Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is from the show and belongs to Bruno Heller. Some quotes are directly lifted from 6.06 "Fire and Brimstone", 6.08 "Red John", 6.09 "My Blue Heaven", and 7.01 "Nothing But Blue Skies".
A/N: When half agony and hope asked for "Jane and Lisbon together on the island" last summer, my main concern was to make sure I wasn't accidentally rewriting all the beautiful ones already out there. In the end, it turned out to be so completely different from what was originally asked that I'm a bit ashamed to present it as an answer to that prompt. Hope you'll enjoy it anyway. Cheers!
Also, many thanks to Mayzee for the beta-reading! Any remaining mistake is solely my own.
Warnings: Fluff. But also angst, because I'm not good at fluff. Dream logic. Unprotected sex in trippy, unrealistic settings. Probably a bit OOC (because dreams and fluff, and we've already established I'm not good at fluff). I think that's about it? Seriously, avoid if you're allergic to corn.
Fantasia
"I think if I were living here full-time, I'd feel like I was living in some kind of dream world, you know?"
"Ah, sometimes it's like that. There's nothing wrong with dream worlds, right?"
"Lisbon."
Lost.
"It's over."
Stricken.
"It's done."
Pained.
"I just want you to know I'm okay."
Choked.
"And I'm gonna miss you."
Raw.
– relief. running until out of breath. no danger yet. screams from far away. body has been found. running faster. finding shelter. waiting. waiting. "Do you need assistance, mister?" phone call. running again. "Danny, I need your help." passing the border hidden in a crawl space. "Passports." holding breath until out of danger. fresh wind in dark night. green grass tickling bare skin. free. alone. free –
The ocean comes in a slow languid movement, water licking his feet from toe to ankle. A large red sun hangs in the sky to his right, bottom half eaten by the waves. The stone bench he sits on is dark grey, hard, polished by winds and sea – uncomfortable, but he welcomes the sensation.
It makes him feel real.
Time has no meaning in such a place. He stays there a long time, watching the sunlight bounce off the waves until a small silhouette comes his way. She walks against the light, just a shadow darkening the sun, but he doesn't need to see her face to recognise her.
She plops beside him on the bench and smiles.
"Hey," he says – surprised, breathless.
"Hello," she grins.
Her features are shining impish and tender, and his heart misses a beat.
"What are you doing here?"
"Could ask you the same thing."
"I thought I'd never see you again."
"I thought the same."
She sighs, a soft sound of relief. Her shoulder bumps gently into his – the back of her hand caresses the inside of his wrist.
"This bench is so uncomfortable," she says. "Why are you sitting here?"
"Where did you want to sit?"
"What about the beach over there?"
The sand is golden, dry and inviting. He swallows painfully.
"It's high tide. Water will wash over it in no time," he answers.
"Perhaps."
She doesn't look convinced, but small fingers are sliding between his now, and silence falls as they watch a sunset that never had any beginning, never had any end.
– alone. dry weather. not enough to dry tears that never fall. falling under suspicion. questions. "Where is Patrick Jane?" no answers. more questions. still no answers. loneliness. broken shards of teal teacup. broken shards of makeshift family. "The BA will keep targeting you. You need to go." moving away, but not by choice. life breaking apart, until nothing remains but memories. worry. fear. worry –
The sand under her feet is wet, sticks to the skin. She waits, lazily tracing abstract figures with the tip of her toes until he appears by her side, grinning. In the sunset, his hair looks like it caught fire.
"Bench wasn't good enough for you?"
"Bit tired of my butt hurting."
"Sorry. Never meant to be a pain in the ass."
She smiles wryly, shrugs his answer away.
He hesitates then sits beside her, nudging her thigh with his knee – all mischief and playfulness mixed with old pain and loneliness. She brushes her leg against his, smiling when he shifts closer. They end up sitting side by side, with no space left between their bodies except for the mound of sand setting their hips apart.
Silent.
Comfortable in each other's company.
Waves crash noisily on the beach, slowly gaining ground as silver eats gold, and the mood changes somehow – from peacefulness to longing, bringing with it the urge to break this quietness.
"I wish – " she starts, whisper hushed by the ocean, the wind, the stillness of the moment.
He laces his fingers with hers. She cannot turn away from the lines creasing his cheeks, as if crayon-drawn on his skin.
"I know."
"You always do."
He smiles but stays silent, eyes on the horizon. She tries to follow his gaze but there is nothing there, nothing but emptiness in pretty colours, and soon she's glancing at him again. In this place he's her anchor – the only genuine part of their surroundings, though she feels the sand scratching her legs better than the warmth of his body against her side.
"I wish you were – " she tries again, stopping when his thumb presses against her lips.
The dying light catches flecks of pearl on his eyelashes, and the pad of his finger leaves the softest caress on her skin. Her grip tightens on his hand and, when a short burst of wind splashes them with tiny flecks of seafoam, she drops her head on his shoulder with a sigh.
"Be careful. Some words can be too strong," he whispers into her ear.
"Even here?"
"Especially here."
She bites her lip.
"What about gestures?"
He kisses her forehead, skin lingering on skin, his breath trickling down her cheeks. She closes her eyes and sighs again, with heightened awareness of every point his body touches hers. When his arm snakes around her shoulders, she leans in, breathes in the moment – letting go of words.
Water climbs up the shore, bit by bit until it laps at their toes, and the sun never sets.
– fear. living under the radar. empty freedom under dark, wide sky. unfamiliar landmarks. foreign expectations. unbearable alienation. "Buenos días, señoras!" faking cheerfulness to cover heartache. sun burning skin. sand irritating soles. swimming in salt water to wash away the tears. taking the pen on a whim. "Dear Lisbon." surfacing for the first time in years. learning to breathe again. hope. anguish. hope –
High tide covers the beach until there is nothing left of it. The waves smooth down until they disappear, the water a mirror stretching as wide as the eye can see. Every step he takes ripples its surface, blurring his own reflection more than unsettling the scenery. If it wasn't for the sun forever setting to his left, disorientation would quickly take hold of him – but it's not as if directions had any meaning to begin with.
Not in this place.
For a moment he wonders if this – eternally empty landscapes, and loneliness – would be a fitting definition of the hell he never believed in. But then water splashes behind him, a light chuckle breaks the silence, and he grins.
"This isn't hell," he says aloud. "It cannot be, if you're here."
"Of course it isn't," she laughs, running to him. "Why would you think that?"
He opens his arms wide, ready to catch her. But she keeps laughing and dashes past him, soaking his trousers with a rush of droplets, daring him to follow.
So he does.
She runs like a wild mustang, chestnut ringlets bouncing down her back, so quickly he struggles to follow. Flying over the ocean, unhindered by laws of physics, she changes directions on impulse, crests of water soaring in her path. Then she glances behind her, lets him catch up – and they race side by side, grinning at each other when one of them takes the lead, only to be outrun in the next moment.
But his stamina isn't as good as hers – and after a while he slows down to a stop, breath thundering in the quietness. She doesn't show signs of tiredness when she comes back to him, but her cheeks are red from exertion and fresh wind, and her green eyes sparkle elated and amused.
"You okay?" she chuckles.
"I'm – I'm fine."
"You should remove that jacket."
"Yeah."
"Need some help?"
He grins, still winded, but doesn't protest when she slips her hands over his shoulders, shedding the fabric from his back. The jacket falls in the water, sinking quickly, and disappears from sight – as if it never existed in the first place.
In a place like this, there is no saying it did.
She lets her hands slide down his vest, careful and precise, and regaining his breath becomes impossible. Then she catches hold of his left sleeve and, with laughing eyes, rolls it up as he stares, rendered blissfully helpless by the open tenderness displayed on her features. When she starts on the right one, he slips three fingers in the silk of her hair, thumb caressing her temple.
She presses a palm over his heart.
He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Her smile becomes a grin, then she stands on the tip of her toes, brushes her lips against his. It's just a light touch of warmth, barely a kiss at all, nothing to explain the magnitude of the pang coursing through his body. When she takes a step back, a tiny noise of protestation escapes from his lungs.
She chuckles. He smiles reluctantly.
"Bold move for a place like this."
"You cannot always be the reckless one."
His smile widens. She raises her eyebrows in response.
"Prove it," he breathes.
"How?"
"Do it again."
"Do what again?"
She grins impishly, lets her arms slide down and fall to her sides, takes a small step back – ready to bolt. But he follows after her, covers the small of her back with his palm before she can escape. A spark of fondness dances in her eyes. It's all the permission he needs to catch her bottom lip with his. She sighs, melting against him, and for a long moment he forgets about oceans and winds, sand and sunsets – there is nothing but the warmth and softness of her lips, nothing but the small fingers caressing the hair curling on his neck, nothing but the light, enticing cinnamon scent of her.
Nothing but her.
– anguish. grieving what never was. mourning what never will be. letting go of dreams one by one. "Welcome to Cannon Falls!" small town. small minds. hours lost looking for falls that do not exist. falling. falling. "A letter came for you. Do you want it now?" paper smelling of sand and sunlight. words tasting of relief and longing. climbing up from despair, at long last. breathing. yearning. breathing –
The wide ocean sparkles silver and black in the red sunlight. Unable to reach the crumbling sand below, she drifts on warm currents more than she swims through them. Small waves rise and fall, and she along with them. Eyes closed, she lets herself be carried away, relaxed in a way only possible in this place.
Something splashes lightly by her side. She smiles, opens her eyes on his golden grin.
"Took you long enough."
"Yeah. What are you doing?"
"Floating. Isn't it obvious?"
Hands on her hips disturb her balance, pull her down. She flails, soaking him, and hooks her legs around his waist.
"What are you doing?!" she squeals.
"Holding you," he answers, looking way too proud of himself for a man with wet curls sticking to his forehead.
"Why did you do that?!"
"So that you wouldn't drift further away from me."
"That – "
She blinks.
" – makes more sense than it should."
Then frowns, takes in his vertical position, glances below.
"How come you reach the seabed?"
"I don't."
She blinks again.
"Is it important?"
"Apparently not."
He chuckles, briefly looking bashful, then impish again. His hands on her shoulder blades hold her close to him, and it's so easy to slip an arm around his neck, nuzzle his cheek as they twirl weightless in the water. So easy to gently bite down on his earlobe, relish him tightening his grip when she crosses her legs over the small of his back.
So easy. So right.
"I've always liked this look on you," she smiles, playing with the buttons of his vest.
He grins when she slips it off.
"You mean the wet dog look?"
"No. The old-fashioned suits. Minus the jacket."
"Didn't you like turtlenecks best?"
"How would I know? You don't wear them," she asks innocently, unfastening his shirt.
"If you keep this up, I won't be wearing anything," he chuckles.
She rocks her hips once, grin widening when he hisses. His heat presses against her, right where it should, igniting a spark low in her belly.
"Maybe that is what I like best."
"So I see."
"Is it okay?"
She gets her answer when he kisses her and slips his hands under her blouse, trailing fire up and down her skin.
They divest each other of clothing with barely a thought, bodies held afloat by the currents, melting against each other. He bends his neck, kissing and licking his way down to her breasts. She releases her grasp on his shoulders to give him better access, keenly aware of every stroke of tongue, every brush of lips – but he doesn't let her go, brings her back against him instead.
"Look," he whispers into her ear.
The ocean surrounding them is fading away slowly, dark silver waves softening to a light grey untainted by the sunset, then to a clear, barely seen fluid. A spark of worry makes her clench at his shoulders again, heart beating so fast, when the sea floor opens up under their feet – but his hands are strong and comforting over her ribcage, reminding her that here, nothing can hurt her.
Reminding her that here, neither of them is alone.
"It's beautiful," she says, breath catching when stars light up thousand of miles below.
"You're beautiful," he chuckles.
She blushes, caught off guard by the compliment. His eyes shine delighted just before he kisses her, and then nothing matters but the heat growing between them, inside and out – born of his tongue and touch alike, born of his fingers tangled in her hair, her hands gripping his shoulders, his length sliding inside her, every part of it warmth and silky pleasure.
Floating lights drift up from the depth of the ocean, surrounding them in speckles of blue and purple – and if it wasn't of the insubstantial weight of water, they could be revolving in outer space.
The sun hangs low on the horizon and she couldn't tell which, of their surroundings or their bodies shivering against each other, feels the most unreal.
But she knows which enraptures her most.
– yearning. fiercely missing old friends. fiercely missing the chase. daily routine slipping into everyday boredom. nothing but letters to break dreariness. "I found a cowrie on the beach today." grief process interrupted by guilt. torn between love that was, and love that never could be. "Miss you. U no hoo." everyday the same routine. everyday the same despair. strangeness. sadness. strangeness –
Water recedes inconspicuously, uncovering large mounds of smooth golden sand. They don't notice as they rise and surge in time with the waves – flowing, arching relentlessly against each other with gentle force, building pressure, until they reach a crashing release on the seafoam-covered shore. Later, they lay unmoving on the beach, limbs entangled, panting softly as awareness of the world returns to their senses.
Touch comes back to him first. The feeling of soft, crumbly sand under his back. The weight of her head against his shoulder. The warmth of her hand splayed on his chest. The long, soft strands of hair tickling his side. His skin, flushed and alive everywhere she strokes it.
Then hearing – the quiet murmur of waves crashing on the shore, both of their breaths still coming in short bursts.
Smell follows – salty ocean winds, light cinnamon, and just a touch of musk left in the air.
And then sight at last. Her naked body bathed in red sunlight would be enough to rob him of his senses permanently, had he not recovered them before.
"Hey," he whispers, more than a little dazed.
She smiles and hums, eyes closed, nose nestled against his shoulder. A sprinkle of sand sticks to her skin, just over the left eyebrow. She looks too comfortable to disturb – and for a while he's content to gaze on her peaceful features, fingertips drawing random patterns on her hip.
Then her hands take a life of their own, trailing tingling motifs over his chest, and a faint breeze adds to the shivers suddenly coursing through his body.
"You cold?" she mumbles against his skin.
"Just a little."
She raises her head, supporting herself on her elbow to better look at him.
"You shouldn't be."
He chuckles.
"No, seriously. You shouldn't be cold."
She bites her lip.
"Not here," she adds, rolling over him.
The weight and heat of her body is bliss, comfort in solid form. He closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh, holds her tight. But she doesn't let herself be distracted.
"What's wrong?"
He opens his eyes again.
"Nothing is wrong."
She quirks an eyebrow in a faint expression of disbelief. He raises his hand, brushes the sand away from her forehead with a thumb. When she bites her lip again he kisses her, sucking lightly on the abused flesh – she relents, kisses him back, and for a while everything is warmth and peacefulness and right.
Then she raises her head and looks down at him again, caresses his cheek.
"What's wrong?" she repeats, insistent this time.
"I'm scared," he admits.
"What are you afraid of?"
"That you will disappear. That every time we meet here – "
Her hand clasps his wrist and he stops himself just in time to hear her gasp, just in time to feel the tremors in the finger she presses against his lips.
"Some words can be too strong," she quotes. "Isn't that what you said?"
He swallows painfully, averts his eyes.
"Please don't tear this place apart," she adds, halfway between whisper and sob. "Not like this. Not now."
She rolls off him and gets up, long curly strands of hair flying in the wind. He hesitates, then follows as she takes a few steps toward the sunset. Their clothes are neatly folded not far away from where they were lying earlier – everything is there except for his jacket – and getting dressed again only takes a thought.
Further down the sand ridge, the ocean is dark and quiet, water licking the shore with barely a sound.
"I'm sorry," she says softly. "Shouldn't have asked you to – I should have known."
"No, it's okay. I just wish – "
"I know," she says, chuckling softly – a self-deprecating sound he doesn't like much.
His own desperate yearning is mirrored in the bright green of her irises – the same anguish tormenting him every time he wakes up, the same loneliness he pushes down, locks inside himself until there is nothing left but numbness. He sighs, kisses the top of her head, brings her back against him – cuddling with her is still so unreal. So new.
Neither of them is ready to let go of it.
"Yes. You do."
They stay standing, defiant against the wind, shivering as the very fabric of the universe – of this place – turns against them. When the wind becomes too strong they sit together in the sand, trying to shelter each other from the elements. Silence is their last resort – their only weapon.
It takes a long time before the world calms down around them.
They don't move when it's over, content to stay in each other's arms, sitting on top of what low tide is quickly turning into a cliff – watching the ocean dry up and leave a desert in its wake.
– sadness. dark black hole inside. unwillingness to fill it. sliding down the path of apathy. "Does anybody want to be a police officer when they grow up?" rain against glass. echo of inner landscape. "There's a man here, wants to speak with you." teal cup reflected in dark glasses. always questions. never answers. searing anger leading nowhere. lacking the will to react. regrets. numbness. regrets –
The sun, despite hanging low on the horizon, is relentless in its scorching heat. Winds carry suffocating dust up and down the rolling sand hills, scraping her skin raw, leaving her grimy and hair full of grit. She keeps walking, oblivious to the discomfort – unsure of her destination, or if she ever had any.
It doesn't really matter either way.
It takes a long time before she reaches a landmark that isn't made of sand. At first it seems like barely a dot darkening the sky, so very far away, but it grows quickly, morphing into a towering pile of rocks the colour of burnt sienna. She hides in its shadow, taking cover from the sun – and isn't really surprised to see him sitting with his back against the stone, waiting for her.
"Hey," he smiles.
"Hey," she answers, feeling awkward all of a sudden. "Scootch over?"
He grins and stays unmoving. She frowns, but then he opens his arms, and – oh. Of course. Sitting between his legs, with her back against his stomach, is the most natural thing in the world.
In this world, at least.
He kisses her nape, nuzzles the crook between neck and shoulder. She pulls a face.
"Don't do that."
"Why not?"
"I'm all – sticky."
He chuckles, pulling her closer.
"You're fine."
But she doesn't feel fine – she feels dirty and sweaty and too hot, uneasy and restless for reasons she cannot even explain to herself. And skin-to-skin contact makes it worse. She struggles against the urge to get away for a moment, but gives up soon enough – she was never meant to win that battle.
He looks sad as she stands up and walks away, only stopping when she reaches the edge of the shadow.
"I'm sorry," she offers.
"It's okay."
But it's not – not really. They both know it.
He gets up, brushes sand off his trousers and comes by her side. He doesn't touch her but stands close, and it's better. She leans slightly into him.
"Where's the ocean?" she asks.
"It ran away."
She bites her lip, averts her eyes. He bumps his shoulders against hers.
"Want to try and find it?" he offers.
She nods, slips her fingers between his. He gives a small squeeze.
They don't need to walk very far – just a few hills to crawl up, just a few mounds to slide down, and trying to stop themselves from tumbling into the sand every step of the way. The wind is strong, but they both smell salt in the air, and their joined hands – they never let go – is enough to keep them hopeful until they reach the last cliff.
And there it is.
Powerful waves crash against the rock down below, spraying white seafoam everywhere. She stops a few steps from the edge, closes her eyes, takes deep breaths. When she opens them again, she isn't surprised to see him arms stretched on each side, head tilted backwards, offering his grin to the sky.
She is unprepared for the emotions – affection, tenderness, warmth, fondness, love – surging from deep inside, threatening to overflow. But she cannot let them out, not here, not now – not when words could bring this carefully sheltered space down on their ears.
He glances her way, opens his arms quietly. And this time touching him feels right – as if the returning ocean quieted her restlessness. So she hides in his arms, clings to him, face down in his collarbone until the urge to speak flows down, trickles out of her reluctantly. Then she kisses him, trying to express in gestures what she won't allow herself to say aloud.
They stay entwined for a while, breathing the same air, feeling the same gusts of wind and sea spray against their skin.
"You have no idea what you mean to me," he sighs against her neck, holding her close – and it's like a bucket of ice cold water poured over her head.
"Really?"
He seems taken aback by her outburst – but she cannot stop herself from stiffening in his arms, from trying to push him away. Anger boils inside as strongly as love did just a moment earlier.
"You're going to do this to me again? On a beach at sunset?"
When he opens and closes his mouth without a word, she nearly walks away – but she can feel the heat of his body in her personal space even as she takes a step back, even as she turns to face the ocean. A loud part of herself is still yearning for his arms.
He sighs, takes a step forward. From the corner of her eye, she sees him chewing on the inside of his cheek.
"We never talked about this."
"No. We didn't."
"Maybe we should."
She shakes her head – glances at him, then looks away again. Keeps silent, even when he comes behind her, brushes questing fingers against her elbow.
They both know the risks.
"Would it mean anything if I said I'm sorry?"
"In this place?"
"I'm sorry. I truly am."
It shouldn't matter, not when reality has such a tenuous grasp on them. But it does, somehow – and the tension knotting her muscles leaks out, allowing her to lean back into him. Allowing herself be held, the back of her hand rubbing lightly against his shoulder.
"I'm sorry too," she whispers. "It's just – "
"I know."
She closes her eyes. Frustration comes up again, painful and acute, thrumming in her veins – but not against him this time, and not against herself either.
"Is this all it will ever be?" she tries to scream.
Between the relentless crashing of the waves and the swift, heavy drafts, it comes more as a murmur – something barely audible, quickly swallowed by the wind. He catches it though – she can tell by the minute tightening of his grip over her lower stomach. But he doesn't answer, doesn't say anything at all, and hides his face in her neck as if to stop himself from talking. Just as she did earlier.
She understands all too well.
They stay silent under the red sunset, watching the everlasting cycle of water pitching itself against the rocky cliff – wishing for things they cannot have.
– numbness. emotional void. lost in daily emptiness. unexpected company on the beach. "Man of mystery." stillness broken. routine turned on its head. "The man who asked about you is Abbott." confrontation. shocks coming one after the other. golden band on bedside table. searching for respite. "Aren't there things that you miss?" pushing away the memories, but failing to forget. longing. sorrow. longing –
A pebble falls into the water, breaking its reflective surface with a splash. Sitting on the edge of a cliff, he watches the ripples slowly inching toward the shoreline. They don't last long – the next wave washes over, resetting the translucent plane to its previous smoothness.
He doesn't throw another one.
The bench he used to wait on, so long ago, is a hard, dark spot marring the golden sand of the beach. He only spares it one glance – the small figure frolicking in the ocean, a carefree smile on her lips, is a much more enticing sight. Arms crossed over his chest, he feasts his eyes as she floats on the waves, hair fanning around her face in silky threads. Then, before she can look up and meet his gaze, he steps back and takes the rocky path on the side of the cliff, down to the beach.
A gust of hot wind caresses his skin as he walks towards her. Before reaching his destination, he removes socks and shoes, leaves them behind – to disappear or stay there, he doesn't care anymore. Nothing matters in this moment but the sand warm and soft underneath his naked soles. For a brief second he wonders why he never did this before.
Then she breaks out of the ocean and words – worlds – are lost to the water droplets flying off her hair.
She grins and beckons him forward, a gesture he's intimately familiar with. He swallows painfully, shakes his head.
"Come on, don't be silly!"
"I don't want to get wet."
"Are you really going to let a little water stand between us?"
He smiles reluctantly. Her grin widens when he sheds his vest, leaving it for the sand to swallow, and takes a few steps towards her. When he stops at the edge of the water, she rolls her eyes, comes out to meet him. Just as she always does – something they both know and acknowledge, he with a quick grin and bashful look, she with a quirk of the eyebrows.
Small fingers slide down his bare arm. Her palm is warm on his wrist – her hair is dry, lightly flowing in the wind. He blinks.
"Didn't you just take a swim?"
"You didn't want to get wet," she answers, a teasing smile on her lips.
The surprise he felt disappears as quickly as it came. They're both familiar with the rules of this place – by now, they both know there is no rule. No rule but the need to never acknowledge worlds outside of this one, for fear of shattering it with their wakening.
For fear of never being allowed to return.
She kisses him, a casual pressure of lips under chin, pads up the beach to a small valley between two sand hills, then sits cross-legged and gives him a pointed look. He sits beside her, raw and vulnerable again, latching on her hand with something akin to despondency. When she pulls on his shoulder, he lets his head fall into her lap with a small gasp, nearly a sob.
The next wave leaves seafoam on the shore.
For a while he stays leaning against her lower stomach, listening to the back and forth of the ocean as she plays with his hair. But the red sky peeking through her chestnut curls calls to him, making it impossible to rest, to breathe in the moment. And when he reaches up, brushes her lips with a fingertip, the quiet torment hiding behind her smile twists him inside.
"Listen," he says, sitting up, kissing her cheek hard. "Listen, what if this wasn't a sunset?"
She frowns, waiting for him to go on. He threads the fingers of his left hand with hers, then points to the sun with his right.
"We've been expecting the sky to turn purple, then black, but what if we got it all wrong? What if it was about to turn yellow instead?"
Her frown deepens.
"I don't understand."
He laughs then, but there is no joy in the sound escaping from his lungs – only desperation.
"We keep thinking this is a sunset because of – "
Her sharp look nearly reduces him to silence. But he needs to say this – so he swallows and pushes through.
" – because, you know why. But my point is – what's important is – it doesn't have to be a sunset. What if it's a sunrise?"
She scrunches her nose.
"It's a very deep red though. For a sunrise."
"Well, maybe you've been tricking your mind all this time – maybe you're seeing red where you should see pink."
She raises an eyebrow in disbelief.
"What if it's about to turn yellow ?" he persists. "Then white. Then light blue. Morning."
She's still staring.
"Humour me?"
"Fine."
The sigh she lets out is exaggerated, nearly theatrical – a sound he's utterly familiar with. A sound that brings back memories of the old days, of her calling him out on his outrageous claims, of sharp amusement hidden behind disapproval, of a time where they were deeply entwined in reality instead of wasting away in dreams that may never bear fruit.
A sound that travels down his spine, leaves shivers on its wake, and makes him want.
Kissing her is, as always, like coming home – or at least how he imagines it would be, if he ever set foot on US soil again. It's made of sighs and relief, respite from years-long torment, sweet, tender intimacy, a connection, and just a hint of passion to make his blood boil. And he could keep it up until they both forget the meaning of eternity – but this time it's not enough, and dissatisfaction lingers unpleasantly on his tongue.
For a time he still tries to make himself forget about the world – the real world – but there's no use. She frowns when he pulls back, bites her lip, and he can see the conflict hardening the line of her shoulders – because she can see something is wrong, but she won't ask this time. She won't dare.
He wishes she did.
She stiffens when he gets up, but for now he needs to get away. He walks around in search of the clothes he shed earlier, finds his shoes in the sand, not that far from where she sits. No trace of his vest.
"Where are my socks?" he asks himself, sotto voce.
"I don't know, what did you do with them?" she answers, voice – too loud – coming from just beside his elbow.
He jumps, startled by her sudden proximity. She grins – a sad, fearful affair – until he calms down, chuckles lightly, and picks up his shoes.
"It's okay, you know," she says.
"No, it's not."
She comes next to him, stare lost at sea, the back of her hand brushing against his. They stay side by side, barely touching, intimate nonetheless through wordless communication, soft pressure, and warm, fleeting touches.
"What were you saying about sunrises?" she asks after a moment.
He clenches his fists.
"That this – "
A wide gesture to encompass the beach, the ocean, the sunset – this whole place.
"This doesn't have to be – "
He lets his voice die, chews on the inside of his cheek – hands slightly shaking, helplessly flailing up and down until she takes one and wraps it around her hip, rests her head against his collarbone.
"You mean, it doesn't have to be the end?"
"Yeah," he sighs, relieved. "It could be a – a beginning."
She nods against his shoulder.
"I'd like that," she says softly.
She doesn't ask if it's possible. They both know this is a question that shall forever remain unvoiced, unanswered, and – if possible – unrecalled.
As long as they want to remain.
But no matter what they say or do, the status quo has been broken – the innocent pleasure of meeting in a place that shouldn't exist is gone, replaced by a deep craving for reality. Whether brought forth by the first kiss they shared so long ago, or the conversations they never had, or the past that keeps intruding in their thoughts, they both taste finality in the air.
They both know things are about to change.
"This is the last time, isn't it?" she asks, biting her lip again.
He nods. Doesn't trust his voice.
"It's not fair," she adds softly. "I wish – "
There is no accusation in her tone, nor on her face, but there doesn't need to be.
He knows.
A cheeky wave climbs up high on the beach, breaks and dies just shy of his toes. If he was to sit on the stone bench now, the water would lick his feet up to the ankles.
They've come full circle – and soon it will be high tide once more.
"I don't want it to end," he whispers.
Her fingers find his hand, squeeze tight.
"But we can't let it start again," she answers.
"I know."
The sky is so red.
"Will you be able to – move on?" he asks, voice unsteady.
The shuddering breath she lets out reminds him of a laugh, but lacks the happiness to deserve the name.
"Nobody could move on from you."
"Will you try?"
"Will you try?"
Casting his eyes downward, he chews on the inside of his cheek.
"That's what I thought."
"I want you to try," he says, looking at her. "You deserve to be happy."
She doesn't answer, but brings three fingers to his mouth, lets them travel down his cheek, his jaw line, and maybe that's answer enough.
Focussed on each other, they stop paying attention to the sun shining bright over the sea, then brighter, then so bright it washes away the colours and substance of the world. Of course, they cannot ignore it much longer – the green of her panic-filled eyes is fading already.
Sight is the first of their senses to disappear, and hearing soon follows. They both know what is to come. So he opens his arms a last time, brings her close against his heart – and when she leans into the hug, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Tries to capture the cinnamon, the silk of her hair – keep it forever in his memory palace, even as everything else slowly fades into morning.
Just in case.
– sorrow. desolation. lack of resolution. chasm growing between old friends. "I used to miss it, but not anymore." lies. lies. hung up on letters a thousand times read. impossible to move on. every night for memories. agony of waking up alone. never reaching oblivion. and then, phone call. "We're flying you down to Texas." questions of her own. no answers. confusion. relief. confusion –
"Hey!"
Impish. Tender.
"Hello!"
Surprised. Breathless.
"Nice beard!"
Teasing. Affectionate.
"Thank you."
Genuine. Dazed.
"Thank you for the letters."
Earnest. Intimate.
"Oh, I missed you."
Vulnerable. Overwhelmed.
"I missed you too."
Flustered. Wistful.
"It's been nice. We're gonna have to – get back into the real world at some point, though."
"Yeaaah... Really?"
"Really."
It comes a bit late, but happy new year to all of you!
And thank you for reading. :-)