Winter
The first time is a mistake.
Her lips find yours and she's warm.
But you're not.
You're like Winter with its solitude and tempestuous temperament. And you like it that way. You like the cold bite of the wind, the numbing of your limbs, the snowflakes melting into droplets that cling onto your skin, a chilling reminder that brings awareness to all your senses.
There's something about Winter that makes you feel invincible, like you're on top of the world, that nothing can touch you behind your armoring encasement of ice.
But she's warm.
And you can feel yourself thawing.
Bright.
That's the first word you think of when you think of her.
Bright eyes, bright hair, bright smile, bright expression, bright personality.
There's other ways you can describe her.
But it's bright that you think of first.
She's like that crack of sunlight that slips through your curtains at dawn, rousing you from your slumber. But the dark is safe; it hides your secrets and insecurities. You're not yet ready to wake and face the world.
The second time is an accident.
It's dark and cold when you kiss her. You can make out only her silhouette, but none of her finer features. She could be anyone really.
How do you know it's her then?
It's the third kiss, one trailing down your jaw like a whisper. Her lips are hot and burning, melting away the barriers you've spent your whole life building. The way her hand brushes by your cheek is as if it's a stolen moment, fleeting and cautious.
And kissing her in the dark is less scary. It's easy.
But when you think of her like this, you think of a fallen angel. You're infecting her, bringing her down to your level. Her heart will turn black with the bitterness you're feeding her.
The shadows falling over her face remind you she's not Winter.
You break up with Jesse on Christmas Day.
Not for him. Not for her.
He cries.
You don't.
Maybe you have turned to ice, the frost clinging to your heart, unwilling to release you.
"Why?"
"I need to be alone."
"No, you don't need to be alone. You want to be."
No. You need it.
You can't bring anyone else down with you.
The fourth time is in a moment of weakness.
Her palms slap the wall behind you as she traps you there.
You can feel her racing heartbeat and unsteady breaths, quick exhales against your skin. She tries to say something to you, but her words come out all stutters. Is that how you make her feel? Unhinged?
You really shouldn't. You're giving her a false hope.
But when her lips capture yours, you forget. You forget who you are. You forget where you are. You forget everything and anything.
Up until then, you thought you were the one slowly killing her. But now you're not so sure anymore.
Maybe she's the one poisoning you; each kiss is a dose adding to your addiction.
How else can you explain why you can't pull away?
And then you realize you've spent your Winter counting kisses that you didn't want to count.
Spring
The fifth time is the last.
At least, that's what you tell yourself.
She's Spring, optimism personified. She's something reborn, growing and alive. She's daisies and roses, just blooming; she's green grass, a scent of a new start.
But you're not. You're a freezing blizzard leaving destruction and regret behind you. Flowers are persistent, settling in the most unlikely of places, but they're also delicate, so delicate. The snow and ice surrounding your heart prevent anything living to grow there, no flowers, not even weeds.
So why is she a mistake you keep making?
It's simple, you tell yourself.
Save yourself before all that's left of you is a puddle. Save her before you cause her petals to fall away and wilt.
It's raining.
You stand outside letting the water pour over you. You're soaked, but it's okay. You close your eyes. After a moment, you think the rain has stopped. But you open your eyes and she's next to you, an umbrella billowing above both your heads like a thought bubble.
The two of you stand in silence.
Finally, you turn to her, eyes meeting hers, a flash of earnest blue, "I like the rain."
She stows her umbrella away.
"So do I."
So you stand in the rain with her.
Her tongue flicks out to catch raindrops.
You smile.
You don't mean to, but you smile.
The sixth time is a slip-up.
You're drunk and the world is blurry. You hear a pounding in your ears, something wild and resounding. Somehow, you find her amongst the throng of people, and your hand circles her wrist, dragging her away from her latest find of the night.
You're leading her upstairs and you're stumbling, but she steadies you.
When you back her onto the bed, she falls with a laugh. A laugh that's meant to disarm. And you can feel your chest aching with the effort to pull yourself together.
You kiss her like you mean it. Like this will actually be your last one. And it should be. You're naïve for a moment, thinking that it might be. It makes you feel raw and frantic, your fingers trembling as you caress her cheek.
Nothing happens that night.
She just holds you.
Maybe she's already planted a seed inside your heart. Maybe it's growing right now. Maybe it'll crack the solid ice covering. It'll probably feel like dying.
Spring passes by, rainy and wet.
Summer
It's a long time before the seventh.
The anticipation, the wait, it kills you, it really does. Every time she draws near, you think maybe last time wasn't the last.
Summer, a heat so scorching it scalds you, makes you feel vulnerable and weak. You're like a floundering fish without your defenses, just hoping to make it by this season.
Perhaps she's Summer.
They make you feel much the same way.
She seemingly thrives in Summer, her skin tanning a light golden, her gorgeous red hair streaked with blonde from the sun, and her bright smile naturally lighting up.
On the other hand, you burn, your skin hot and red.
She pushes you into the pool and dives in after you.
No one is around when she kisses you, a mouthful of chlorine.
You're strangely relieved.
Loneliness seems so much worse in the Summer.
It feels out of place.
You like being alone, but something about the damn warmth of the day makes you feel alone.
When she calls you the first time, you don't pick up.
You don't think you can face her when you feel so exposed. Who knows what you might say or do? But it's like Chinese handcuffs, the more you pull away, the more stuck you find yourself.
She calls again and this time you pick up.
The eighth time is dangerous.
It's just the two of you in her apartment watching a movie. The sun is streaming in reflecting off the television, making it harder to discern the motions of the characters on the screen. You squint.
Her hand touches your chin and you turn to her questioningly.
As she draws closer to you, you can see a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, you can see her eyelashes fluttering, you can see her mouth quiver. It's still sunny outside and it seems so much more real bathed in light.
"Chloe," you stop her slow approach with one hand on her shoulder.
"What's wrong?"
"I can't do this," you whisper, a gentle admission, "I'm Winter. Nothing can live with me."
You sound insane, but she makes you this way. Crazy.
She leans in, her mouth so close to yours you can almost taste the peppermint on her breath. It's a ghost of a kiss, lingering but not quite tangible.
"Some flowers bloom in Winter," she hushes, her lips barely grazing yours.
After a beat, she pulls away to watch the rest of the movie.
You touch your lips gingerly, the pads of your fingertips running over the cracks.
Summer fades, merely an echo of your fears.
Autumn
The ninth time is your fault.
The leaves are changing color, greens paling to yellows and oranges. It's a lovely sight even without the reminder that the life around you is diminishing.
Perhaps the beauty is what makes you forget to protect yourself.
The two of you walk in the park making small chat (mostly about the Bellas) and you marvel at the swirling leaves as they dance in the air.
She smiles.
It makes your heart clench and struggle against the icy bonds.
You surge forward and you kiss her firmly, her tongue tracing the edges of your mouth. It lasts a few moments before she pulls away.
"I can't do this anymore."
You're speechless.
She shakes her head with a watery grimace.
"Does this mean something to you?"
It's like you've forgotten how to speak, the words clogged in your throat.
She walks away, her shoulders hunched.
But Chloe doesn't stay away long, caving in to whatever it is that keeps bringing the two of you together. She shows up at your dorm and you let her in.
"You once said you were Winter," she says, her eyes unreadable, "Is that what this is about?"
"You're Spring, Chloe," you try and explain. "You're a fresh beginning and I'm a bitter ending."
Surprisingly, she shakes her head.
"You think you have me all figured out, Beca," she laughs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "How do you know I'm not Summer or Winter?"
"You're bright and I'm cold. Cold like I've forgotten how to not be alone."
She shakes her head, standing up to leave. "I like Autumn the best actually."
"Autumn?"
"Because it's the season where everything changes."
The departing smile she gives finally breaks the last remnants of crystal frost.
The tenth time is your favorite.
You don't know how to tell her that you need her, that your need is a strong pull, it compels you to stay. You don't know how to explain how helpless and desperate and hopeful she makes you feel.
But maybe she can tell by the way your lips twist into a grin against hers.
And in that moment, all pretenses of Winter storms and desolate winds go away.
Maybe you've both been Autumn all along, a fluctuation of hot and cold, a goodbye to long days, but still a greeting to something previously unknown.
And in that moment, everything changes.
A/N: Thank you for reading, I really appreciate it! Leave a review if it so suits you.
Dedicated to all of my dedicated readers/reviewers. You guys are amazing; specifically I want to thank the anonymous reviewer, "Sam", as you've reviewed every single one of my stories (pretty sure anyway) and I've never been able to thank you personally due to your anon-status. I hope you see this.
Cheers.