lovers' ravine.

he wishes it were as simple for him as it were for you. he almost succumbs to the swarm of the market in his hesitation, glancing over his shoulder at watch you spin round in circles aimlessly. you wouldn’t find him. not that you knew who he was, or would want to anyhow. you could always try, but muriel hates how you try to pick him out, blood-stained, monstrous and all, like the mere sight of him isn’t a curse enough. you weren’t supposed to remember him. what hurts more is that you look relieved to see him again, the brilliance of your smile flickering to a dull shine as you feel his wounds like fruit, patient in how you guide him to sit still, a damp cloth pressed to his skin. 

you’ll leave him in february, he tells himself. gone by morning, the memory of him rotting in the far corners of your mind. you hold the myrrh to your chest like you can’t bear the thought of losing it, and muriel pretends like he doesn’t care, even if his heart knows better, clenching once, twice, three times. if you catch his lie, you don’t press it—only wrap the green scarf around him, fingertips smoothing the fabric over his chest in featherlight touches, as if to say “you’re worth it”. you give him every chance to pull away, and muriel takes it more times than he’s proud to admit, but that doesn’t change how every part of him aches in regret. 

he can’t take the words back now, but he can try to be better. he wants to be better for you. muriel could be like spring, pure and beautiful, marching sluggishly along under the waning moon, but he’s still not there yet. he can’t force the ugly, loathsome thing trapped between his ribs to settle when you curl up beside him on the floor, not anymore than he can force you to run like he told you to. you don’t need to know that he dreamt of you that night; oil on skin, pinks and yellows bleeding into the sky, your lips molded to the shape of his neck. he doubts you would listen, though you say otherwise. 

so when muriel feels april approaching, he starts to trust you; wholly, using every waking moment to pray he won’t be sorry. he could die here, the shadows growing darker behind his eyes as lifetimes whirl past him in a blur, never knowing how grateful you are to share this one with him. maybe it’s just enough that he feels loved in this moment, however often the ghost of himself says it won’t last. 

but the hatchet is buried, isn’t it? more than that—he feels clean, mind, body and soul, and if you could hold them all in the palm of your hand, he wouldn’t even flinch. muriel thinks he can understand now, why you cried for him; why it mattered that he wasn’t afraid of you, and what a surprise that was, because how could he ever fear you? how, when you touched him so tenderly, even after all he’d done, murmuring litanies of praise into the spaces where only he could hear, “i love you”s traded between your bodies? muriel can’t remember all the months that passed, but july is always there in the forefront of his mind, a grained photograph of forking roads and lush verdure leading back home. 

the pale, wonted blues and grays had turned to gold, veiled thinly in a warm orange glow. against the nearest wall there stands a chair draped in tapestries yet to be hung, and muriel’s free hand reaches out to trace their decorative patterns. his trail stops at the crest of a bear’s head, crowned in flowers, and his lips twitch into a small smile. you grumble incoherently from beneath the weight of his bicep, curled around your head to pull you closer into his hulking form, and muriel chuckles, finally sinking into the bed. the mattress groans weakly as he rolls onto his back, and you take the opportunity to rest your chin on his chest, gazing up at him blearily. 

whatever you aim to say in the first few seconds, muriel doesn’t bother trying to translate—with it being nothing more than a string of jumbled garbling, he doesn’t think he’d be able to anyway—but when you manage to gather your senses, it’s well worth the wait.

“i love you.” muriel cranes his neck to look at the ceiling, hoping it will hide his blush, but it’s a poor attempt at best. you hum into his collarbone with amusement, fingers threading through his hair and tugging gently as if to tell him “look at me”. the things you don’t say, muriel finds, speak volumes. he complies eventually, albeit with a pout that is quickly ushered away by your lips on his, the first signs of dawn pouring from your lazy movements. 

“i love you,” he whispers in reply, thumbing your cheek before kissing you once more. muriel thinks it could be december by the time he pulls away, flushed and panting softly. then, you hook your leg around his middle to pull him flush against you, sighing into the heat of his mouth and reminding him that summer is just over the bend. inanna grants you both this mercy by keeping to her rug by the fire, and muriel silently gives his thanks while tugging the covers over your bodies. from the corner of the window, he can see the lemon tree flourishing, and it’s just like he dreamt: oil on skin pinks and yellows bleeding into the sky, your lips molded to the shape of his shoulder. morning yawns across the horizon, and muriel lies with you like it’s all he’s ever known, and it’s all it ever should have been. 

sleep comes easier in july.