Work Text:
It was late August ;
But before that, it was a peaceful May night that turned into June when your eyes met for the first time, and with June came the bright stars, the clean skies, the colourful flowers, the heat that turned into warmth on his torn and tattooed skin, the fresh nocturnal wind and birds chirping a less harsh dawn than the winter one.
A dawn shared, after so many years, with someone by his side.
His shoulder dropping its weight lightly on yours, and that crisp, new feeling of possibility.
In mid-June his first laugh; a real laugh, not a smile, not a smirk: a sincere laugh that made his eyes shape like two crescents.
Your heart skipped the first of many more beats, and when your hands found each other for the first time – when you two were sitting on the hood of his SUV looking at the lights of the sleeping city – you knew not to have been born by chance, and that you didn't want to spend that night alone.
After that one, many others followed.
Your clasped hands were enough, though; there was no need for anything else if you had each other.
His insomnia, always present, had become almost a gift: your profile illuminated by the first summer moon, your hair ruffled by the silk pillowcase, your little kissable nose; his arms around your little body.
''Get away from me, doll. There's still time'' - he whispered in the crook of your neck at the end of June.
Each night, every night; softly.
''Go, get away from me. You know I don't deserve you.'' He held you tight, kissed your round cheeks, full of life and sweet as juicy peaches.
''Run away, hurry, I don't have to see you..." He used to say.
"But how, how can I do it if – even if I wish you would leave me – I don't want to lose you?'', and he held you tight and close again, like no one had ever done, kissing your back.
Again, again, again.
''I'm not what you believe me to be, forgive me, doll. I didn't fall from the sky: I re-emerged from the underworld. I'm only capable of losing the ones I love the most'' – he said one night in mid-July.
His perfume, his big body curled up and sweaty stuck to yours, so gentle, healthy and clean compared to his, full of scars, cuts, history: was he sobbing?
Your long, black eyelashes, your big eyes, your relaxed face.
They were the only things that kept alive that man who had been believed dead for years, perhaps since ever, during these months.
Your delicate hands, so tiny, soft – healings, were saving him with every touch of yours.
"Touch me only with your eyes" he had whispered one evening on your doorstep with his camo still on and the tiredness of a day spent in the barracks written in the eyes, but you knew well that what he meant was something else.
So your sweet and full lips had touched his above the mask fabric and it had slipped away, his shampoo-scented dark blond curls had welcomed your hands as if it were natural, and his skin, when you began to taste it in every corner of his body, had become your favourite flavour in this universe.
"I only know how to deceive, make people suffer and make them cry. Stop before it's too late, doll", but you wanted him; and he wanted you.
You knew it and he knew it too.
That strong pain in the centre of his chest suggested it to him whenever he looked at you, whenever he loved you at night, between the creaks of an old creaky bed and a distant, barely lit, strawberry and mint scented candle; lit just like that small - but still alive - flame that lit up the big broken heart of that so big, so sad, but so damn good man for, to and with you.
The first nights of August were a continuous fire.
And there was no sun that could compare with what you and he had created: you were explosive.
Your lips spoke a sweeter and warmer tongue; the pain you didn't know was now infinite pleasure, and his kisses cured everything you thought your body couldn't handle - but in the end you always made it, and this ending was the most delicious ever. Your moans were the fuel of that tireless man and his coaxing sweet, pillow talk.
"I have no eyes, no heart for anyone. None but you, you..." and a warm tear ran down his cheeks and settled on your abdomen. He remained embraced by your hips, your pale hands in his now freshly buzzed hair for the upcoming mission.
It was almost, but his 100 kg resting on your lap reminded you that it wasn't time yet, that it wasn't the time yet, that he was still talking to you.
Because yes, he talked, he always used to talk to you at night.
He thought you were asleep, but you were not.
But how? How do you do such a thing? What do you say back and why? The sunlight hardened him, pushed him away from you; the night joined your paths and his heart seemed able to beat, to come back to life. And so you had always kept silence in those moments just to hear his voice, even though you were the real chatterbox - his favourite one. A real relentless talker, always with something to say and that bright smile ready to pain his heart.
He, collector of your speeches, your words, your fears, weighed the words as if they were dangerous, but how many times would he have wanted to tell you that you were his truth, his tranquillity and his cure; that you were saving him, that there was only you, that he had placed his destiny in your hands; because he knew it would all end - that it would have to end, that he had to save you, that all this was an illusion, a delirium, the most difficult torture he would have had to face at the moment of saying goodbye, because he knew he didn't have much time left in his favour.
"Before time runs out, I want you to know that you're the love of my life. I owe you this, I owe you everything, my doll'' –
Simon would have wanted to tell you this each and every time that you were next to him, that you were away from him, that you crossed his mind, that he smelt your smell or just imagined it, but nothing like that had ever crossed his lips.
Too hardened as he was by the life itself, he did not feel worthy to speak of love, nor to be worthy of being loved.
It was late August when you, the girl with her head on the moon and up in the clouds, were hit by the biggest pain bomb you've ever experienced and which - you were sure - you would never get over.
Silence had stolen all your words, and that strawberry and mint candle went out at the exact moment in which the house intercom had rung and that man in a uniform, who was not YOUR man in uniform, had handed you the box that now – at this precise moment – you have in front of you, on the low wooden table in the living room crafted by none other than the man you've been missing for the past 3 weeks; the table where you lean as if under anaesthesia in search of support; your heavy eyes wear out at the sight of those objects rigorously placed next to each other, as if by keeping them close you could piece together a puzzle whose pieces are burning in front of you.
A crumpled, bloodstained envelope.
Inside of it: a small photo of you and a yellowed sheet: just a couple of short sentences written on it.
On the table, next to this letter-like hurtful bomb, a plastic bag with a metal plate with some letters engraved on it: a military dog tags.
''Lieutenant Simon Riley ''Ghost'', RH+, 237509, Unknown, other''.
You re-read the sentences written in black ink on the blood-stained sheet of the letter: the endearing handwriting that you loved so much and that will never again be able to hatch words, and yet another hot, stinging tear scratches your face and breaks your soul into dust:
"I know you've always been awake. I will come back to hug you every night. I promise, doll.
I am sorry, thank you and... I love you.
Yours forever,
Simon."
It was late August when silence devoured your life, when the wind turned cold and life became a distant diary memory;
It was late August when his heart stopped beating – and so did yours.
It was just late August...
🥀