"What's your perfect day?" she asks Druig in a whisper.
They had been lying in bed all day, hiding from the rain. But as dusk approaches to chase away the clouds, they hear the heavy downpour begin to fade out. In its place, they hear a newborn silence complemented by the sounds of the garden: the water dripping from the leaves, the birds chirping as they reclaim their forest, and each other's breaths slipping in and out. The last of the day's sun leaks through the gaps in the wallboards. Their eyes can't discern much in the dull light, but it's okay because they've already committed every last detail of each other to memory.
"My perfect day?" His voice is breathy and soft, like the words are only meant for her to hear. His fingers trace circles on her back, and her cheek rests on his chest.
"I want you to describe it to me," she says.
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On a perfect day, she would wake up to the cool morning air. She would wake up before him, and she would brush his hair out of his eyes like she always does. And he would know that she does this because sometimes it would wake him up, but when it does, he would still keep his eyes closed because he likes to know how gently she touches his skin when she thinks he's asleep.
On a perfect day, he would wake up some time after her, and he would wake up to the empty side of the bed. But it wouldn't make him feel lonely at all because he would see the shape of her head left on the pillow and smell the scent of her hair in the fabric. He would get out of bed and put on his shirt as he walks into the garden. He would find her where he always does: in the plot of land in front of their home, making sure her white flowers have room to grow. When he sees her, he would swear that his heart could not be more full. But the next day he would have to call himself a liar because he would inevitably see the way that the morning sun casts a spotlight on her like it always does, and he would have to swear once again that his heart could not be more full. But at least for just this perfect day, that thought would be the truth.
She would hear his sandals shuffle in the dirt as he approaches her, like a metal to a magnet.
"Good morning, Druig," she would say.
"Good morning, Isis," he would reply.
On a perfect day, he would kneel beside her as she lays a budding flower in the earth. Together, they would push the loose soil to fill in the gaps around it, and eventually he would find his hands over hers; and just for a moment, he would keep them there. He would say that these flowers will have taken over the planet by the time she's done, and the two of them would look around the garden, hard-pressed to find a void that hadn't been filled by these little white blossoms.
They would enjoy the rest of their perfect morning, which would be slow and easy like always. Then they would take on their perfect afternoon, which would be busy and a little unpredictable like always. But in their perfect evening, everything would slow down again, and he would cherish the way she looks in the golden sunset, like always.
On a perfect day, they would sit on the porch of their home in the two rocking chairs that he had made when they first arrived in the garden. He would hold her hand as they talk about both anything and nothing in particular. He would inevitably call her beautiful which wouldn't be a big deal to him, but she would tuck the memory of it into a place in her mind that at this point would be just about ready to overflow.
On a perfect day, they would maybe even dance a little despite not having any music to play. Instead, he would just hum something vague as he holds her waist in his hands, keeping her no further than an arm's length away. And they would look effortlessly into each other's eyes.
Eventually, though, he would ask her if she'd like to sit down with him again, and she would say "yes" because she wouldn't be able to imagine having anything better to do. And so like the white flowers next to the vines in the plot in front of their home, they would sit with their fingers interlaced on this perfect day, in the garden that they created together.
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"... and that would be my perfect day," he finishes.
Though, what he had just described could've been any day in the garden — past, present, or future. They seem to live the same day over and over in slightly different ways, but is it such a shame to relive the same day over and over if that day is a perfect day? He doesn't think so at all.
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somewhere in time {Druig}
Fanfiction'It's beautiful, isn't it?' she says. 'It is,' he answers. She's looking at the sky, but he's thinking about her. OC x Druig (Marvel's Eternals)
