Winter arrived like it usually did, a blissful break from the southern heat, punctuated by the occasional sprinkle of dreary rainfall. Carefully and precisely, he places the last stitch on his last piece; a cotton and chiffon dress accented with whipstitch seams, fragments patched together like his own psyche.
"That's gorgeous."
He knows that Quinn is standing at the doorway, mug in hand as per usual, but he has not turned his gaze from his collection; a collection for the fall, when it comes.
"You think?"
He listens as Quinn wanders over. Familiar arms wrap around him, trying to warm his heart and clear his mind, but the fog hangs heavy like the chiffon of the dress.
"Of course," Quinn hums, words washing over him in tumbling waves. "It's gorgeous, just like you and everything you touch."
A kiss is pressed into the curve of his neck and the warmth fades away as Quinn moves to run their fingers over the folds of the dress. He watches them, wondering what it feels like to view the world through someone else's eyes.
"What are you going to call it?"
Quinn's voice echoes through his thoughts. He looks away, gaze settling on the churning ocean outside of the window.
"Mara."
He knows it doesn't matter what he calls it; they simply choose their own name, if they even bother to give it one. Apart from one, they have never named his collections, preferring to refer to them only by the season and year.
He has his own name for his collections. For all of them, apart from one.
"Why Mara?"
He doesn't respond, even as Quinn pulls him away from his work into the kitchen. He only watches as Quinn cooks, delicate fingers assembling new flavors like he assembles his own collections. He listens as Quinn listens to him, his mind still shrouded in mist and mumbles.
But as night falls, so does the fog.
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