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in the spring, they sleep with their windows open. the breeze that drifts in to find them with the sunrise early in the mornings brings with it a haphazard and beautiful bouquet from the garden just outside. petals from the peony bushes beneath the window scatter the hardwood, dancing and swaying with the gauzy blue curtains that only barely touch the floor. the fruit trees wave in that same breeze, the rustling of their leaves a pleasant undertone to the morning’s calm symphony. it’s perfect, dreamlike, much too serene to be real, and yet they wake to it every morning. and the same thoughts find him each time. much too serene. he doesn’t like to think about it this early.
he’s supposed to be enjoying this. that’s the point.
beside him in bed, his lover’s mussed and rose-colored hair splays over their pillow like an overgrown, wilting crown. the tendrils and strands fall this way and that, and he’s only brave enough to displace a few of them, even if it is as he leans down to place soft, warm kiss to their temple. they hum quietly in their sleep, stretching and shifting and rolling over onto their stomach. he catches a glimpse of their jaw as they move, their mouth, their lips, curving and arching with the ghost of a smile. he mirrors it without any real effort to do so, and tucks a strand of hair behind their ear seconds before they bury their head in their pillow and yank the sheet up over their head with a tired groan.
not a morning person, he knows. not even really a person, but—
he pads out into their living room with bare feet, scooping up his half-empty pack of cigarettes and fitting the filter of one between his lips. he lights it as he wanders toward the double doors that lead to their small patio, just off of the far end of the living room, and shoulders one of them open. it’s still early, and the sun hangs high above the clouds, but there’s enough light for him to see. he looks out into the garden through the smoke that drifts and curls from his cigarette, peering at the ripe vegetables and newly blooming flowers, and when he hears a faraway, scratchy meowing, he knows exactly where to look.
from between the squash blossoms saunters a neighborhood stray—a tomcat that’s taken a liking to them—his little nub of a tail wiggling happily as he approaches his friend. he stoops down to sit at the top of the stairs, a fond little smile on his face as the cat chirps another cheerful good morning at him. it nudges his knee with its head. the smile only grows fonder, followed by a whispered greeting of his own, a few dozen chin scratches. they spend their time together as he finishes his cigarette; the cat eventually gets distracted by a rustling in the leaves nearby, and as it pounces, he stands up to stub out his cigarette in the makeshift ashtray that’s never in the same place twice.
he walks the garden slowly after that, gathering any ripe vegetables he can find and diligently inspecting their handful of crops, making a never-ending mental note of the work cut out for him in the dirt that day. not that he minds in the slightest. he loves it—his lover in their ridiculous sunhat, tiny shorts and tank top, drawing little shapes in sunscreen on his skin before rubbing it in while giggling and dodging his lazy attempts to catch their mouth in a quick, hot kiss. they murmur i’m helping, against his lips before giving into it like he knows they will.
this is what they dreamt up together, after all. he could have asked for anything, and it was this.
hands full of cucumbers and plums, a rainbow of peppers, he turns to make for the porch to deposit their spoils, and catches movement through their bedroom window. arms stretching above their head, back arched and eyes closed, he watches them slowly convince themselves to get up and join him. their eyes catch for just a moment through the open window—the curtains fanned out, framing them, the breeze ruffling flyaway strands of their hair—and he knows he made the right choice. even if he still struggles to say it out loud, even in the infinite, the never.
it hurts, but he’s not as strong as he once was. not anymore. he fought and lost, fought and lost, fought and kept losing, over and over; he’s tired. something beyond it. when they offer this to him, his initial thought isn’t to call himself selfish for considering it, it’s to wonder if it might just be his turn, if his number was finally just up after a brief lifetime under a persistent dark cloud.
something in him breaks under the pressure of a hand on his chest, above his heart—layers and layers and layers between them, just to be safe—he crumbles so easily. how could he not? he doesn’t think about the other option. not anymore. he dreams about it every now and then, but he doesn’t think about it.
with his unburdened left hand, he blows a kiss into the bedroom. it’s silly, chaste and just for them, as nearly everything is out here, and it makes the both of them smile, especially when they reach out to catch it in their fist, stuffing it down the front of the t-shirt they like to sleep in. with a sleepy, sexy and showy swing of their hips, they make their way toward the adjoining bathroom.
through open windows and doorways, he catches just the barest glimpse of pink locks cascading down bare skin, of faded, fleshy scar tissue where he remembers there being wings once upon a time.
they don’t talk about that, either; sometimes when they’re asleep, he runs his fingers along the scars, but he feels nothing other than a change in texture. nothing resurfaces. no bells ring. maybe by design. he’s wondered which little touches to the tapestry were his, and which were theirs, but it doesn’t really matter in the end.
he makes himself a cup of coffee before he starts their breakfast. he likes the ritualistic aspects of it—the measuring, the grinding, the set up of it all, the patience it takes—and finds it grounding. almost like a religious practice devised just for him, some tongue-in-cheek, private little joke that the two of them share here like this. composting the spent coffee, the filter, the vegetable scraps.
all of this is a ‘religious practice,’ if you think about it, they say thoughtfully one morning before taking a bite of buttered toast, slathered with a jelly they’d made the afternoon prior. he watches them chew. you did give yourself to me, in a sense,
that’s very a funny way to put it, he remembers thinking. in a sense. only one, somehow, reflected, though he knows the truth. he remembers that phrasing a few times, actually; it’s not intrusive by any means, but it sticks when it shows up unannounced. nothing more than a fly that he can’t shoo out of the room, but eventually forgets about.
he asks if they want to be worshiped like that, and when their skin flushes sweet, supple pink, he takes that as a yes, and he sucks a gentle purple bruise into the colors already waiting for him.
he makes a simple breakfast. chops plums for oatmeal, peppers for an omelet, and sips at his coffee as he goes. he makes their favorite tea—cardamom and black tea and rosemary from their garden—and watches the blend steep into the water, the curl of green-brown twisting down to the bottom of the pitcher. the peppers sizzle in the pan, the oatmeal bubbles and pops itself gently, the tittering of birds from outside tying it all together into a white noise he finds himself missing immensely when he’s displaced. these are the sounds of home, numerous and malleable and easy to compose, ones that he cannot imagine taking for granted. not now, not ever. he almost can’t recall the silence that once filled his previous home; it’s been wrung out over and over, but now, this sticks. as much a part of him as his limbs, his sense of self. a gift he’s allowed, encouraged, to enjoy.
from somewhere behind him, he hears movement, the scuffle of slippers across the hardwood, and before he can turn around to look for the source of the sound, a pair of arms wind around his middle from behind him and the body they’re attached to pulls in close, pressing themselves flush to his back. he smiles this fond little thing, hidden from his tame assailant, as they lay their forehead between his shoulder blades and nuzzles in there like they’re trying to dig a hole for themselves.
he would let them, if it were possible. then again, he isn’t necessarily sure it isn’t possible here.
good morning, he murmurs. they grumble a sleepy greeting of their own into the fabric of his sweater. tea?
they don’t loosen their hold on him, don’t let him move for the cabinet to find their favorite mug or twist enough to pull their eggs from the stovetop. something is starting to burn. he can smell it. he nudges them, muttering their name quietly, and begins to feel the prickle of adrenaline, of fear, when they don’t respond with words. instead, their grip tightens to a bruising pressure, bracketing his ribs and making him squirm uncomfortably.
he’s been here before. and yet it still swallows his breath for him, fills his lungs with hot sand and worry. it’s never familiar enough; it never will be.
something opens behind him —on him— like the splitting of an old wound or the budding of a new flower, and he feels the body wrapped around him begin to shift, to pull and fight and unravel. he feels the thorns as they grow into their snarl, pierce through fabric and find his skin, scratching at him almost lovingly when they do. he knows what they’re after already, knows they can smell blood, and knows this isn’t their fault, in the end.
they were made like this. to inspire and consume fear. he often forgets that he has any left—that fear, pulsating somewhere within him like the beat of another heart—until they begin to hunger for it.
he winces—braces himself against the counter in front of him that isn’t there anymore—as they climb inside of him. the light that spills out of him is golden pink, filling the room for just a moment before it dissolves into it as well, coming with them. they pull hard on what’s left there behind them, and he feels his feet start to slip, to give out from underneath him. his knees buckle.
you’re safe, he reminds himself, this is what love is, sometimes. consumption. they can’t take everything with him, he knows that much now, but he also knows that they’ll try. that they’ll kill themselves trying, from within, and without him.
the thorns lance at him as the last of them presses deep into the light. the blood follows them; he doesn’t see it, but he can feel it. it dims, flickers, threatens to go out entirely.
he closes his eyes. they apologize for cutting the morning so short, but the words sound much further away this time. like he’s closing them behind their bedroom door for a time out. sitting them down on the couch in the living room to wait until there’s time for a proper introduction.
they’ll try again tomorrow. he knows this. they know he remembers their face; the name for it all will return, too, eventually.