There is a slight burn in the back of his throat, a gentle tug that tries to loosen his lips and tear out a scream.
The blonde grimaces as he stands, eyes tightly shut with tears still seeping out from behind his lashes.
He hastily brushes away the saline drops, unwillingly gazing at a crystal-clear image of his dead lover, peacefully resting in a hospital bed.
Perfect in life, heartbreakingly beautiful in death.
He completed the broken mess that Shulk was, and left him in a worse state.
There is a certain serenity that hovers around the corpse, an aura of peace. Yet the only thing that stirs the air is the chaotic and arrhythmic breath of a new widow.
Death is an eternal rest, a calm end to the storm of life.
He's completely silent, mute and deaf to the world as he stands in a daze, his dream finally ending, a knife cutting through the lovely fog.
Nothing. There is nothing. Nothing to think of, nothing to do, nothing to come home to, nothing waiting.
Nobody would open the door with a smile and peck his cheek and ask about his day.
Nobody would lie awake in bed to one, two, three, telling stories or proclaiming love or quietly laughing or singing or anything, anything at all, really.
Nobody would wake up next to him and sleepily wind his hands through his tangled mess of gold and whisper good morning.
Nobody would be there to smile in exhaustion after long days or to simply lie down and curl up next to.
There is no other heartbeat to listen to, no calming quiet thumps, no pure shallow breaths to listen to at midnight.
He's in a dream as he floats his way home, away from the hospital and into the comfort of his own bed.
He dreams his lover waits for him beneath the silk sheets, dreams of hands that snake around his neck and a warm breath that tickles the tip of his nose. He dreams of the smell of roses and cigarette smoke. He dreams of a steady beat that thuds, loud as a gavel and silent as the sun. He dreams of the skin that hums under his brief touch.
They talk, in his dream. They talk of their life and of their past adventures together and of anything, really.
On and on and on and on a nd on a n d n.
He dreams, and everything is perfect in the dream.
And one day he wakes up to an empty room where the only noise is a wolf howling far off and all he can smell is last night's red wine and for that moment he feels so cold and so alone.
He shudders and reaches over for the warmth of his lover, reaches over to find the empty side of a bed and a cold pillow.
He inhales sharply, as the dream flickers in and out of consiousness.
He's quick to pull the cushion closer, aching for anything to hold onto.
He presses it to his face to stop the hot tears.
It smells of roses and smoke, and for the first time since he's been left a widow, he finally opens his mouth and screams.