Work Text:
It’s coldest just before the sun rises. Andrew knows this, Victor had told him a while ago. The blonde man was an apparent fan of fun facts, it came as a shock for Andrew at first, seeing the normally reserved man suddenly spew out sentence after sentence on some unassuming subject. When the gravekeeper inquired where exactly Victor knows these facts from, he usually said he’d read it somewhere, or that a friend told him.
He admits that it is rather cold, even though it’d stopped snowing around two hours ago. A slight orange tint in the sky is the only evidence of the sun beginning to rise, and the cold of the winter morning bites at the exposed skin of Andrew’s face, even finding its way through his worn leather gloves. The graveyard is empty (if you don’t count the dead bodies that is), and almost eerily silent, not even a bird’s song present. Andrew’s heavy boots left clear prints in the snow as he slowly starts walking again, his breath drifting past his lips in small clouds due to the cold air. He follows the path, preparing to check every grave one last time before heading back. A small smile already threatens to form on his frozen lips as he imagines opening the door to the small house, the comforting scent of tea and the sight of a barely awake Victor welcoming him. He’d carefully peel his gloves off his hands, drape his coat (soaked from melted snow) over a chair at the dinner table and pull off his boots in the hall. A still half asleep Victor would be leaning on the kitchen counter, carefully pouring a cup of tea while he’s still blinking the sleep from his eyes. The postman would press the mug into one of Andrew’s hands, mumbling a quiet ‘welcome home’. Andrew would thank him, but not before quickly pressing his free (and still freezing cold) hand against the back of Victor’s neck, holding in his laughter as the man jolts, giving him a wide eyed and surprised look, before joining in on the gravekeeper’s laughter. He’d lean down to brush his lips just barely over Victor’s cheek. He’s say he loves him and Victor would say it back. He’d be loved, and he’d not be alone.
Andrew snaps out of his thoughts as he steps onto a stick, breaking it in half with a somewhat loud crack. He strayed a little off the path, now being in the forest that borders the graveyard. He was just about to turn to walk back, when something caught his eye, his gaze lingering on some flowers by a tree trunk. Snowdrops.
His breath momentarily hitches in his throat as his hands grasp at his coat, fidgeting with the fabric. Suddenly it feels like he’s young again, like he cling onto his mother and tell her all his worries. His tears cling to his lashes as he blinks them away, a stray tear making his way down his cheek. His gaze is unwavering as he looks at the frail flowers blooming in the snow, and for a second he swears he could hear his mother’s voice again. He remembers it so clearly. He’d complained about the winter, and the cold. “It’s been too long, it should already be spring by now!” He’d argued to his mother, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf tightly wrapped around his lower face and neck. He just wanted to see the bunnies again, he barely saw them all winter. His mother, who held his hand in hers, gave his a reassuring squeeze, a chuckle falling from her lips. “It’ll be spring soon, and you know why?” Andrew tilted his head, shaking it and glancing up at his mother, watching confused as she kneeled down next to some bushes. He promptly kneeled down next to her, looking at the snow covered ground and the bare bush with furrowed brows. “Look,” his mother had said, “those are snowdrops.” He squinted his eyes, before widening them in surprise. “Oh! There are flowers!” He exclaimed, leaning closer to observe the flowers further. It looked slightly unimpressive, and almost sad. “Mhm, they always grow right before spring. That’s why it’s said they symbolize change and new beginnings.” Andrew silently listens, and the longer he gazes at the flower, the more it intrigues him. “It must be brave,” he murmurs eventually, surprising his mother when he does. “Brave?” She inquires softly, a little confused on what her son is trying to say. “Yes, I mean, it’s the first flower to bloom right?” His mother’s eyes light up in understanding, and with a warm smile she replies: “you’re very right, it must be a very brave flower.”
A lot had changed. He still misses his mother dearly, but he isn’t alone anymore. He sometimes wishes he could share all that’s happened with his mother, to tell her all the wonderful new friends he’s made, to show her Edgar’s paintings and Luca’s inventions. He’d introduce her to them. He’d introduce her to Victor. A pain fills up his chest almost painfully as he smiles. He still misses his mother, he’ll never not miss her, but it will lessen, and things will change, they already have after all.