Work Text:
Septimus imagined that he was in love again.
He gazed straight up, straining his eyes against the glare of the sun as it scattered through window panes and the high boughs of surrounding trees; the elm sighed (he heard it). A light breeze tugged upon his jacket, ruffling the loose strands of his hair, and he remembered that Evans had done the same with the smooth motion of his gentle, languid fingers, hands soon dropping to Septimus’ chest; he was not afraid. Evans’ eyes were still held in shadow then, a quiet specter that grew as he had moved beside Septimus, even as they argued. There was the smell of weak tea and a hundred days encased in frost, unrelenting, and Evans leaned forward, his mouth -- did it taste of oranges? -- forgiving.
It had snowed then, had it not?
Yes, the flakes fell in pairs, masking the stretches of grey underfoot; they surveyed and danced. Such weather seemed quite out of the question at the time, Septimus thought; it was impractical and strange, though it was also somehow reassuring in its delicacy. He had recognized the waves that lapped against the boundaries of his mind as he considered it, bewildered by the fact that such things could continue on as the earth broke apart before him. Mortars had howled in the distance -- how far away? -- as snow fell across Septimus’ cheeks; it melted, quietly streaking towards his gently parted lips, collecting sweetly against his tongue and vanishing as though it had never been. He now understood that if he tilted his head just so and listened with deliberate care, he could hear each flake that graced his hands or settled to the ground.
It had snowed and Septimus listened. He shivered as the chill caught against the parted collar of his greatcoat, pooling by his throat, but Evans’ mouth was warm with his promise, and Septimus only heard the pounding of his own heart. Evans held him, his breath visible, pouring forth in long, searching strands; it rose, soon to fade.
Perhaps Evans had wings, even then.
They would have branched invisibly atop his spine, between his pale, freckled shoulder blades, and Septimus knew that they would be wont to spread wide and ever-wider. He heard their beating, faintly at first, hesitant, and then growing with the sound of laughter; they mounted the wind until the world was far away.
What could it mean, then, to be in love?
Presently, words fell around him like drifting feathers, scattering, whispering. They came in pairs. Septimus, they said, you must not forget. He was still a member of that fragile minority, the living, those who cannot help but move a step further with each passing day, forward over the bridge; the words swept below him, now neglectful and weary, and Septimus recoiled at the first sight of the bordering lands. Evans was dead.
A bird flittered between the shadows by his side; its song was orange.
Again, Septimus remembered those long hours (he closed his eyes); Evans took his cap off and his hair glowed as a tousled halo by the flickering of the lamp, long after the lines of moisture faded from Septimus’ cheeks. The snow had stopped falling, had it not, when the night was drawn away by the first rays of the dawn? Septimus awoke then, as the sky lightened, tinged with violet. Evans had been singing something -- what was it? -- under his breath, quietly, and was silent as Septimus took notice.
Septimus waited, watched.
Evans still smiled. There was frost beneath his feet.
But then again, no, it was now so recently June; and then again, the sun was still shining down, casting a flush across Septimus’ brow, and his cheeks were dry. He felt nothing. Rezia was beside him, wrapping her small, soft hand around his arm. We must hurry now, Septimus, she said; hush, my dear, you must not miss your appointment. She was with him; she tightened her grip and led him over the kerb, onto the pavement and before the entryway of a great, glowering building, a stretch of grey above him. They stepped inside.
Septimus heard the beating of wings; they echoed faintly at first, hesitant, and then were gone.