The First of October // Finn Wolfhard x Reader

• 1 : The arrival of October •

The air, seeded with time, breathed back and forth through the small gap in the window of my simple room. As the fresh autumn air rushed by, through my hair and past my eyes, it whispered, everything will be okay. It taunted me to my awakening with its smoky-smell and soothing imagery of the sky, with orange and hints of ashy grey at dawn.
My eyes immediately fixed to some distant point within myself, and I paused. Three, four, five minutes past, I had finally arisen. I walked slowly across the bright, almost blinding, white hallway of my apartment as if approaching a time bomb that was settled at the end of the thin hall, ticking away ever so silently. I reached my destination, I put my hand out to touch, to quiver my fingertips on my storm coloured clothes, and thus, I began my day.

So it was on this afternoon that blew warm, then cool, then warm once again, as I let the wind take me around familiar streets at 2 o'clock. I stopped. I analysed the Thursday afternoon park, starchy with sameness. I stared for a minute, then, I ignored sight, and instead listened to the sounds of the park, and it is then I heard more strongly the strings of a guitar, an acoustic guitar, being plucked ever so delicately, maybe not even being plucked at all. The tune spoke in mysteries I had solved, mouthed things unknown to most, sighed, murmured, whispered so often; whispers I understood.
My face was hearth-flushed and my cheeks blazing, I did not understand. I thought too much, I thought nothing at all, not knowing what to think. I understood the tune, yet didn't understand my two colliding emotions. Passion and pity burnt me with their eyes, and it was difficult to tell which one hurt or puzzled me the most.

I finally awoke from my trance like state and trotted softly under the trees, that hissed calmly at me as I drifted past, and I eventually reached my end point. I placed myself beside a boy and his guitar that I had heard the sounds of. My focus changed, I became intrigued with this boy. I wanted to be near him and not near him, I saw him too close, and saw him too far. He glanced at me, his face empty, yet so full of emotion all at once, he looked back down, his bones easy in his flesh, and his relaxed right hand began to play a new tune. I analysed him, His eyes were as dark as twilight, his hair was marbled with shades of brown and black, and his body, lean and tall, was cloistered with great drifts of a tune so sweet.

The melodies spoke to me, and I read each note. The boy was fair of face, his lips full, his eyes sharp, his hair grew in curls to his shoulders and his figure, slender. Each note told me the boys story; the trouble with this boy is that he has looked at the world and had been in the world and of the world for too long, and could not turn away from it, he could not look below, above or to the sides. He knew his every fault, every flaw, every inch of his shadow...
The tune ended. The melody had came to a sudden halt. The boy sucked in the cold autumn air, and released an exhilaration of heat in return. My cheeks fire-fuzzed at his warmth. Why are my cheeks burning up, what is happening! This has never happened with anyone else before. Odd. Curious. I thought this as I touched my now burning cheeks, then purposely let my thoughts go, and the fire was washed away. His face of concentration had faded, and a small smile grew upon his face as replacement and he turned to me, I responded to his smile and applauded.

He parted his lips, and took in some more air.
"October is a rare month. Although, I'm well aware that every month is rare but, there's something about October that makes it that much rarer. Perhaps it is rarer as, maybe, just maybe, it is the month when those who are as fair as this morning and fresh as tomorrow's flowers are ready to approach the world, and to approach the melodies that have slowly been crescendoing in their mind months before. October is the month for those who aren't able to express their outlook on the world during any other month, and together during this rare time we are able to sit in silence and learn about one another, just by listening to the sound of one another's minds. Oh and then November comes around, however, November is much too grand for those who belong in October..."
My eyes flickered, and became wider than before. I was taken aback by his words. But I smiled softly and nodded to the end of each sentence of which he spoke, nevertheless.
"October is golden and grey, light and dark, soft and crisp, chilly and warm, mornings and afternoons, cozy yet cold, and it is the month in which we have met." I paused for a second, thought, and continued, "There are days in autumn that are fatigued with boredom and chattered with cold, but I love those days too. Heck."
The boy chuckled, his breath hit his teeth like a warm summers day, and he raised his slender, pale, left hand and ran it through his mop of curls.
The boy stood and rearranged his guitar so that it's back was pressed against his own.
Amiably, he held the same pale, slender hand as before out to me, and again gave a smile, however this smile that was lighter than the last, this smile was promising. "Maybe we should get coffee sometime."
I grinned, chuckled, and took a firm hold of his hand and lifted myself up to stand beside him, and my face again became a hearth as we stood together. This time, with the reassurance of a promised smile, I did not erase my thoughts and instead took the moment present as a present for the moment.
"Yes. Coffee is always a good idea."
And with that, we were off. We trotted down the road of warm scents of spices and cinnamon, and through a carpet of crisp orange petals. We discussed as we walked further into the distance, until we were only the smallest shadows in the largest frame.

I remember the leaves of gold, yellow and brown falling from the trees,
Just as I was falling for you.