Notes: Saison-Time

Volute-Swirl

There is a man sitting in his tower.

He stared at his tiled floor.

Black and white.

White and black.

It reminded him of something.

“NYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Or someone.

“Saison! Saison! Don’t ignore me Saisonnnnnnnnn!”

He looked up from his floor and frowned at the other man who dared disrupt his silence.

“What do you want Volute? I’m busy.”

The colored man halts in his eager greeting and tilts his head. Several strands of purple hair fall into his golden eye.

“Busy? You’re not doing anything!”

Saison glances at one of the multitudes of clocks gracing his black and white striped walls.

Two o’clock exactly.

“I’m serving tea.”

They go through this routine every day.

Volute would bounce in bringing color and life and sound and all things alive into his world at two.

He would feign business until then and then serve the tea.

Black tea and white tea for himself in their own respective kettles.

A plethora of teas for the colorful cat. Green, Black, Red, raspberry, gray, chamomile, jasmine…

Some days the cat would love green, others gray, others jasmine, some days he would hate tea entirely.

Saison stood and beckoned the swirl of color into his sitting room. Without turning he entered and seated himself, pouring his own tea first, not knowing what Volute wanted for that day.

The tornado of life swirled into the room and draped himself over the black and white chair. He purred at the plush comfort of the chair and stared out one of the tower’s windows, the twentieth seeing as they were on the fifth floor and there are exactly four windows per floor. Each window is placed in the exact middle of each wall and is exactly twenty five feet from the one on the previous floor.

Volute stared at the forest, his territory and cooed that the tower was right in the middle of it.

The back is the front in this world. It’s a giant circle. Something never ending.

Saison sips his tea and examines Volute’s attire for the first time for the day.

Black tight pants, a blue velvet coat with its sleeves ripped off and a white tie, there are several silver chains dangling off his wrists and random clips in his wild hair. The purple (so many shades of purple) tail was fluffed out and curled around Volute’s waist and cushioning his upper body as he leaned on the hard wood of the chair’s armrest.

He was probably in the mood for some Earl Gray and a slice of blueberry cheesecake.

Saison went to brew and prepare the food items leaving his guest in silence.

Volute can’t stand silence, so he makes his own noise.

He threw a leg onto the floor and began tapping his foot on the tile. He hummed and clacked his claws on the armrest. He purred and absorbed in the absolute stillness of his surroundings and emitting, in return, constant movement.

Saison returned and placed the food in front of him and he tore into it as if he were a starving man.

“So uncouth, filthy animal.” Saison snapped, glaring at his guest, once again sipping his tea.

Volute stared up at him with his one uncovered eye and grinned, fangs showing, it was a predator’s grin. His eye glinted with knowing.

His eyes traveled up and down Saison’s body and purred.

“But you love it, sweet Time Keeper.” He licked his fingers clean and slid out of the chair striding over to where Saison sat. He draped his arms around Saison’s head and licked at the other man’s cheek. He purred.

The pretty timekeeper was his. His and his alone.

He nipped at the white flesh, drawing a thin line of crimson that faded just as soon as it was inflicted.

“You’re no fun my precious Time.” He whined licking at the skin once more before withdrawing.

Saison’s face was a mask of indifference, but his pale amber eyes flickered with emotion.

“But oh so delicious.” Volute licked his lips before swiftly turning on his heel and striding out of the room. He threw over his shoulder as he turned the corner, knowing the other would hear him, he always did, “Until the next time precious.”

Saison waited until he could see the flash of Volute’s color leave his line of sight before leaving the window and cleaning up the tea dishes.

He washed them in a white sink with pure water and placed them in white cupboards with black handles. He went into a room with black and white tiles and black and white walls and black and white furniture. There are silver clocks on the walls with white faces and black numbers and arms. Each clock is shaped differently, shows different times and dates, but ticks in time with the one next to it.

It was just like every other room in the tower.

There is no color in Saison’s life; everything is the same, unchanging, constant.

Except Volute.

Volute is the twister that brings chaos and disorder and color into his life.

Sometimes Saison doesn’t know whether he’s thankful or not.

He doesn’t know if he’s thankful for Volute bounding into his life and claiming his lips, pulling out his feelings from the depths of his soul.

He doesn’t know if he’s thankful for bringing light into his dark tower, sound and movement into his frozen time.

Volute brings the outside to him, because he cannot go outside.

Saison lay down on the couch and pulled an arm over his eyes.

Then succumbed to the silence.

Exactly ten hours later he gets up and moves to get some white tea for himself and sets his table for two.

He wonders if Volute would still want the tea and cake from earlier or if he’d changed to something else.

He sits himself in the sitting room on the third floor and begins his wait.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

“NYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

He looks up.

There is Volute in his stunning brightness.

The twister of color tackles him and purrs.

“Saison I missed you! Did you miss me?”

“No, get off. It’s time for tea.”

This is also routine; every other tea meeting goes like this.

He goes into the sitting room and pours himself some white tea as Volute drapes himself on the chair, back cushioned by his tail and legs dangling over the other armrest. Volute’s head hangs back and he stares out the window again. He’s changed into a bright lime green shirt with white pants and golden charms hanging of his wrists and loops of gold in his ears and lips.

Saison gets up to brew some red tea and fetch a slice of chocolate cake.

“Nyaaaaaan, Saison.” Saison pauses, this is different, this is new. Volute doesn’t speak until Saison has gotten his food.

This is not part of the routine.

He doesn’t know if he likes this.

He turns to look at the man sprawled on his chair.

Color on black.

Color on white.

Color, color, color.

“What?”

“Do you love me?”

Love? Saison freezes, eyes widened.

Volute stands up and saunters over to him and leans down to he can look Saison in the eye. He tilts his head to the side.

“What’s wrong precious Time?”

Love? Love? What was love? There is no room for love. Love is not black. Love is not white. Love isn’t even a color.

Love isn’t warm, love isn’t cold, love isn’t sweet or spicy or sour…what was love??

“Precious?” Color draws closer.

Why was Volute asking such questions?

There is no room for love in his tower. None, none at all. It’s not right, his color asking about love.

No, his? When did Volute become his? This wasn’t right, not right at all.

“Get out.”

Volute blinked.

“What?”

“Get out.”

He drew back startled.

“Precious?”

“Get. Out.” Saison raised his head to meet Volute’s head on. He raised his voice, “I said, Get OUT!” He snarled the last words whirling away from the startled, pained, look on Volute’s face and stormed away to the higher levels of the tower. Levels that he hadn’t gone to in…he didn’t even know.

He could feel the color following him, chasing him.

No, he couldn’t allow that.

There was no room for love in his life, love was being brought into his life, his tower. He must remove the source of it.

If removing color would remove the love then so be it.

He called his power…his precious power and threw Volute out.

“Precious!” he heard just as he threw him out.

Saison stopped as he reached the thirteenth floor and went inside the only room of that floor.

It was his room.

It is his room.

He curled up on white sheets with black embroidery and tucked his face into the pillow.

There is no dust in this room, in any room.

He slept.

He dreamed of hourglasses and fire and ice.

He dreamed of clocks and seconds.

He dreamed of twisters and cats.

He dreamed of tea and cake.

He dreamed of time…time, time, time.

His time would never end. His clock would never silence, his hourglass will never empty.

He supposed at one time it could have been. But it’s frozen now.

He is time. He is the Time Keeper.

As long as he is in his tower his time will not change.

If he leaves his tower he will die. Wonderland will die.

And it will start all over again.

It’s maddening to stay in the same place days on end.

But not really.

There is order, there are constants. Things won’t change.

He thought he was ok with it, he thought he was fine.

But then Volute came.

Way back when the tower only had two stories and was jam packed with clocks, their ticking was maddening, loud and dissonant. He was afraid.

But if he left again the world would crumble.

He was small then, he remembered, and drowned in clocks.

Volute was tall, and large, just like now and he towered over him with that predatory smile on his face.

“Well, well…who is this hm? Now, now this wasn’t here before.” He looked up at the color that was the first time he’d seen color.

“Who are you little one? Where is this?”

He didn’t know at the time.

“No name? No answer? Strange little child.”

Then Volute gave him a name.

He named him… “Saison” or “Time”.

Volute brought color in his life, and in his own strange way routine.

Eleven turns of the world later and eleven more stories to his tower later the routine was broken.

By love.

Such a strange thing.

You can’t put love in a routine.

It’s strange.

Volute gave him life, Volute gave him routine, Volute gave him color, he gave him a focus point.

Now why would Volute take away that routine?

Why?

Had Volute lost interest in him and his tower?

Did Volute find something else to hold is attention?

Why?

It doesn’t matter…he’d just return to the routine.

He could make a new routine.

Yes…that’s right…routines are like habits, easy to establish.

Saison got up off the bed and descended to the first floor, he hasn’t gone to the first floor in…years, and he honestly can’t remember what the first floor looked like aside from black and white.

But he most certainly knows it did not look like this.

It’s colorful.

There’s so much color.

Red drapes, golden tassels, the door is a warm brown, there are splatters of paint all over the tiled floor and various cushions and pieces of woodland paraphernalia littering the ground.

It’s like a color palate exploded. It’s like a blend of Volute and himself, color and monochrome, chaos and disorder.

He’s not sure if he’s disgusted or overjoyed.

He decides to go with disgusted.

The color doesn’t matter if there is no order.

He turns and walks back up the stairs.

There’s no Volute.

Mismatched green and yellow eyes watch him from the window.

They disappear.

Several tea times have passed and still no Volute.

Saison ignores the aching pang in his heart and continues sipping his black tea.

What’s wrong precious Time?

He shakes his head, black strands of hair flopping around his face. Volute isn’t here anymore, he should be glad.

My precious Time…

There’s order and silence (except for the clocks) and stillness.

Precious, precious, precious Time…

There’s routine and no interruptions.

Sweet Time, so sweet…

He sighs. He loves this, but…why is he so sad?

I’ve missed you my sweet Time, have you missed me?

A small part of him cries out, Yes! Yes! Come back Volute! Come back! That part is ruthlessly crushed along with the voice haunting the back of his mind with a loud crash.

Saison has knocked over the teacup. He stares at the black and white china glass on the floor, tea running over black and white and black and white and it keeps going.

He stares.

And stares.

He should get up to clean it but he’s fascinated! The color keeps going and going and going, it taints whatever it touches and he knows that when he finally does clean it up there will always be a faint outline of where it was before.

Just like with him and Volute. He’s removed the color…but the stain is still there. He could never get rid of it.

Why?

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

He turns his stare to his pale white hands, when was the last time they’d seen the sun? When was the last time they were warm? Cold? In pain?

He could see it though, the stain of color. It was all over him. That’s right, he had color too, it was just under all this whiteness. He just had to get it out.

He stands and steps into the hallway, the crack of glass under his boots was pleasant, yes the sound had returned, he could make his own color and sound.

A smile stretches over his lips.

A pair of green and yellow eyes watches the window from the trees; a flash of purple and they’re gone.

He cleans up the mess and goes to his study to read. It will be time for tea in nine hours; he has to catch up on his reading.

He tries to focus on the words, the black and white print evenly spaced and uniform…but it’s too quiet.

He can hear the pounding of his heart but it’s still too quiet.

His breathing is silent.

He needs noise.

He needs Volute…no he doesn’t he can make his own noise.

Crack.

He throws a white vase against a wall, it shatters.

Crack.

He smashes a black vase against the floor, it shatters.

He steps on the broken pieces, color blooms.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there watching the color…but it’s time for tea.

Green and yellow eyes narrow, white fangs glint and a yowl pierces the air, unable to penetrate the walls of the tower.

He sips his tea and hums in pleasure at the tingle along his arms and legs. The sound is harsh and croaky; he has not used his voice in a while.

It’s still not loud enough. It is not lively enough either.

Saison’s lips pull down in a frown.

It isn’t enough.

But he’s running out of things to do.

He just isn’t loud or vibrant enough on his own.

He puts down the teacup and retreats to his room.

There are ten parallel gashes on the walls of the Clock Tower.

Yowls continue to rip at the air as claws tear at the Tower’s stonewalls.

My precious Time, I’m coming for you.

Saison sleeps, he’s sure that in his dreams there’s noise and color and all things warm and cold.

Wait for me beloved Time, I’m almost there.

He dreams of uneven footsteps and harsh breathing.

I’m close my sweet Time, wait for me.

He dreams of warm hands on his. Lips on skin drawing out color.

Wait for me sweet Time, wait for me.

He dreams of laughter and low whispers in his ear and ghosting over his skin.

I’m here beloved, I’m here…Saison…

He wakes up.

And there is color.

There is warmth.

There’s sound.

There’s Volute.

“Vo-Volute?” His voice is hoarse; he hasn’t spoken out loud in ages. Volute stares down at him, both eyes (uncovered for once) gleaming with a feral light. His claws unsheathed and tail lashing. A moving, living, breathing, swirl of colors and feelings.

“Precious time, how dare you do this…” His fangs gleam.

“Volute?” Saison repeats sitting up on the bed, staring at the man before him.

Volute advances until he falls back on the headboard, his eyes are positively glowing his runs a claw down Saison’s cheek drawing up crimson.

“You have no right sweet Time to do things like this.” His large hands yank at Saison’s arms and push up the sleeves, ignoring his small whimper of pain.

Stained bandages from wrist up. There are no wounds underneath, Saison could never get the wounds to stay, they always healed just as quickly as they came.

Volute bites down on one of the bandages and tugs, unfurling curls of white and crimson to reveal pale unmarred flesh beneath.

“This should stay like this, pure my sweet Time, you see…” His jaws close around the flesh of the arm and sink his fangs into the limb, drawing gushes of blood, Saison hisses at the pain but draws closer. This is what he’d been missing, feeling, color…warmth.

“I am the only one who can do this to you.” Volute punctures each word with a small nip up the arm to the elbow, licking each bite as they close.

“I am the only one who can touch you, feel you, bring you life.” He sucks and nibbles on Saison’s collarbone, claws digging into their handholds on Saison. Volute straddles Saison’s hips.

“I am the only one who can enter this tower, I am the only one in your life. You. Are. Mine.” He punctures each sentence with a harsh bight to the pale column of Saison’s neck.

“I am the only one who can bring color and sound to you. Now and forever.” He claims Saison’s lips and bites down, purring at the taste of copper blood. Saison can taste it too; he almost faints from the sensation. There’s life in his existence.

Saison gently removes his arms from Volute’s grip and curls them around Volute’s neck. He burrows his head into the cat’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of dirt and trees and blood and that smell that was just Color.

“I’m sorry Volute.”

“I know.”

“Stay with me.”

“Yes.”

“Bring me color.”

“I will.”

“Love me.”

“Always.”