(no subject)
Title: 3x5
A/N: This is what about an hour of writing gets me when I say "prompt me! : )))" to lunarsweetie and she gives me "prancing around in the park, having a snowball fight. some reminiscing may occur."
When you glance out the window, you see him trudging down the sidewalk towards home, red parka, purple cap, a mug cradled between his palms. You wonder where he's headed from, where he's forgotten his gloves, if his fingers are fire-red and burning between the heat of his drink and the glacier air.
He doesn't come in the apartment building though, crosses the street at the last moment and sits in the park. You can still see him, but barely, more colour than outline, so you can't make out when he raise his arms to take a sip, can't see him throw his head back to blink up at the clouds.
You watch the sky darken, snow threats, or maybe it's just getting late; it is that time of year, after all. Your brother is behind you, his voice a slur against the silence, and when you stand up to find your coat, he looks surprised because it's been below freezing for days.
"Let me borrow your scarf," you tell him, and he rolls his eyes when he hands it over.
He's not expecting you when you approach him, but he smiles, a tiny great Gatsby smile that makes you pause. "You're going to freeze to death," you say, curling on the bench next to him. "That parka's meant for fall."
He doesn't say anything, just takes the extra scarf, wraps it around his neck so he won't have to hear you nag, then passes you his mug. You're wary when you lift it, but it's just tea, over-stewed but still hot enough to scald with plenty of cream. You make a hum of contentment when you pass it back, his fingers catching against yours. The sky darkens more, purple dusk that matches the bruise against his jaw that you will never ask about.
"Do you remember the winter that you moved here?" he suddenly asks.
You close your eyes and breathe deep. The air is icy-fresh as it rushes through your brain, but that doesn't help you recall; you only remember this apartment building, not the small house in the suburbs that your mother insists you lived in before. There are pictures of your brother in the yard there, a small tricycle, a fleece blanket in your mother's arms that might have been you, but nothing concrete, nothing that connects you to her memories. "No. I was too young."
"You weren't that young. Big enough to follow me and your brother around."
You've heard this before, a little girl following her brother and his best friend, and maybe you even remember parts of it, later on when your mother would let them take you to the park and they would take turns pushing you in the rusted swings. You outgrew it though, made friends with some girls down the street. "I was, what? Three? What do you remember from when you were three?"
It seems like he's not going to answer because he's staring into his mug like there are tea leaves at the bottom and he knows how to read them. "Blue," he finally says before taking a big chug of his tea. He grimaces as he swallows and you want to press your fingers against his throat; you keep them tucked in your pockets instead. "Everything was blue."
"Royal blue? Periwinkle?"
There's a small uplift to the corner of his mouth. "Crayola blue. It was on the walls."
You stop yourself from saying anything, because he never offers anything like this. You kick your foot against the leg of the bench and look at the sky; it's cloudy and black, a ring around the sliver of moon.
"You know, I had a sister once." But you didn't know that. "When you first moved in, I liked to pretend you were her, reborn as someone with a chance." He's quiet again, and you listen to the wind. It sounds like ice and ghost stories and every single thing he's ever kept from you. "I blamed it on her." He laughs.
You smile, but you don't ask what happened to her, if she was punished for it, if he got away with it. You wonder what happened to her, if he misses her still. You wonder how it might be different if she were still around, if he would be different.
He nudges at your shoulder when you shiver. "You should go in. I shouldn't have kept you out so long."
You nod and stand, stretch out your limbs that creak and ache from the chill. He takes the last drink of tea before crossing his feet and leaning back further into the bench, settling in to watch the storm start.
"Do you remember last summer?" you ask him after you've taken a few steps away. You can feel his gaze against your back, hot, blue eyes.
"What about it?" he asks.
You shrug. "Nothing." You just don't want to leave him thinking about the frost.
A/N: This is what about an hour of writing gets me when I say "prompt me! : )))" to lunarsweetie and she gives me "prancing around in the park, having a snowball fight. some reminiscing may occur."
When you glance out the window, you see him trudging down the sidewalk towards home, red parka, purple cap, a mug cradled between his palms. You wonder where he's headed from, where he's forgotten his gloves, if his fingers are fire-red and burning between the heat of his drink and the glacier air.
He doesn't come in the apartment building though, crosses the street at the last moment and sits in the park. You can still see him, but barely, more colour than outline, so you can't make out when he raise his arms to take a sip, can't see him throw his head back to blink up at the clouds.
You watch the sky darken, snow threats, or maybe it's just getting late; it is that time of year, after all. Your brother is behind you, his voice a slur against the silence, and when you stand up to find your coat, he looks surprised because it's been below freezing for days.
"Let me borrow your scarf," you tell him, and he rolls his eyes when he hands it over.
He's not expecting you when you approach him, but he smiles, a tiny great Gatsby smile that makes you pause. "You're going to freeze to death," you say, curling on the bench next to him. "That parka's meant for fall."
He doesn't say anything, just takes the extra scarf, wraps it around his neck so he won't have to hear you nag, then passes you his mug. You're wary when you lift it, but it's just tea, over-stewed but still hot enough to scald with plenty of cream. You make a hum of contentment when you pass it back, his fingers catching against yours. The sky darkens more, purple dusk that matches the bruise against his jaw that you will never ask about.
"Do you remember the winter that you moved here?" he suddenly asks.
You close your eyes and breathe deep. The air is icy-fresh as it rushes through your brain, but that doesn't help you recall; you only remember this apartment building, not the small house in the suburbs that your mother insists you lived in before. There are pictures of your brother in the yard there, a small tricycle, a fleece blanket in your mother's arms that might have been you, but nothing concrete, nothing that connects you to her memories. "No. I was too young."
"You weren't that young. Big enough to follow me and your brother around."
You've heard this before, a little girl following her brother and his best friend, and maybe you even remember parts of it, later on when your mother would let them take you to the park and they would take turns pushing you in the rusted swings. You outgrew it though, made friends with some girls down the street. "I was, what? Three? What do you remember from when you were three?"
It seems like he's not going to answer because he's staring into his mug like there are tea leaves at the bottom and he knows how to read them. "Blue," he finally says before taking a big chug of his tea. He grimaces as he swallows and you want to press your fingers against his throat; you keep them tucked in your pockets instead. "Everything was blue."
"Royal blue? Periwinkle?"
There's a small uplift to the corner of his mouth. "Crayola blue. It was on the walls."
You stop yourself from saying anything, because he never offers anything like this. You kick your foot against the leg of the bench and look at the sky; it's cloudy and black, a ring around the sliver of moon.
"You know, I had a sister once." But you didn't know that. "When you first moved in, I liked to pretend you were her, reborn as someone with a chance." He's quiet again, and you listen to the wind. It sounds like ice and ghost stories and every single thing he's ever kept from you. "I blamed it on her." He laughs.
You smile, but you don't ask what happened to her, if she was punished for it, if he got away with it. You wonder what happened to her, if he misses her still. You wonder how it might be different if she were still around, if he would be different.
He nudges at your shoulder when you shiver. "You should go in. I shouldn't have kept you out so long."
You nod and stand, stretch out your limbs that creak and ache from the chill. He takes the last drink of tea before crossing his feet and leaning back further into the bench, settling in to watch the storm start.
"Do you remember last summer?" you ask him after you've taken a few steps away. You can feel his gaze against your back, hot, blue eyes.
"What about it?" he asks.
You shrug. "Nothing." You just don't want to leave him thinking about the frost.