Thirteen | under editing

prologue - run

There is a boy and a girl in the stretch of grass behind the castle. 

The sun filters through the trees, and it's only trace is the tan on their skins, prominent freckles on their noses, and a odd kind of warmth only sunlight can bring. 

They're lying side by side on the grass, and they aren't looking at each other, but they're staring into the same sky. Fingers intertwined, faces stained with the remains of fruit. 

It's quiet, it's warm, and there's nothing to worry about. 

That was their first summer together. 

***

her feet fly across the bare, black, marble, footsteps echoing, and she pushes herself to run, faster, faster, because she is so close - 

*** 

The chill of autumn bleeds into the warmth of summer, and soon enough there's nothing left of the trees except bare branches and dead leaves crunching beneath their feet. 

Scarves wrapped around their necks, but the only real warmth is the laughter. But when they get back inside there's a lit fireplace. 

There are twelve hours on the clock, but when its dark and they have no idea what time it is, they add another hour, just for them. Thirteen. 

***

he's reaching for the edge of the opening, one that promises freedom and safety again, but will he get there? there's another hour on the clock, but is there enough time? 

***

In the bitter cold, there's nothing outside, but yet they're still there, running in the snow and kicking up pieces of twigs that have been long since frozen. 

And she watches as he dives into the icy cold lake, only to come up shivering and spluttering, and she says, "Why'd you do that?" 

And he answers, "There's only so many things you can regret when you don't have enough time." 

She smiles and tells him to go take a warm shower. 

***

and they do get out, but they don't stop running, don't stop until they are really, truly, home, but where is that? across space and time and every other variable in the universe - what is home? 

*** 

In the ceasing chill of spring, their bloodstained fingers are laced together, just like they were last summer, and instead of tan, their skins are marred with scars and dirt, but nothing else has changed except they're looking at each other this time. 

*** 

"I think," he ventures, carefully studying every line on her face, the smoothness of her skin and the shape of her knuckles under his own fingers. "I think home is a person and a safe space. And we're safe, don't you think?"