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It was a quiet evening. One under the cover of a great oak tree and its yellowing leaves that were, too, found scattered on the ground, painting the muddy dirt and dead grass with the colors of autumn. The sun just barely visible as it descended as the moon blanketed the sky with a chill darkness.
It was an unconventional time to be out so late, yet they stayed. A back was rested on rough bark and their hands were intertwined, and they held each other with a gentleness that’d make one assume that the other would crack under any further pressure.
The blonde’s head rested atop the other man’s lap, his dimming eyes gazing upon the sky but not looking at anything in particular. A white gloved hand settled on his torso, moving along with his chest as it rose up and down in shallow breaths.
Their moment of silence was broken. He spoke in a whisper, and it seemed like the entire world around them stopped to hear his words. It was rare that he’d ever do such, so Aesop listened intently.
It wasn’t much, but he told a short story. A tale of a prince and his beloved dog.
The latter assumed that it was just like any other bedtime story for children, but to his surprise, it ended quite sadly.
The blonde ended with a weak smile on his face, going on to explain that his mother had told him this exact story when he was younger. He was always teased for not liking other, more conventional ones for his age.
“But she continued to read it to me anyway. And… when she was done, she’d – she’d kiss me on my forehead, and I’d drift off into sleep…”
“Why did you like it so much?” Aesop asked, using his thumb to trace circles on the other’s hands in an attempt to soothe him.
“It reminded me of Wick and myself… I’d do anything for her.”
He hummed, “That’s admirable.”
A dry chuckle could be heard, and the man under him shifted slightly.
“My mom…” Victor began, trying to recollect any last memory he had of her. He continued but paused every now and then to get his thoughts in order, eyebrows furrowing.
He told stories, while few, that he’d told plenty of times before, and stories that Aesop had yet to hear. The latter listened with great interest, even to the ones that were basically engraved into his mind.
His mother was a common topic in their conversations, both face-to-face and through carefully crafted letters. Yet, Aesop’s knowledge of her as a person was limited. He knew as much as Victor.
“I – I miss her.” His voice was growing more distant, but he was still right beneath him.
After that, he stopped talking completely. His gaze was still fixated on the sky above.