This is a post from a thread being done with my friend Lily, whose work you can read HERE, who plays the character of Jian. She has one of her posts for him up on her blog. Jiordano and Jian are two characters that I adore. The chemistry between the two was completely unintentional. We played them a few times together and they just happened to click in an unexpectedly, tender way. Both developing feelings that are difficult for them due to cultural, as well as personal, issues. The roleplay setting we play in is known as Skye: The Winged Isle, it is alternative historical roleplay based in 1300s Scotland, created by the wonderful admins Liv and Will, and expanded on by the years of play involvement via members. A wonder, creative world that offered me much of an escape during stressful times. A place that was like home with kind, caring friends. Anyways, I’m sharing this with you as I am proud of this writing. Mine is the second post in the thread. I apologize if the Italian is wrong or terrible. I rely on Google Translator as I do not speak the language.
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“Our memories are paintings made by the mind. The most vivid colors chosen to display those moments we cherish most, bambino. Go now, it will be time for Master Jian’s festa di addio soon.”
Young Hope and Luke were ushered off, covered in paint as they were, with a kiss to each of their little cheeks. The lesson done for the day. No, now it was time for them to prepare for the feast that would usher Jian out of this world and back into his own. One that many would attend. One that he should attend. The more he stared out the classroom’s window though toward the house in the distance… the harder it became to even attempt getting ready.
How could he say farewell to someone that he didn’t even want to go? Yet, asking him to stay would be just as unfair. For Jian’s world was somewhere else. A palm smeared in paint the color of sunset gently touch the cold glass window, pressing against it to keep steady, as he bowed his head and quietly withdrew back into the quiet of the school. The print left behind now smudged.
Evening passed swiftly, quietly. A tomb of solitude that shut away all the sounds to be heard outside. Carried by the wind toward the school as though taunting Jiordano. Come, come. Come say farewell. Come celebrate… they whispered and the artist tossed a ceramic jar of paint toward a blank wall. It shattered harshly in the dark room that was lit only by two drooping candles.
“Festeggiare? What is there to celebrate? Niente! Nothing!” The man shouted at the silence in a mixture of Italian and English that rambled. He took another heavy drink from the wine bottle at his side. Acquired from a case that was being taken upto the house earlier. There was another laying empty on the floor. It sparkled in the candle flame that glinted off it, splashing abstracted shadows around the room, and was a harsh reminder to just how much he’d had to drink.
Not that he cared. He was an Italian! Drinking was in their blood. It would take much more than a bottle and a half of wine to make him drunk. Though he stumbled a bit as he approached the wall covered in a myriad of mixed paints with shattered pieces of jar laying about areas of the floor. He was shirtless, his pants unlaced in the front, and his black hair was mussed from having his hands ran through it a thousand times. Bare feet stepped on broken jar pieces that cut into tender skin and let the bright red shade of his blood mix with the paint that had sprayed on the floor.
Placing the bottle of wine down on the floor, uncaring of the cuts, placed both hands against the wall. Feeling the squish of the wet paint between his fingers and against his palms. Soaking into every crevice of his skin. Cool, gentle… calming. The anger faded to sorrow as the feel of the paint reached his soul and he remembered those times here, in the school, when he would teach Jian to paint while also trying to teach him bits of English and Italian. Even with the language barrier they always found ways to understand each other it seemed. With him gone, he realized, he’d be lonely. Ever so lonely.
Oh, he’d have Eirian and Hope and Luke, and a myriad of other faces that he’d come to call friend or family. Yet none that touched his soul and heart as did Jian. His Jian. Jiordano had known for quite some time that what he felt for Jian went far beyond the realm of friendship or family. He’d never felt anything like this since… Demetrio, but it was more than seduction and lust. It was what the poets wrote about.
“Nonsenso! That is not what the Lord has in store for me. No, that is… is bl-blasphemy.” There was a weight of self-loathing carried in it. Guilt that he should even feel these emotions for another that was a man. No, it was a sin of the worst kind. Was not that what they all said? That he could even consider dragging Jian into it. That could not happen. It would endanger his vows. It would make him scorned by those who now cared for him. It would give his soul to the Devil.
“NO!” The shout echoed off the walls off the room, one hand moving in a reaction of anger and hurt.. and guilt to grab the bottle of wine and slam it against the wall. The glass shattering in his hand, cutting it, as he stared at the floor with both eyes squeezed shut. “I will… I will let him leave. It is be-best.”
The tears leaked out slowly, sliding down cheeks rough with a scruffy beard, as he stood there. Not hearing the voice that called his name.