Work Text:
She’s always leaving, and he’s always falling behind, feet frozen to the ground and a few brief kisses. Not enough. Never enough. He catches her hand with frost on his lips and a chill in his eyes, cold and dead, as he watches the harvest in her heart slip away on the breeze of his first breath. A stolen moment, cold and crisp and futile. Theirs is a dying season, the embers of love.
When he comes, she goes, taking his heart and the seeds of the next harvest, deep within her body. The cycle remains unbroken, his heart, less so. Year in, year out, he never gets to savor, sustaining himself on brief brushes and unspoken desires. He spends most of his life dreaming.
Then one year, she stops. There’s no gold on the horizon for her to run to, nothing else can grow now, and as the sky itself haloes around her, he realizes that there won’t be another harvest. There’s only here and now, so he sinks in, devours, savors. There’s nothing else, will never be anything else, so he looks into her eyes and burns up in the heat and promise and oh.
So this is what it is to fall.