Swing on a Star
Rated: PG
A/N: Very short ficlet written for the DogDaysOfSummer LJ community challenge for August 2, 2005.
Prompt: A picture of a young boy in a park, sitting on a wood and rope swing, hugging a dog.
I'm too old for this, he thinks as he settles on the dilapidated old wooden swing, battered by time and worn by the elements -- not unlike himself. The heavy branch dips and bends, bouncing lightly against his weight, rich green leaves dancing and swaying above in a spiraling counterpoint to the wind's gentle song. He grasps the frayed rope with long, slim-fingered hands, skin surprisingly smooth though lined by years of loss and regret, and his eyes widen in surprise at the coarse texture prickling against his fingertips. It's been so long since he's allowed himself to feel, and a smile comes unbidden to his lips.
Catching a blur of black out of the corner of his eye, he turns his head to follow, and his smile widens of its own accord. Closing his eyes, he leans his head back, and kicks his bare feet lightly across the ground, his toes drinking in the soft sharpness of each blade of grass. Stretching out his legs with a fluid grace that belies his age -- a dizzying heady rush -- and suddenly he is flying, cradled in the memories of summers long past.
A soft touch of cold dampness at his knee rouses him. He knows that touch – he's felt it a thousand times in memory, in waking dreams. Tongue lolling, head slightly tilted, intelligent eyes questioning. He leans forward, still smiling, one arm held out in invitation, and buries his face in the soft, matted fur, breathing in the scents of musky, sweaty canine, fresh grass and the old, cracked leather of the ancient collar he'd kept time out of mind. He feels hot breath and the rasp of a soft tongue against his ear, the light touch of sunlight across his back and neck, like gentle, questing fingers that warm his skin but do not burn; He hears the tinkle of the metal nametag and the echoes of whispers, of sighs, of laughter, an unearthly undertone against the earthy murmur of the breeze through the grass and the trees.
In the face of such uncharacteristic optimism, he yields to the temptation and it is almost too much to bear. It seeps into every nook and cranny, through the tiniest cracks and widest chasms, surrounding, suffusing, saturating and sustaining him. And in that moment he does break, but surprisingly, there is no pain. He stifles a sob, tightens his grasp, holding on for all he's worth, and remembers what it feels like to be alive.