#valinter

Then the sound of running water, the whisper of her tuneless humming. Her feather-light footsteps when she tiptoes around their room. Closet opening, fabric shuffling, the soft thunk of shoes dropping to the carpet. The hush of the curtain drawn away a fraction to let him doze in comfort in the slowly lightening room. Six or so.

The faint smell of brewing coffee and the burbling chirp of the coffee maker.

Cabinets opening and closing a carefully muted thunk.

(It took him weeks to notice she'd bought a series of adhesive felt pads and stuck them on the inside corners of the cabinet doors to quiet them. Faustus recalls that he teased her once about the nosiness of the cabinets and her moving around the kitchen, forgot about it by the next day, and hadn't noticed them since.

Always so painfully thoughtful. Faustus had gone to thank her immediately because Winter needed to know her and her efforts were appreciated.)

Maybe a quarter past six.

By the time he untangles himself from their blankets and sheets and shuffles his way downstairs, he finds her nursing a mug of milky tea as she admires the expanse of their front garden through the kitchen window, painted in the cool and sleepy blues of a morning yet warmed by the sun's orange glow.

Winter meets his eye, a sliver of orange light catching the flash of her teeth when she smiles.

When he fits in behind her, arms loose around her waist and chin nestled on her shoulder, Winter melts back into his chest with ease, this a natural part of her (theirs, he corrects himself) morning routine as washing her face or brewing the coffee she doesn’t even drink. Faustus slants his lips to her neck, inhales the clean scent of perfume ghosting her skin, and kisses her there.

His kiss is less hard pressure and more fleeting touch, but still Winter's skin blushes sweet and pleased. She sinks further into him, lets one hand fall from her mug to cover the hands he has clasped at her middle, and murmurs, "Good morning."

Faustus glances to their ill-used stove to find the time marked in red blocky numbers at six thirty-five.

Little less than half an hour before she leaves for work.

Never enough time for him to enjoy the quiet companionship of Winter at her most open before the rest of the day touches her, but half an hour is what he has. Quick to ensure he doesn’t waste a single moment, he gives her a gentle squeeze and returns his gaze to the window to share in their private reverie of the glittering dew refracting the first rays of light.

Over the last six months they had fallen into a routine, their lives slowly entwining until she almost couldn’t remember what she used to do before they met. When she worked in her garden, he was there asking her questions about perennials; when he worked on a new song, experimentally strumming chords, she sat silently next to him with her knitting.

The thought of him not being there, however temporary, opens a small sinkhole in the pit of her stomach. “I hope you have a good time.” 

“Yeah thanks, it should be fun.” He pauses briefly, eyes trailing past her and settling on a point past her shoulder. “The others are excited about it.” 

“What about you?” 

Faustus runs a hand through his hair. “Me? Yeah yeah, I’m looking forward to it too. It’s always great performing live.” 

She doesn’t know why he hesitated. His band has worked hard to get this tour—picking up more local gigs, reaching out to every contact they knew—and she’s seen them play live, how they light up when onstage. How he lights up onstage. She knows why she’s not as excited as she should be for him (and how guilty she feels about that), but why is he—?

She swallows the hope before it can materialize. 

“I don’t want to keep you,” she eventually murmurs, rising from the couch. “It’s getting late and you have a big day tomorrow.”

“You’re not keeping me, Winter—I live in the same building, it’s not exactly a long commute home.” They make their way to her door and linger, him leaning a hip against it and her wrapping her arms around herself. They’ve been here many times but this goodbye feels different in a way she has tried desperately to ignore. 

Faustus continues: “And I,” —she watches his throat work, eyes boring into her for several molasses-slow seconds, and she feels heat flood her cheeks, her heart stuttering in her mouth—but he looks away again. The tension evaporates. Whatever he had planned on saying he keeps to himself, and instead says, “I’m glad that contestant finally went home. His technical challenges have been awful.”

“They really have been, haven’t they?” 

As Faustus heads out the door, her mouth moves before her brain. “Faustus? Just—Um—Be safe, please?” 

“I—Do you want me to call you when we get there tomorrow?”

He extends an arm in invitation. Winter nestles against his side, drapes his arm around her shoulders, and sighs into his warmth. He kisses the top of her head. 

“What are you thinking about?” Faustus murmurs into her hair. 

She pulls away enough to look him in the eyes: Not the sharp ice blue that she’s always known, but a deep warm brown that she had seen for the first time earlier. It must be his natural eye color.

“Just that brown eyes really suit you.” 

Winter watches Faustus’s face as he registers her comment. He pauses for the briefest moment. If he was anyone else she would think he’s almost embarrassed, shifting slightly under her attention like she caught him doing something he shouldn’t. Yet he holds her gaze, his brown eyes meeting her own, and the hint of a smile tugs on his lips. 

“Thanks. I didn’t feel like wearing contacts today.” 

“Well,” she says, bringing a hand up to brush against his cheekbone, “I think you look lovely.” 

She feels the way his cheek heats up at the compliment. He looks away from her in an unsuccessful attempt to hide how flustered he is and she lets him have this privacy, averting her eyes. 

When he turns back to her, his eyes soften. The brown of his eyes already makes his entire face look more open, warmer than she’s used to seeing him; as the tension leaves him, he looks nearly delicate, a study in satin and velvet against the hard metal of his piercings. 

Her chest aches—not with the weight of unspoken words like it did so many months ago, but with the exquisite joy of seeing him relax around her. It’s no small thing for a performer to stop performing, she knows.

She’s honored he trusts her enough to do so.

Instead of voicing this, though, Winter decides to show him. She repositions to cradle his face in her hands and watches as his eyes fall shut. Slowly, carefully, she leans in and ghosts her lips over his closed eyelids, first the right, then the left. The contact is fleeting—the barest pressure behind it, soft lips on softer skin—but nevertheless it makes Faustus tremble. 

She runs a hand soothingly over his hair. He pulls her closer to him with an arm around her waist and she moves into his lap, eliminating any space between them. Faustus’s breathing is unsteady, his cheeks still warm. His eyes swim with emotion when he looks up at her.