This isn’t my normal style, but I’ve had the first paragraph tucked away for a while and I decided to do something with it: Short, so I’ll just post here and under the cut, but it’s also on AO3.
Spring – John must decide what to do now.
Running with him was high Summer. Children playing in the grass, darkness only a distant threat. But then came the Fall, chill wind tearing away the leaves that sheltered us in our games. After that, the long Winter, walking cold and alone with Summer the most distant dream. But now he is here again, in the hopeful Spring.
Birds return and grass reaches for the sun, but the flowers are wary of the late frost stealing in with frozen fingers to pinch away the new blossoms; new life ending before it has a chance to begin.
Crouching in the Spring-bright grass, I part the leaves to reveal the delicate blossom. A bee buzzes by my ear. They always remind me of him, so focused on their work. The bee moves on and I let the grass fall back, looking out across the park. He would know the type of flower, it’s uses, medicinal and sinister. I know only that it is young and fair and that the bee is pleased with its nectar.
This place was truly where our paths crossed. A chance meeting, two cups of coffee, and my world spun upside down. I take a breath and move towards the bench, empty today under the warm blue sky, just touched by a chill wind still whispering of winter. I zip my jacket up a little more and watch the passers by.
“John.” His voice behind me. Of course he would know I came here, probably knew what the wind meant and what that lady with the outrageous purple trainers was carrying in her bag.
“Sherlock.” I move over slightly, making room for the bulky coat, the immense personality. To my surprise he feels smaller than I remember, as if time and distance have shrunk him.
“This is where Mike sat,” he says, with certainty.
I nod, and another bee goes by. My hand is on the bench and he places his own a hairsbreadth away. This is my choice, my decision, and he will honor it no matter what I choose. With a cautious breath I slide my fingers over so we are just touching. His hands are so much larger than mine, and today they are not wearing gloves.
With trepidation, he caresses my pinky finger, then the finger where today my ring no longer sits. He stops then and looks down out our hands, mouth forming a perfect, silent ‘oh’.
He raises his gaze and meets mine. The eyes go soft, teeth worrying his lip, uncertain. I however, am not uncertain. I lean forward and capture his lips in mine. His hand clenches around my own, swallowing my fist in his grip. Then he is clutching my jacket with his other hand as if I am a lifeboat and he is a drowning man; perhaps he is and I am.
I pull away, only to stand. He still looks stunned, as if I am a prize he never thought he could win. I offer him my hand. The wind rustles his hair as he takes it with wonder, as if I will vanish before his eyes. With a smile I keep his hand in mine as we stroll from the park, out of reach of the killing frost, leaving winter behind.