A/N: Hello all! This was written for lilac butterflies' Summer Theme Competition at the HPFC Forum. My prompt was midsummer, and I chose to make it a Molly/Lysander drabble-esque type oneshot. And of course, the quote comes from William Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Really, how could I get midsummer and NOT incorporate that in somehow? :)


I know a bank where the wild thyme blows...

- William Shakespeare


"Lysander?"

Wisps of sweet smelling grass brush his cheek as he twists his head to look at her. She's smiling softly and her face is alight in the late evening sunlight leaking over then both, and his heart stutters a little before he gathers himself enough to speak.

"Yeah?"

Her smile widens and his breath catches again. "Nothing." She curls herself so she's facing him, her head pillowed in a slim hand. "I just wanted to say your name."

He laughs just because he can, and she of course, joins in, and in the distance, over the hill, the air quivers with them, shaking with mirth. Everything around them feels like a dream. They're caught in a haze of color and light and dancing shadows, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

The laughter eventually dies down and he watches her eyes drift shut through his own half lidded eyes.

Molly's a simple looking girl. He loves her of course, but he's always been rather direct about things (he gets that particular talent from his mother). Her hair's brown. Not chestnut, like Rose. Not red like Lily's. Her eyes are brown. Not ice blur like Dominique's, or amber like Roxanne's. To the ordinary viewer, there is nothing extraordinary about her.

But here, in the sunlight, it's like the world is trying to make her the way he sees her in his mind. Gold is drifting into the hollows of her throat and every curve of her cheek, gilding her hair, scattering glitter on the length of every eye lash. He watches her grow luminous in front of his eyes, until she is so radiant it hurts to look straight at her.

He doesn't take his gaze away.

His entire life has been comprised of almosts. Almost funny as his father. Almost as wise as his mother. Almost as fast as Lorcan. Until he met her, and she gave him a reason to be Lysander.

He realizes she's asleep when he takes her hand and her breathing remains steady. He whispers her name to confirm the fact and even though her body curls into his and her lips part, no sound escapes.

There are undoubtedly better things that they could be doing with their time right now. No doubt her cousins and his friends are out discovering cures and inventing machines, tearing into the season with eager hands instead of letting it wash over them.

But it's midsummer, and the days are so long it seems that he is born each morning and grows ancient by the time the sun sets. So as he pulls her closer, closes his eyes, and falls into darkness, he thinks that they can spare some time to waste.