Author's Note: Ah, my first Tutu fiction. Maybe this will get me working on my Tutu collaboration. And then again, maybe not. In any event, this story was born from re-watching Episode Eight: The Warrior's Fountain.
Summary: He was still a mean person to whom it seemed a second nature to be threatening. Yet for some reason, as his back retreated, all she could remember was his gentle touch, his quiet voice, and his very tasty bread. (Fakir/Ahiru)
Disclaimer: Princess Tutu does not belong to me and it never will.
She stared up into his deep green eyes defiantly; she might just be a duck but that didn't change how she felt about him. He was a mean person to whom it seemed a second nature to be threatening. Everything he said and did to her was meant to hurt, to deter, to make her despair. He did everything with a grave, cruel purpose. He restrained Mytho, he bossed everyone around, he pushed everyone away.
Ahiru could not stand him. It didn't matter how handsome he was. It didn't matter how his eyes glimmered with hot, passionate feelings. It didn't matter how his hair swayed in the wind. It didn't matter how well he danced, how perfect he looked. None of it mattered when he had such a horrible personality, such a condescending nature.
She plopped herself down on the grass and narrowed her big blue eyes as best she could. She thought she saw a ghost of a smile on Fakir's stony face but it was gone so quickly she was not sure if it had really been there. Fakir patted her head gently and tossed her some breadcrumbs. Why was he acting so nice? Fakir wasn't a nice person. He was so gentle taking her outside though. Did that count for something?
She nudged the breadcrumbs suspiciously and warily took a small bite of one. Ahiru thought she heard a faint chuckle from Fakir but when she looked up his face was as stern and as cold as ever. There were no soft sides to Fakir. He was all rough edges and that made it so easy for him to push everyone away. She wondered how he was able to embrace Mytho as his friend with such rough edges.
Ahiru didn't want to admit it, but Fakir puzzled her. She ate another breadcrumb. He said something but she did not really hear it. He spoke in such a quiet voice, such a calm, sweet voice that it caught her off-guard. Fakir was none of those things. Why did he speak like that? Ahiru did not know. She could not understand.
Eventually, Fakir stood up again and tossed the rest of the crusty bread to her. She was sure she saw a half-smile there but it faded far too quickly. As she munched on the breadcrumbs and watched him stride away, Ahiru could not make a coherent thought. Fakir confused her. He acted so differently in every possible situation. Sometimes he seemed like a perfect gentleman; other's, he was the worst possible criminal.
She gave up trying to sort out her thoughts. Her opinion had not changed. He was still a mean person to whom it seemed a second nature to be threatening. Yet for some reason, as his back retreated, all she could remember was his gentle touch, his quiet voice, and his very tasty bread.