Chapter Text
“I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
I.
She used to be a force of nature, Ana. (At least to him.)
On good days, gloriously bright and sunny days, when nothing and no one cared about them and they cared about no one and nothing she would blow dandelions and dance with their seeds as they spiralled and swirled through the air. When they would land on the ground , she’d turn around, flaxen hair tousled from the wind and cheeks flushed from excitement and then she’d tell him:
This, Will, this is where our dreams grow.
And of course she knew that dandelions weren’t a reliable way to wish-fulfilment just as good as he did, but in these moments she looked so radiantly happy that he couldn’t help himself but play along a bit, so he’d answer:
So we’ll just have to come pick them up, right?
Then she’d come back, running, dropping down next to him, breathless laughter on her lips and the brightest light in her eyes and even though nothing even remotely funny had happened he had no other choice but laugh with her, just because there was something so pure, so genuine about it that he didn’t think there was anyone who wouldn’t have laughed with her.
She was so young back then. (They both were.)
So young, so full of hope and happiness at times, full of doubts and anxiety at others, always aiming to please, always busy trying her best. She never had to try very hard to please him, though, all she had to do was to be there and smile and there was literally nothing left in all worlds he’d ever heard that could’ve made him any happier.
Ana had a beautiful smile, one that could make you think you were the only thing worth smiling for, full of charm and warmth and sometimes he thought what a lucky fool he was for having a girl that could smile like that.
Sometimes these days, languidly spent beneath rustling leaves and clear sapphire skies turned into evenings and eventually stretched into brilliant starry nights, the sky stretched above them like black velvet, the grass swaying with the tepid wind around them. They’d go from planting wishes to naming stars, and it made her smile just as much. When she’d run out of names to give them, she’d tell him stories of when she was younger and he’d make some up, so widely exaggerated that he’d end up making a fool of himself and she’d end up laughing that wonderful laugh that spread warmth all through him, starting at his ears and curling down to his toes.
(He’d gladly make a fool of himself any day for her.)
On these nights he’d lie on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other slung around her rather possessively, hand splayed on her stomach, either beneath both of hers or busy tracing the embroidery on her pale pink dress. She’d sit up every now and then, because she feared for grass stains, and when she’d look at him eyes big and worried, he’d try his best to make her laugh, just to see her eyes shine.
Because sometimes she had eyes so bright and full of wonder they could put all those stars to shame.