegemony. He attended, sat, plopped, front row, so his ex-lover would see and stew.
He was like death awakened, lingering love in his ex's heart, left for power. It was the smallest amount of revenge the simple man would give, and it was all out of love.
The man could never forgive this cheat, not in this present time. His heart cracked with each step the lissome bride took over the aisle, and his feelings were on a spit roast, turning slowly on a fire meant to be shitted out.
Silently trembling for his ex, the man steeled his bleeding heart. This betrayal ended the thought of walking back into the warm arms of his ex. He didn't want to be swept up in that sweet, sticky love; so bad, so rotten.
The bride was stunning in his extravagant dress. Her hair was sleek and neat. Her stance: hopeful, native.
Completely different from the mess of the simple, yet wary man, Shiloh was. He was pliant and resilient, cautious to a fault. He was no doormat to walk on.
No matter what the dogma stated, no matter what people saw, no matter what his head cautioned, his heart loved him.
But he was a Lacrimosa, who knew this would happen, as the archetype said, he was cautious, prepared borne.
He had to let go once he figured out that Herculean was long engaged to this marriage. Maybe he should walk out. Yet he was too afraid of that attention; everything was a well-kept secret, and Shiloh was a silent, atlas type.
While ready for this foreseen event, this was what he signed up for; he was not ready to leave this relationship. This was his first in everything.
Shiloh was a Lacrimosa: a weak, unassuming, meek, prepared, yet stunning. Not known for their bravery or influence like Herculean. But oh, so he wished he were a Herculean, so he could be stronger than this and not feel this quaking.
*
"Listen to me, Shiloh." The man cried out to him, arms reaching out.
Shiloh dodged the paw, looking out far out of the balcony. "Don't talk like you care, Michi. Nothing you could do would allow my pride to accept this." The man was getting angry, fist curled to his chest, arms tied.
"Y'know, I have pride. Just because I am a Lacrimosa does not mean you get to walk all over me. I'm not stupid, Michi. I, I'm not a toy—"
"YOU'RE NOT…" The other man raised his voice, eyes wide, fear and something else filling them. He reached out again. This time, succeeding in grabbing his tangled forearm. Michi pulled Shiloh, unwrapping the tight protection Shiloh had. "You're not a toy, Shiloh. I love you… But you have to understand that as a Herculean, I have this duty."
The pale man paused, looking at Shiloh's eyes. "And this duty does not have to be the end of us. You, as a Lacrimosa, should have a plan. A plan to work around my duty."
Shiloh gaped, not physically, but inside, he was reeling. He knew this. He was a stupid, simple man, and he knew this would happen. But hearing it hurt.
As a Lacrimosa, one was the last choice. As a Lacrimosa, one could never marry up. As a Lacrimosa, one always had a plan.
As a Lacrimosa, Shiloh could only be a mistress. Waiting on his sweetheart, tending the home alone, bearing the children single-handedly.
Shiloh did not want that. He was better than that. Even if he had a plan, he had his pride first. And it was shattered like his heart.
Shiloh scoffed. He whipped his arm away, swiftly charging to the banquet hall. His breath was tight as he rushed out, losing the horrible man behind him.
Once far, he turned and looked at the venue. It was gorgeous, something he always wanted.
He stood in remembrance.
What a beautiful bride. The music swelled and swayed. Dress flowing. Hair done up pretty in awe with pearls, gems, and simple gold. Face plain with a red stain on his graceful visage.
Tears dripped; Shiloh could see the future where they wept. Shiloh knew the love he held for each other was gone, not lost.
His ex was now in a gilded golden cage. A show put on by and for his family. The Herculean man was stranded on the desert of his making, fate remaining unchanged. His ex held up the pressure of status, and Shiloh commended him on this. He, as the simple man he was, would have never lasted a second under such circumstances.
He had attended this wedding in spite, hoping to gain schadenfreude. But instead felt desolate.
His first love was sending himself to eternal damnation. He oh-so hoped that his ex would become clear-headed and figure out his life as such, like this—with the light, pressure, and wife. Shiloh could never even think about the soon-to-be-wife.
That poor, unassuming wife. The stunning woman with a gentle smile on her face. She would be so distraught to know no love would come from her marriage. Her husband would always look to the side towards the men who walked around. And yet her anger would never be on the men who loved men, but on the love she gave to her husband, never to be returned. Anger was placed on the pain she gave herself.
She would be similar to him: wanting the unachievable, the unrequited love, the depression. They had so much in common, yet they were so different. Lacrimosa and Herculean loved the man, only to understand it was far-fetched. The weak and strong were on the same path of pain.
He had to leave.
Never would Shiloh stay here. Above all, he held his pride.
Would she move on? He prayed so. He would invite the bride to burn the idea of unrequited love. But he had his own journey to get lost on. Though he wanted all parties to get their hearts' desires. He surely would.
Shiloh hoped to heal and mend his woes, the soreness in his bones, and the sadness seeping through.
*
Life moved on.
Life raced by while Shiloh experienced the lowest part of his life. He continued along, coming and going. The main characters were leaving, letting the supporting roles come and shine through in the sequels.
Shiloh was not a side character; he was the wash-up, wash-away, wash-out man whose heart broke every time with each thought of life moving without him. They were in the future, while Shiloh stood in the past.
The wedding went over well. His ex-lover had accepted his doom, and his wife, the one he married in desperation, not for love, seemed thrilled. It was done and over.
So he was still here because…?
Waiting with bated breath, watching with open orbs, wallowing with lost love, he was becoming more and more pliant in his healing journey. Or more like, basking in his shitty future.
Shiloh wanted to aspire for more after such a damning chapter in his life. Now, he was complicit in his never-ever after. Was he not one to deserve happiness, treasure? Especially after a turbulent trial?
Had he not been cheated on and used? Had he not lost his chance at being loved because of this man? Had he lost his will to leave? His only semblance of courage to heal?
He came so far as a Lacrimosa—why give up now?
Then it hit him above, such as an angel blaring a big, blue pop-up.