Air after Rain
Summary: While waking, she wants to hold on to her dream. Intended as OneShot, now apparently multiple chapters loosely connected.
Warning: AU! With capital letters. And ResexCass, duh…The style – different, loosely related chapters from different characters' points of view and such – has its origin in a book I once read, "Geschichten aus der Mitte der Welt"(stories from the middle of the world) by Andreas Steinhövel. I wanted to try something like that.
Set: entirely story-unrelated. No hunters here.
Disclaimer: Standards apply.
(I just remembered, Snowlia, you said you love High School AUs… I guess this is something like it…)
Also, Merry Christmas to you! This is my gift to all the readers out there. Great holidays and a Happy New Year.
Prologue
"Hmm," he muses. "I love the scent of air after rain."
They are walking down a dark street, the lamp posts illuminating his features once in a while. The night air is cool on her heated skin, cool but not cold. Summer is her favorite season and she loves the way the soft night wind whispers through her hair. She loves the way the air tastes alive and heavy. She loves the way the night sky is black and endless, and the way the stars seem like a thousand little lights so far, far away. She loves the silence all around them, the silence that seems to envelop her entirely, sets her apart from the sleeping world and makes her part of it more than anything else.
And, most of all, she loves him.
Teresa tries to look at the dark figure at her side – to really look at him – but his features disappear in the shadows again and again and reappear, and he looks different every time.
For some reason, she cannot remember his face.
So she tries to look harder while pretending not to do so. She looks and looks, with a rising feeling of dread that borders on desperation, but she cannot recall his features. His eyes. Which color are they? His face – is it long and oval or round and small? Does he frown often? Is the curve of his lips ironic or honestly humorous? In which way does his hair fall into his eyes? Does he carry glasses? Are there any scars?
Her eyes should be good enough, she has the distant feeling, and yet she cannot see him clearly. She tries hard to remember, panic and fear rising in her throat like bile. She falters, falls back a few steps and he is suddenly before her. His shoulders are a blurred line against the white walls of the houses they pass. Is he taller than her? A bit, perhaps. There is a message in the way he walks, in the way his arms swing back and forth and his shoulders move slightly. But Teresa cannot read it though she desperately wishes she could. She also wishes he would stop, turn around and wait for her. She is falling behind more and more. She speeds up but he moves faster. Wind rushes past her, tangles in her hair and swallows a call she hasn't realized she is making, swallows a name she doesn't know but yearns to say. The air tastes fresh, the hot heaviness of the day gone, the night's flavors and scents burning on her tongue. She never knew the night tasted – tasted like wet grass and damp pavement, like black velvet and clear water. The night is her true nature, her refuge. Her friend. It feels familiar and strange, in the same way the boy in front of her feels like a stranger and yet so, so familiar. So familiar she wants to touch him, wants to reach out and grab him and feel the warmth of his skin, the softness of his eyes and the touch of calloused hands on hers and…
Teresa wakes up and feels like crying.