peace. spring brought a gentle calmness, thin and delicate as pink camellia petals. curt’s favorite season. it was a harsh contrast to the oppressive heat of summer or the deathly chill of winter. in curt’s mind, it was a perfect balance between the two extremes. he sipped a cup of herbal tea, fondly observing the white budding flowers outside his apartment’s window. that’s what he loved most about spring: it was a time of rebirth. of cleansing, expiation for the mistakes of the past. a time to wash the blood off his crimson-stained fingertips and move on. to become a better man. he set down the white teacup adorned with tiny painted blue salvia blossoms on the table, inhaling the fresh morning air deeply. it is was a time of quiet self reflection, of clearing the mind as the soft spring rain washed away the grime from windowpanes and the guilt from his heart. curt remembered the silent moments they’d shared. a walk in the botanical gardens, the faint aroma of rose petals dripping with dew hanging in the air. a pleasant conversation on a park bench underneath an old willow tree, playful banter and heartfelt sincerity melding together in seamless silk threads. spring was a time for tender remembrance, for soundless vulnerability and silver teardrops falling from clouded eyes like crystalline dewdrops. he recalled those fleeting moments with a solemn fondness, with a silent tribute to those better times. spring was a time for forgetting, for forgetting the future and dwelling on the past, erasing the bits that ruined the nostalgic narrative. so for just a moment, curt was content remembering and dwelling in those happy days, the soft rain pattering against his windowsill clearing away any memory of pain.
passion. characterized by a hot, sticky recklessness. bold, clashing colors and loud fireworks sparkling against the indigo sky. summer was an inferno, beads of sweat pouring down strong, aching bodies. curt took refuge in the shade of an oak tree, loosening the tie around his neck and unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt. the blazing sun brought back memories of the white hot intensity of their love, burning hot skin colliding and hungry lips desperate for more. busted knuckles and bloody scratches across torsos, starving hazel eyes framed by dark lashes. summer was dancing in the sunlight, in the full heat of the afternoon, careless and messy motions, but neither of them caring. promises that they’d burn the world to the ground for a last kiss goodbye, throwing all caution to the wind with daring declarations of affection. summer was the time for the grandiose, lingering embraces after a night of drinking, pungent cologne that dwelled on curt’s clothing long after they’d parted. the humidity clogged their throats, weighing down on them like a sticky, stifling blanket. there was laughter a bit too loud and hands a bit too close together, secrets shared that should have been kept to a whisper. summer was bright and loud and vivacious, and curt found that he missed owen the most during these months. the absence of his partner during these times was all too apparent, and he found himself speaking louder than usual, having a few more drinks than he would if owen was there to fill the gaping hole in his chest. it throbbed and radiated a sort of longing pain, something that required something more than what the last remaining drops of whiskey in the bottle could offer. curt yearned for that closeness again, the electricity that coursed through his veins when their bodies collided. so he filled himself with everything that could never replace owen, hoarding comfort like a dragon closely guarding its treasures. and curt held onto those memories and drank himself into a blissful oblivion.
longing. autumn always held a sense of pining, yearning for what was past and gone. the caramel leaves fluttering down against brick walls and cracked sidewalks reminded him that the world was resuming its course for its annual death. but his world was already dead. there was little curt could do during the fall months that would cheer him up, because autumn had always been owen’s favorite. it only seemed fitting that their seasonal preferences had been on opposite ends of the spectrum, as had practically everything else in their relationship. but the one thing they had shared was a common secret. something so meaningful that it unified them completely. they had everything and nothing in common. autumn was for warm apple cider, strolls through the pumpkin patch on halloween night, and for scary stories told by candlelight. poe had been a favorite of them both, and they had spent many an autumn evening reading aloud to one another, curt’s head in owen’s lap. it was a season for subtlety, for the gentle squeezing of a hand or fingers running through hair. love contained within the secrecy of a hotel room or in an alley, love that disappeared when the amber sun rose above the skyline. autumn was passing glances, looking one another in the eye for a moment too long, lingering handshakes. burnt oranges, golds, and deep browns, colored leaves crunching under their feet. curt thought of owen often as he lay in bed alone, missing the warmth of another body sleeping next to him. he missed the sleepy peacefulness of owen’s face as he slept, the morning light softening his features. it was a welcome change from the intensity of a mission, seeing owen’s lips turn upwards in a barely present smile as he slept. the whispers to stay in bed for just a few more minutes, that their next mission could wait a little longer. now there was nothing preventing curt from getting up save for the lead weight of dread in his heart. he would drink his morning coffee, a little less sweet than he liked it, and sigh at what would never be.
cold. curt had always hated the cold. it stung his face, whipping across his skin with icy claws. he pulled the collar of his jacket tighter against his neck in a desperate attempt to evade the bitter chill of the wind. the sky was a dismal gray, a flurry of powder swirling around the dark cobblestone. the heels of his shoes clicked against the stone, the only sound in the air other than the howling wind and the heartbeat in his chest. the winter months were characterized by a certain quietness, everything muffled by the gleaming snow that fell, coating everything in a soft, fuzzy silence. but winter wasn’t always cold, there were puffy jackets and scarves to be tossed over shoulders and mittens to be worn over frozen fingers. there was hot chocolate in thick porcelain mugs and crackling flames in brick fireplaces. and there was owen. the sparks of heat that danced across his skin at owen’s touch as they lay in a cheap hotel bed, arms intertwined expertly around each other’s body underneath the thin white sheets and soft butterfly kisses pressed onto his neck with the delicacy of an angel. the faint smell of vanilla as they woke gently to the pale sunlight filtering through cream colored curtains. then there were those nights at bars, the warm glow of golden whiskey in curt’s stomach, drinking until the orange city lights were but a scumbled blur against the backdrop of the silver-speckled night sky. nights so cold they could see their breath crystalize as they exhaled, and nights so dark that no one could see their gloved hands carefully brush up against one another. another gust of wind shook curt from the illusion of warmth, returning him to the frigid reality that owen was gone. his fingertips remembered the chill of owen’s lifeless body there in the russian weapons facility. the deathly paleness of owen’s smooth skin, and the coldness of his deep brown eyes. they had once held such life, such passion and mischief, but now they were glassed over, staring far into some unknown abyss. curt shivered, stuffing his hands into his pockets to hide them. the hands that had once held owen’s in the secret of their hotel room, and had since then been responsible for pulling the trigger against his partner’s head. and curt was cold.