The Keepers' Evil

Fifty-Five: I say we take them head on

Song- Kiss me: Sixpence None The Richer

"I say we take them head on."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Sebastian needed a haircut, desperately.

I had woken slightly too early for him, and he had not noticed in his sleepy state as I had yawned myself too awake to return to the bliss of sleep. His arms remained pressed around me as tightly as a lock would keep a door closed, his mop of curls leaping in every direction against the warmth of my cheek.

I hummed into the lazy heat that emanated from our tired bodies, smiling as the birds added to the happy sound of the morning with twitters that only served to confirm that the world was safe today. The trickles of sunshine embraced the patter of the Spring breeze as together they splashed into the room, brushing past the heavy silk curtains as if they were not weighted at all, spilling the room into the morning from the night from the small crack that Sebastian had left open in the window.

Sebastian always felt like the morning, if that was a characteristic that one could have. I supposed, to be more specific, the curls of his hair smelt fresh, like dulled citrus that was neatly subtle enough. As I nuzzled my nose into the wisps of splayed hair, I held him tightly in this dazed stage of being entirely vulnerable. He was calm, like the day seemed to be. He was rested, and only looped his hands around my waist tighter as I curled the tresses of his tangles around my fingers, perhaps only adding to the problem that his hair was far too long.

"Maddie," He began to grumble, pulling his fingers to trace where my spine was exposed, his eyes remaining closed against the soft of my skin. Sebastian's smile fit better in the morning when it was dozy and dizzy with his good dreams, and it was so addictively sweet that my lips needed to coat themselves in the sugar, so they did, peppering him until he laughed himself awake, until he deepened it enough to open his eyes to find the day that he had already matched perfectly.

"Why are you smelling my hair? Little weirdo." Though the day was warm, though I could feel the air's comfortably pollinated breeze, Sebastian's fingers' graze against my skin would forever make the chills of his fingerprints run against my skin. It was an unfamiliar familiar, something that would always feel foreign in the most exciting ways, because I would never understand how we had made it here, to this life, to a bed that we called ours, to smiles that we made together.

The breeze of the outside world was something that I enjoyed regardless of the elements it bore. In the Winter, the wind whispered its tears against our cheeks with pride that they were frozen, to remind us that Winter did not need to be blue. In the Spring, it became a comfortable in between, never warm but never cold, a transition. The Summer sun allowed little breeze, but instead it gushed sun licked yellows over our skin, ones that matched the honey in our eyes. The Autumn breeze trailed our feet to pathways of wooded hideouts made of sticks and crunched brown leaves, like the wind wanted us to explore, like it was telling us to use our innovation whilst we could. The breeze was the familiar.

But I reached the very same chill that it gave from the hands of Sebastian Sallow, and that was the unfamiliar. He had pressed his fingerprints into my skin as though it was inked onto parchment so many times, but when it was like this, when he smelled like sleep and his hands warmed like the fire had gone out alone rather than been blown out deliberately, it was too beautiful to allow to be familiar. When my skin prickled against his touch, the feeling of the breeze returned, but it only had one message for me this time, and it was one of endless tales of love and a thousand lines of poetry.