They were on the shore of a lake in Rifthold, having traveled with a Khajiiti caravan as Laike provided “muscle,” and his love harassed his kin for gossip.
Entering the deep oranges of the autumnal forests had sparked a flame in Jothasta, and set ablaze Laike’s sensibilities and more noticeably the pallor of his skin when he saw Jothasta with that smile, that childish grin as he looked all around—practically itching to run off the path and play.
Just outside the gates they bid farewell to their travelling companions as Laike took Jothasta’s hand and just started running. They must’ve looked afool, trouncing across the uneven hills while Laike tried his best to trip over every root peeking through the earth, Jothasta’s laugh a constant in his ears as he cursed and kept going.
They’d found a beautiful little spot next to the Riften walls, trees in golds and oranges lining the shore of a dark, sparkling lake. Their leaves littered the ground they walked on, crunching almost inaudibly. Jothasta pulled him by the hand, then, facing him and just staring. Laike could feel warm light in his eyes but he was unsure if it came from above or just below him, colored in shades of orange and segmented through with white, the gold frame of his spectacles giving off the same shine as the lake.
Laike smirked, about to say something likely obscene to ruin the moment, just before a leaf as large as his head managed to catch itself using just that. “Ah—” his brain stalled, and he heard his love start up that laugh again, felt the soft hands on his shoulders as he was pulled down and taken pity upon as the leaf was removed and allowed to make its descent to the ground, without the large, unnatural, just a bit ugly impediment in its path.
“This one can’t hardly let nature have all the fun. I fear I might be considered jealous.” Jothasta laughed, considering Laike’s mussed hair and stunned face. Laike would’ve laughed over his sudden dip into Ta'agra, clearly still back with the caravan.
But Jothasta was looking at him so fondly that he doesn’t believe his brain could’ve had even a chance to recover before he was pulled down further, meeting Jothasta’s grin as the breeze and leaves kicked up around them, the dampness from the morning dew resting upon the leaves casting sparks from the deep oranges, yellows, and reds of the fires around him, the segments in his beloved’s fur shifting to the cracks throughout as his fire burned white hot.
Laike flinched, and stone walls became apparent once again around him.
Sunlight just barely made it through the curtains, arriving through the tatters and holes of ages old textile. His bedding was so cold he’s bitterly surprised he’d been allowed to dream so warmly at all.
The Forgetmenauts – The Summer King
