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Title: Autumn
Series: The Cycle of Seasons
Rating: PGish
Word Count: 637
Summary: I was autumn when I found you.
Notes: The third part of the series. I had forgotten how this one ended.
I wake in the midst of an autumn chill to find the only spot of warmth in it was you. It seems the world solidifies around us before we rise and then spreads from there so we feel a whole world's worth of cold while still sleeping. You've moved close to me, not yet touching but just verging on verging, near enough for me to know your body is the warmest thing within miles. It's this, perhaps, or maybe the way your lashes flutter and your fingers flex as you, too, begin to wake that makes me deeply and immediately protective.
“Here, wait,” I say, stopping you rising with a hand laid on your arm. It's cooler then I'd like, so I smooth the blanket over it as you look at me with sleepy, startled eyes. “You're chilled through,” I say. “Stay here.” I intend to say that I'll take care of things, but 'things' comes out as 'you' and your smile is such that I don't feel inclined to correct myself.
I'm up and changed, pondering the geography of the cooking area when I hear your voice for the first time, cracking open the silence of your sleep.
“Hey,” you said, and I turn reflexively. You're holding out a hand, soft and pale, to me, like an offering. “Friends?” you said. I'm across the room in a second, kneeling beside the bed. I clasp your hand and say, “Friends.”
You smile, then, a sweet tired smile and, with a final squeeze, I allow your hand to slip away, vanishing again beneath the blankets.
I take my time making breakfast, and by the time I'm done the chill has dispersed enough that I'll allow you out of bed and we sit at the table to eat together. We finish together and wash up together, and then, with a look towards the door, you say, “Shall we walk a bit?”
My instinct is at once to say, 'yes, yes of course,' but then I remember the curve of your back in the early morning, and goosebumps risen on your wrist. For a thoughtful moment, I examine our room. My eyes alight on a shelf on the far side, beyond the bed, full of books and boxes made of wood, and I shake my head and smile.
“Let's stay here, today,” I say, and nod towards it.
You follow my gaze, and smile too, a little uncertain, a little intrigued.
“We should at least wait until afternoon,” I tell you, confident in my ability to divert you should the idea enter into your head again. “It's still cold out.”
You don't ask me how I know and I don't volunteer because I suspect myself of a lie. But so long as the door never opens, we'll never find out.
By noon, we've landed on the bed. I'm sitting up, against the wall, reading aloud, as you sprawl alongside, maybe listening, maybe not. You're good company, really, but even if I feel the urge to tell you, something inside me just won't.
You're smiling when I smell it, your eyes half-lidded, cheeks a little flush. I pause, looking down at you, and feel the urge to reach out and touch you. If your eyes hadn't chosen that moment to close entirely, I might have. Instead, I glance over towards the fire we left burning and ponder our dysfunctional chimney for only the barest of moments before turning my attention back to the book. I keep reading until I hear you coughing and by that time it's all pointless, so I chuck the book towards the fire and start looking for your hand in a room that seems to have filled with smoke between one breath and the next. I'm still searching when the rest of the world disappears.
Series: The Cycle of Seasons
Rating: PGish
Word Count: 637
Summary: I was autumn when I found you.
Notes: The third part of the series. I had forgotten how this one ended.
I wake in the midst of an autumn chill to find the only spot of warmth in it was you. It seems the world solidifies around us before we rise and then spreads from there so we feel a whole world's worth of cold while still sleeping. You've moved close to me, not yet touching but just verging on verging, near enough for me to know your body is the warmest thing within miles. It's this, perhaps, or maybe the way your lashes flutter and your fingers flex as you, too, begin to wake that makes me deeply and immediately protective.
“Here, wait,” I say, stopping you rising with a hand laid on your arm. It's cooler then I'd like, so I smooth the blanket over it as you look at me with sleepy, startled eyes. “You're chilled through,” I say. “Stay here.” I intend to say that I'll take care of things, but 'things' comes out as 'you' and your smile is such that I don't feel inclined to correct myself.
I'm up and changed, pondering the geography of the cooking area when I hear your voice for the first time, cracking open the silence of your sleep.
“Hey,” you said, and I turn reflexively. You're holding out a hand, soft and pale, to me, like an offering. “Friends?” you said. I'm across the room in a second, kneeling beside the bed. I clasp your hand and say, “Friends.”
You smile, then, a sweet tired smile and, with a final squeeze, I allow your hand to slip away, vanishing again beneath the blankets.
I take my time making breakfast, and by the time I'm done the chill has dispersed enough that I'll allow you out of bed and we sit at the table to eat together. We finish together and wash up together, and then, with a look towards the door, you say, “Shall we walk a bit?”
My instinct is at once to say, 'yes, yes of course,' but then I remember the curve of your back in the early morning, and goosebumps risen on your wrist. For a thoughtful moment, I examine our room. My eyes alight on a shelf on the far side, beyond the bed, full of books and boxes made of wood, and I shake my head and smile.
“Let's stay here, today,” I say, and nod towards it.
You follow my gaze, and smile too, a little uncertain, a little intrigued.
“We should at least wait until afternoon,” I tell you, confident in my ability to divert you should the idea enter into your head again. “It's still cold out.”
You don't ask me how I know and I don't volunteer because I suspect myself of a lie. But so long as the door never opens, we'll never find out.
By noon, we've landed on the bed. I'm sitting up, against the wall, reading aloud, as you sprawl alongside, maybe listening, maybe not. You're good company, really, but even if I feel the urge to tell you, something inside me just won't.
You're smiling when I smell it, your eyes half-lidded, cheeks a little flush. I pause, looking down at you, and feel the urge to reach out and touch you. If your eyes hadn't chosen that moment to close entirely, I might have. Instead, I glance over towards the fire we left burning and ponder our dysfunctional chimney for only the barest of moments before turning my attention back to the book. I keep reading until I hear you coughing and by that time it's all pointless, so I chuck the book towards the fire and start looking for your hand in a room that seems to have filled with smoke between one breath and the next. I'm still searching when the rest of the world disappears.
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