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Martyn looks down to the river at the bottom of the cavern as his feet hang over the edge of the half-finished bridge. Cleo sits next to him, their hand on his hip, holding him close.
“What time are you leaving?” Cleo asks, removing their hand from Martyn's hip to brush a few loose strands of hair behind his ear. Martyn sighs, leans into their touch for a moment, before he shrugs. He doesn't meet their gaze, their yellow eyes a reminder of every mistake he's made. He tries not to look his mistakes in the face that way, even if they're as breathtaking as Cleo.
“I don't have anywhere to be,” Martyn responds with a grin, looking down at the yellow string tied to his left ring finger, “What, you trying to kick me out?”
Cleo huffs, halfway between a laugh and something more frustrated. “You really are something, Martyn,” she snorts, and then she kisses him, using the hand that was just fixing his hair to tilt his chin upwards. He kisses her back without a second thought, leaning into her. She turns to face him, and he pulls her into his lap. Cleo laughs, and doesn't stop kissing him. Martyn wants to laugh, too, at the absurdity; Cleo towers over him most of the time, so having her in his lap makes their whole arrangement a little more complicated, but they manage. They always do. It's the first time either of them have felt peace in a while.
“I just need more time,” Martyn grins against their lips, “that's all.”
“But it will be built on the same empty promises,” Cleo murmurs suddenly, their smile falling as their lips brush against Martyn's. Martyn can't hear their tone as anything other than disdainful, like Cleo has discovered some dark truth about him, knows something he doesn't.
Martyn doesn't understand what they mean, until suddenly he's watching them fall, and fall, and fall. He tries to reach out, tries tugging on the string, but nothing he does will change the outcome, and he knows that. He hears them scream before he hears the awful snap of their neck, sees the panic in their eyes for one last moment, and then he feels himself shoot upright. He's been here before.
When he wakes, he's not on the ground in the middle of the forest like he'd expected; instead, he's laying in a beach chair, with the salty breeze blowing gently against his tanned skin. There's a blanket covering his legs, something that he doesn't remember falling asleep with. Somewhere, distantly, he can hear footsteps, humming. He knows it was just a dream, but as he crawls off of the beach chair and straightens himself out, as he gets his bearings and prepares for the day ahead of him, he can't help but repeat the dialogue shared between him and Cleo in that dream.
“I need more time.”
“But it will be built on the same empty promises.”