Work Text:
☆ ☆ ☆
The rain had stopped a little over ten minutes ago, and when he stepped outside the air brushed his face with cool fingers, sending a shiver down his spine. Little droplets of water kept dripping from the roof and the windowsills, the last remnants of the first rainshower in a fortnight.
Moisture in the air hung heavily on everything and the foliage sparkled with the clouds’ teardrops. There were birds chirping in the trees at the end of the garden, tinny notes carrying all the way to the porch where he stood, watching.
He crouched down and sat on the edge, impervious to the water landing on his feet. A breeze passed by, whispering through the leaves of the bush that grew near him. Another cool touch.
He drew in a deep breath. The air rushed down into his lungs, fresh as mint.
That smell.
That distinctive smell of dust and rain and the ending of summer. He knew it well. Had memorised it, catalogued it, kept it on record for those horrible grey days during the winter. The ones that made him retreat to his room and read for hours on end.
Another breath, another memory of that fragrance to store away.
Drip, drip, drip.
He drew his legs to his chest and rested his head on his knees.
Drip.
A stray raindrop landed on his nose and he recoiled back into the cover of the porch. His feet were damp and a chill was starting to creep up his legs. But he didn’t want to go back inside. No matter how uncomfortable it was he wanted to stay out here, stay on the porch, watch memories flicker across the shimmering air like ghosts.
He wanted to be lost in the world for just a little longer.
--------------------
Voices echoed from inside the house. One belonged to his mother, the other to his grandfather. For a brief moment he wondered how much the old man was planning on telling his mother about the events that had transpired after she fell ill. About the people they met and lost.
The thoughts and ponderings were ushered away; they disturbed the peace of mind he was so desperately trying to find in the familiarity of their garden just after it had rained.
With a huff he shuffled forward again, drawing his right knee up so he could rest his head on it once more.
Another drop of water hit the peak of his hat, rolling along the edge and falling to the floorboards beside him. He risked looking up anyway.
The sky was blue as a robin’s egg, the clouds receding with every passing minute. Soon the sun would return and with it the last of the summer’s heat. But the sky could not compare with the blue he saw from the sands of the Sahara nor the ferocity of the heat they experienced there.
A sudden pang in his chest made his fingers curl, gripping just that little bit harder on his arms.
He tsked under his breath.
Another drop of water fell from the roof of the porch and landed on his cheek. He hurriedly wiped it away and looked down at his feet lest another raindrop land on his face or in his eyes.
What a mess.
And here he was trying to immerse himself in fragrance and sight and sound so he could forget all of that.
A contemptuous sneer quivered on his lips. What good was it?
He couldn’t forget.
No matter how hard he tried the memories would not let him be, his mind would not be quiet.
--------------------
The fragrance he was so fond of continued to linger; the sounds of droplets hitting the leaves, the floorboards, the ground, persisted.
His eyes began to flutter shut.
Could he stay like this, he wondered.
Alone in this comforting environment, with quiet thoughts and distant memories as his only companions. Could he drift into a haze of sound and smell, with only the gentle breeze to disturb him every so often…?
Drip, drip, drip.
Drip.
A drop hit his hand and he opened his eyes.
He could’ve sworn he saw a smile flash in front of him. But there was no one there.
The birds had gotten louder, the day brighter. The sun was beginning to show its face.
His mother’s voice called for him from inside the house.
He let himself scan the garden once more, drinking in every detail. With a sigh he got to his feet, leaning on the side of the porch as he stood upright. His feet were cold and the single raindrop on his hand rolled along his knuckles and down his index finger, where it stayed.
One last time.
He inhaled deeply, eyes closing, savouring the crispness of the air filling his lungs. He had long since tossed his last pack of cigarettes. Too bitter to keep up the habit anymore.
His mother called for him again.
Sunlight finally streamed into the garden, lighting everything up in yellow beams. The moisture and dust in the air shimmered like gold glitter.
A smile tugged at his lips.
“The world keeps spinning, huh.”
He breathed in deeply one more time, and turned, opening the door.
As it began to close behind him he was suddenly struck by the fact that the fragrance had a name. He’d told him back when they were camped out under the stars and neither could sleep.
An elegant name, encompassing everything about it and yet somehow maintaining its inarticulable beauty.
“Petrichor.”
☆ ☆ ☆