of the sun | {erron/abraham}

e r r o n ;

Silver to gold, night pulled itself over the horizon, promised him it would be back. Erron sat on the bank of the gazebo, guilt and anger and embarrassment burning his cheeks before the rising sun had the chance to.

Iris and Oliver would have been looking for him, he was sure, but instead of finding them and his parents and telling them he was fine, he allowed the water to lap at his feet. He watched as fish broke the surface of the water, mosquito hawks buzz just over the still liquid. Birds began to chip in the surrounding tree, natural light taking over the fairy lights of the gazebo in the lake's heart.

Red cheeks, and he was out of cigarettes. He felt the mud squish between his toes when he finally decided to head back, gaze on the ground.

("I should go.")

Who was Erron to stop him?

Two weeks and five days had passed since rooftops and rain and midnight lips locked together, and Erron hardly thought about it anymore. He never learned to stop loving fire, even when he got burned. New constellations were made every day, hearts were broken and babies were born and some people lived while others lived.

Erron had already started his job as the drama teacher at the Abadeer Institute, and the kids seemed to be getting over the fact that he was young enough to date and old enough to be experienced, as well as the fact that he had no idea what the fuck he was doing. Iris had gotten her first report card: banner role, and Erron hadn't even had to tamper with her grades. Life went on, he guessed.

And sometimes it came back full circle.

Surface of the sun, his feet burned with every step he took toward the Zodiia mansion. Oliver had already climbed onto his back against his will, and his mother carried the covered food in her hands like it contained a very, very important secret.

He fought the urge to laugh.

The only secret in that pan was his mother's inability to cook.

Iris wore a pleated skirt, long hair pulled back into a braid. Erron hated how mature she was beginning to look, as he still expected to see a little girl with over sized eyes when he looked at her. She stuck her tongue out at him and he rolled his eyes.

He could see the house from here.

"I still don't know why it is necessary for me to be here," he grumbled. His mother popped her lips in protest. "Well, I still don't know why it is suddenly such a problem for you."

Sometimes love brought flowers, and others it built coffins, and Erron never wanted to see which it would offer him. That was why he wasn't interested in seeing the boy who ran.

"Because I have no reason to go to these things anymore. I'm twenty years old, you know," his voice was bathed in bitterness. It was still better than the truth, though.

"There are worse things you could do than spend time with your family and some friends."

They aren't my friends, he thought. But he didn't speak. Again: it was better than the truth.

When they got to the front door, Oliver hopped down and beat on the door with eagerness. "Olly," his mother whispered, "That is enough." Erron hoped they weren't home. Or that they would ignore the knock, or that maybe they wouldn't hear it. He hoped this could be avoided.

Someone opened the door.

Just. Fucking. Perfect.