A/N: Thanks to my friend Madame15 for inspiring the idea behind this fic.
Donia represents all things cold and icy, and its something Donia prides herself on most days. She doesn't care much for affection but she craves the warmth that follows affection like a person fights to stay alive. The deep rooted reverberations of wanting to be loved echoes in her mind, too loud and too invasive. She doesn't want to hear how badly she craves something she knows she's never going to get, never can have. But it's still something she would actively seek if she wasn't tied down to her responsibilities at hand, mainly being a faerie at the Winter Court.
And then enters Keenan, all overwhelming sunlight and the warmth she wants. A more apt description of Keenan's movements is dramatic and elegant and oh-so-beautiful, almost like a panther ready to pounce.. Suddenly, Donia wants to touch him, to have him melt her heart. Maybe it's not fair to be so helplessly in love with the one who exists to taunt her so ruthlessly but if that's what love does to her, it's definitely worth the work she'd have to go through.
"Donia," Keenan says with a mock icy tone. She's not sure why they're talking or how they should know each other aside from causual court alliances but she doesn't care because the idea of a man like Keenan-warm and intense and the opposite of icy Donia-makes her shiver in the best way possible.
"Keenan," she replies, keeping her voice even. She decides to ignore his mocking tone because she's too interested in studying his face.
"Would you like to talk?" Keenan asks, keenly aware of Donia's intense gaze.
"Sure!" She says too quickly and then she coughs to cover up her over enthusiastic speech. Keenan allows himself to grin slightly and that's when they talk about life, about being a faerie and everything in between. They decide that the chats they share are the best parts of their day and they promise to do this every day at the same time. She can't believe her luck.
These chats with Keenan make Donia wary, only because she sure there's something he's hiding from her. She can never figure it out but she's almost sure she can bring herself to care. They are on neutral ground, away from everything that constricts them to mere labels.
Today, Keenan and Donia's chat is the longest it's ever been and the next thing she's aware of is a mortal motel. It's dingy and gross, as if it hasn't been cleaned since it opened years and years ago. It isn't like Donia cares because she's burning with the warmth she's been craving for too long and she's entangled in him. Donia's pretty sure this is the best decision of her life, kissing and touching him like this.
When they're done, all out of breath and with satisfied grins, all Donia gets is a note in Keenan's plain but noticeably bold and legible writing by her side where his body should be: We can't. Sorry.
She hasn't cried harder in her life.