I feel like I should maybe stop writing so much of this pair, but I am too invested, so for the few of you around- here you are.
Annie/Britta. Set in a summer, sometime in the future (maybe before this season, maybe not)

Lover, you lay propped up with pillows, eyes scanning over a book, your long body spread across my bed. It has never felt tiny before but now it does, even though you are not much taller than me. There is only a white sheet over the mattress and a purple sheet curled up at the bottom, so you stand out like every beautiful accident ever does. The summer sun has tanned your skin and I look even paler next to you, our legs told apart by colour. Colour clings to you, surrounds you, makes you beautiful against the sheets. You wear the bottom half of a bikini and the brown and green flits playing across your skin.

My head is resting on your hollow stomach; ribs and your bare breasts to one side and the sharp points of your hip bones each side of a smooth plane on the other. You hold in the summer heat, its warmth deep in your bones despite the cool water that sits in drops across your skin. I do not yet know if this will continue past this summer; past lost insecurities and sunscreen rubbed into pale shoulders. I want it to
(I think), but for now I take your summer love as you give it, watching with wonder as a gentle caress of my finger tips along ridges and plains of your ribs result in a sigh, result in one hand leaving your book to scratch long and slow along my scalp. I cannot contain my sounds: one low and drawn out, one high and fleeting. I do not think you want me to however, for you have said how much you love my summer self
(more unrestrained, capable of this easy love or deep friendship) and how much you need me.

I smile and the skin of my cheek is pulling against the skin of your stomach. You smile at me, slow and warm like our days have been this season and exhale as you arch your back. You are so beautiful this summer, more beautiful than I have ever let myself notice. I drop a fall away kiss to your belly and wonder, idly, if your nipples'
(dusty pink and perfect) hardening is from my touches or from the fan beating its senseless lullaby beside us. The air is cool and is drying the water from your skin but I still think
(hope, pray) that it is because of me.

I let my hand roam upwards to cup your
(perfect, achingly soft) breast in my hand, but it is not my end goal. With my hand spread, I press down until I can feel the rapid beat of your rabbit heart. You come back down to me, slip another hand into my hair and I can feel your warm breath faintly, hotter, again, than the room.

I keep my hand on your heart and your hands are beneath my hair, drawing soft patterns on my neck. This is us in this season: slow and warm and fitting together like we are in a dream. We are summer lovers and even though I want to stop myself, I think of the next seasons. I wonder if we can change people, if we can slip into the warm coats of a winter couple, if fall will leave our limbs entwined, if spring lovers can lie in a summer bed.

You frown, and one of your hands moves to gently close my eyes like I am a doll from childhood you were afraid of breaking. Your fingers linger on my cheek, thumb runs across my dry lips. This is your way of telling me to forget, of telling me to leave my seasonal problems alone and fall into the local pool, a cold shower, lemon juice combed so gently through your sunshine hair, fall into this.

(I do)

(I press my hand harder to your sunshine heart and feel the beat sing me to a daytime sleep)