April burns hot in his mouth when it comes, spring deceptively cruel as it blooms the flowers and the steadfast trees weary of winter, reminding him that life doesn't stop even when he wants it to. He wants it to stop going forward without her. He wants to go back. But he's here to greet his child on the edge of a new day, lips pressing to those soft and unruly curls as he tries to convince himself that this is good, this is enough. His boy gets tucked to his shoulder, and as they make their way to the kitchen, Robin's hand rests to Marian's shoulder, guiding her forward with a steady grip into moments that fall hard and endlessly like rain chasing the heat.
It burns, this hole where Regina should be. There's dust along the scuffed floors of his heart, and the memory of her kiss - soft honey, and time standing still - and the only way to assuage the pain, to forget the shadows filling the infinite canyons of his being, is to write.
Roland insists on being in his lap, so with one arm around his boy, lips nestled to the back of his head, Robin begins his first letter to her. The pen is slick, slipping between his fingers on occasion as he tells her of the heat, and their various and sometimes amusing attempts to stay cool; their discovery of firecracker popsicles, and the joy of standing in front of the freezer when it's opened and blowing its blissfully cold air against their faces. A large fan is blowing on them and scattering papers about in the tiny room with a lone window peering out into a quiet street. He tells her that he misses her more than anything, that he'll find a way back to her, but he crosses it out. Then he thinks better of it and rewrites it. Roland flops his head down on his shoulder, playing idly with his shirt, and the paper gets crumbled and tossed aside.
Begin again.
He misses her more than anything, and he'll never stop trying to find his way back to her. There. That's a truth he can sleep with at night.
"Okay, papa?"
He kisses his son in response, his life beginning anew. He will be. He'll chase the light.
A month later, he tells her about the way summer settles heavy in his heart, the way he can feel her hand wrapped around his when he's walking the edge of a lonely road at twilight, and he tries to hold onto that memory long enough to tuck into sleep with him that night; a desperate hope that she'll be with him, that they'll kiss hope into each other, that their love stitched into his dreams will stay alive in his waking hours.
And he'll find her.
Or this heat, this heat will burn his hope and blow away the ash, and he'll have nothing left but these summers of his heart, which should never come.
The fifth letter is written in the middle of a mid-July night, the heat throbbing like an evil entity in the room, choking the air from his lungs. The fan blows balmy air on him intermittently, and he's grateful for the respite, glad something like this even exists. Fingers raking through his sweat-soaked hair, he thinks of the heat he would much prefer to have: that of their bodies promising an eternity their hearts are trying to believe in, making love and making sense when nothing else is right, or good. For a moment, when they're kissing and in each other's arms, when he's within her and a part of her, he knows his life's purpose.
He tells her that she is what happiness feels like.
In the morning, when the moon is still visible - reluctant to say goodbye to the earth; he knows that feeling - he drops off the letters by the town line, and walks the lonely path back to his tiny apartment on the quiet street in the little town beside the place where the other half of his heart resides.
Summer is swallowed up quickly by a crisp, cold autumn eager for the chance to exist, to create, to paint its tapestry on the trees, the earth, to be adored. And it's stunning, and Robin writes more letters; every week, he tells her of the way he's happily devastated by the smells of cinnamon and warm vanilla permeating the air; he's invigorated by the bright colors lighting up the trees, glorious swaths of vibrant red, yellow and orange, and he wants to see her eyes take in the sight. He tells her that he drinks his coffee the way she does, and he orders food he knows she would eat because he's trying to keep her right there.
He tells her about the way the trees dance in the early morning before the sun's risen, before the day begins, before they're awake enough to know better. And he thinks of dancing with her on cold mornings with the breeze against their backs just to be silly, just to be alive with her, right there on the edge of excitement. He tells her that he thinks about kissing her cold nose and warming her hands between his, holding her long into the night and never letting go, even when life tries to demand it.
When he drops these letters off, he notices the others have disappeared, and there's a single note in their place.
I believe you.
He ends every letter with that same vow, that he'll try to find his way back to her, and he does; every time he drops the letters off, he tries again to step through that barrier. It never falls, never weakens, but he won't stop, he'll always come here, he'll always write these letters and leave these pieces of himself behind for her.
That night, he dreams of her smile, the one that puts all the stars in the sky back into alignment. That dream follows him for months until January awakens him first with a harsh caress, a bitter chill surrounding him. But he's tired and Roland's not yet awake, so he turns on his side, seeking warmth, refusing to open his eyes yet. A warm hand cradles his cheek, and it feels like the softness of her palm so he holds steadily to it, not moving at all. Fingers begin to rake through his hair, and he hums a bit beneath his breath.
"Regina…"
"Yes." Before he can open his eyes, lips crash against his, warm and burnt with hope, and he realizes it's her. Somehow she's here. He can't be bothered to wonder if it's just a dream before tugging her closer, parting his lips to invite her deeper, feeling his life begin again in this cold room singing with sunlight and life.