For Bungou Stray Dogs Rarepair Week 2017.
Day 1: Loss
makeshift world
.
Zelda is sitting by the lake again.
Eyes closed, she listens to the rustle of the wind through the leaves of the willow that hovers over her fragile form, to the water flowing beneath feet that dangle from the large stone she has made into her particular shelter. Peaceful, calm; forgotten are the pounds her gaunt body has lost over the last months, slowly seeping back under a skin whose pallor tries to speak of elegance once again.
Francis turns his buzzing phone off as he approaches her, not sparing a glance to the dozens of texts that demand to be read and replied to. Home is not a place to work; his family is what requires his attention and he refuses to take that away from them.
He will not make the same mistake twice.
"Good afternoon, Zelda," he greets, lips curling higher when her eyes open to him. Zelda's hands lean on the flat surface, head lazily hanging back even as her gaze follows her husband sitting down beside her. "How have you been today?"
She closes her eyes again, hums as she thinks of an answer.
"I didn't hear you when you left," is what comes between her lips, the slightest hint of resentment in a voice as ethereal as the water below her.
"I woke up really early," Francis admits, apologetic. "You were so beautiful I didn't want to disturb your sleep."
Sickly cheeks grow the faintest shade of pink. "Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Mister Fitzgerald." But she is smiling.
Francis sighs, eyes taking in everything about his wife– and he doesn't find a single thing he doesn't adore about her.
"Are you sure?"
Zelda opens an eye, teasing. "Don't get so full of yourself just because we got married and had a daughter."
Francis' smile wavers.
Oblivious to it, Zelda's own widens.
"I miss her."
Francis looks away.
Grief does funny things, he muses. Nobody deals with loss the same way; he recalls her daughter's friends crying during her funeral, still has scars all over his knuckles from trying to break a wall with his own hands, helpless screams resounding across far too silent rooms.
Zelda fell ill. She stopped eating, talking; for weeks the mere mention of her little girl was enough to send her into a blind rage, cries and yells that eventually dissolved into sobs into her husband's chest, repeating that it wasn't true, that it couldn't be true. And, when there wasn't enough strength left within her body, a simple name would prompt her to shake her head, silent tears sliding down deathly pale cheeks.
Francis thought she would lose her, too. Thought about a time where wealth had been his only company, and the idea of going back to such an empty life nearly suffocated him.
But Zelda started eating again.
Her grief-stricken soul came up with an alternative truth, trapped her in a world where her daughter had never died. Zelda was convinced the child was still in Europe, studying and healthy; nobody knew where that idea had come from, but whoever was behind it had planted a will to live in her heart again.
And who was Francis to take that away from her?
He raises a hand, threads his fingers through Zelda's hair. "Her teachers are amazed. She is outstanding."
Zelda hums again.
"And I'm proud… I just wish she visited more often."
Francis' smile returns to his face. "She will. I promise, Zelda."
Not long ago, reassuring his wife felt like a stab to his heart. But now, Francis knows the means to make sure his words aren't empty anymore; he is a businessman, he knows every resource available to get what he wants, starting by taking over the Guild earlier than planned. Melville has no problem with it, is even willing to accompany Francis to the other side of the world to help him with everything he can.
Francis will make sure their daughter comes back home.
Tomatoes? Rocks? Comments?