Demantoid

Nobody in the streets cared when a blonde passed amongst them. Not his less-than-warm looking attire for the harsh temperature, or his appearance.

He was just another somebody else. Their world continued on, with or without him in it. But his, his world stopped when he was no longer with him.

He continued on his journey, a perfect stem of pale purple flower in his grasp.

The young lady had been curious. Most others had chosen other brighter colours for their loves.  Pink. Or red. Not the almost white, pale purple.

He scoffed lightly. The number of suicides because of relationship problems increased every year. For all he knew, they could be the ones brought back in the body bags the next year.

Love? He doubted that.

…or perhaps he was just another part of them. Who was he to judge when he, too, had loved and lost?

He had been too naïve when he thought that they could be together for eternity.

His train of thought was abruptly cut when a flash of demantoid crossed his sight. For a moment, he had thought that he had returned, warm and smiling, and all these days had been nothing but a cruel joke.

But he was not there, and this entire living nightmare had been reality indeed. Though, he thought as he reached a finger out, that might be the second prettiest thing he saw after his love.

The tiny butterfly landed on his finger lightly, gracefully, and probably smiling, however crazy it sounded. It was the colour; it was this butterfly he saw, the demantoid that resembled his eyes.

It stayed there for another second, before hopping away from him and soared towards the sky, to the light. He stared in awe as the pretty little thing floated ahead of him, the rare sunlight of winter played illusions on its flapping wings as he continued to walk.

The colour change was just like how his eyes were. Those eyes, living and smiling, once upon a time.

He remembered how they changed—those emeralds are when they were in the dark, seducing and thirsty of knowledge.

The fire in his eyes, almost golden; when he fought, like in his last moments.

Demantoids in the springs and summers, when he lied on the warm fields rich of sunlight beside him, chatting and laughing.

The demantoid led him, as if it knew that he was going to visit his love, or where he rested.

That place was definitely not less cold than any other parts of the town, but he was content with everything as it was when he met him once again.

His love lied underneath in his eternal sleep, peaceful and undisturbed. He quietly put his present on the fluffy snow, and lied beside him like he always did.

"How've you been doing, love?"

In reality, there was no reply. But he could hear him giggling as he closed his eyes, and his usual cheerful and lively voice answered him. "I've been doing great since I met you!"

He swore he could almost feel him rolling to his side and pinned him down to the ground on all fours.

"How about you, though? Why are you sad?" he asked accusingly.

"…I'm not. Which one of your eyes saw me being sad?" he retorted half-heartedly.

The demantoids narrowed. "Neither. I feel it."

He chuckled and poked his shoulder, grinning in victory when he heard a surprised "Ouch!"

"Then perhaps your feeling is wrong. How can I be anything but happy when I'm with you?"

"My feeling is true. You know that."

Those demantoids met him, deep and sincere. He could see the fire behind it—and the emerald that started to seep from the fringes.

"I do," he whispered. "In fact, I've always known."

Once again after the forever he could not remember, he felt those lips moving against his. Inside he prayed that this would last an eternity for him to remember.

***

Some humans, mostly men; crowded around a grave surrounded by bloomed pale Ericas. Some of them talked to the other, wondering what had happened before. None of them saw the demantoid and another bright-yellow butterfly chasing each other playfully amongst the petals. They saw, however, the body of a young blonde being put into a black body bag.