Disclaimer: I don't own Princess Tutu, nor any characters used in this story.
Written to the song "Aftermath" by Vancouver Sleep Clinic
Trigger warning: Brief mentions of blood/violence
i.
He doesn't realize it until he sees her sinking into the inky black waters that he's in love with her.
It's not even an immediate thought, at first. Just a deep terror that quakes hisbones as she drifts further and further away at the idea that he will lose her,and the desperation that fills him because he cannot let this happen. Theletter opener lays nearby, inconspicuously enough, and in his mind there is no need to hesitate. The pain burns in its intensity, blood hot and stinging on his palm, but nothing compared to the pain he knows may still be coming.
So he wraps his hand and flees, because if there is any coherency in his mind, it is that he cannot lose her.
ii.
Her eyes are filled with tears and they're so, so blue. It makes his heart ache, seeing her like this. She's usually so filled with joy that it's actually jarring, and all Fakir thinks is that this is terribly, terribly wrong.
So he grabs her hand gently, and pulls her up, because she's always loved dancing and he's always been bad with words. But somehow it's simple when talking to her; it's nearly effortless to pour out his insecurities and fears to her as he leads her through a pas de deux that even he himself does not really consider the significance of.
When he tells her that he'll stay by her side forever, the words come easily.
iii.
Fakir has carried her before, both as a girl and as a duck, but he's never realized how small she is.
He cradles her close to his chest, careful of her broken wing, and as she falls asleep in his ink-stained hands, he weeps.
iv.
Fakir grumbles every day without fail, because every day without fail she manages to get water on his parchment when she comes fluttering out of the pond and lands in his lap. But he's never actually angry, and she knows this, because he always makes sure to gently stroke the downy feathers on her head as he scolds her carelessness.
She still manages to snore even as a duck, and he sighs fondly. He looks up to the sky, and much like her, the sun is warm.
v.
Fall arrives swiftly, and Fakir has forgotten how cold the wind can blow. It seems foreign to him, the changing seasons, for he has lived most of his life in a perpetually temperate spring. He takes to bundling her inside his coat when they go on walks together, but she still insists on swimming in the pond so he bundles up with a scarf and jacket and hunkers down on the dock.
One day he nearly breaks a quill nib when a gunshot rings through the crisp October air, and he's in such a frenzy when the birds all scatter that when he spots her amongst the chaos he can barely force his voice out. She flies to him instantly, and as he tucks her quickly into his coat, he fights to keep his hands from trembling.
They don't go back to the pond much more, after that.
vi.
She's restless in the winter.
Fakir can see it in the way she fluffs her feathers, in the longing stares she gives the window. Sometimes it worries him, because sometimes she is very much a duck and the thought that he is the only one who remembers their story is a very frightening one. But he calls her name and she waddles to his side and when she looks up at him with those eyes from the crook of his arm when he reads to her, he can see in them that she knows, and he breathes easier.
vii.
He never saw her with her hair down.
It's such a silly thing to mourn, he thinks, and yet as he lays there in the night with the moonlight streaming through the curtains he closes his eyes and regrets.
viii.
Every other morning they go to the bakery for fresh bread. The baker knows them, and every other morning pats her on the head and gives her a fresh dinner roll to nibble as they continue about their errands. She sits perched on his shoulder as they wander through the shops and stalls, and Fakir holds up every bit of produce to her so that she can confirm its freshness. People give them odd looks, but he can't find it in himself to care since she never once has picked a bad tomato.
As they wander through the town she will peck lightly at his cheek or tug at his hair when she spots something she wants to explore, such as flowers at the florist's stall or an interesting shape in the clouds. He indulges her and smiles, because some things will never change and in this he finds great comfort.
ix.
Sometimes he thinks of her, of how she used to be, and aches.
Her face is starting to fade. Fakir can still recall her smile and the freckles of her nose and the crinkle of her brow, but he grows scared that his mind is romanticizing the red of her hair. His mind is like a photograph; crisp in brief moments but hazy around the edges. He doesn't want to forget.
It is in these moments the temptation is greatest. He will sit at his desk with his quill in his hand, poised and ready and so very, very tempted. But he'll hear her snoring, will remember their dance, and somehow he finds the strength to put his pen down.
x.
It's been a long time since the story ended, but Fakir will still wake some nights, shaking and gasping for air. The reasons will vary—sometimes it's flashbacks to the cruelty he'd shown Mytho, sometimes it's still that damned vision of the knight being torn in two, but many times it's a cocktail of horrors unique to his own mind: memories of threatening her, of holding that shard of glass to her throat, of wielding his sword with her on the other end, of her small, broken body laying still in his hands.
But sometimes it's simply her. Her laughter, her smile, the warmth of her small hand in his own, the feel of her tight in his arms—the memories swarm him, drown him in an ugly, jealous rage. Why can't she get her happy ending? Is she not the one who had given the most, had suffered the most without asking for a single thing but others' happiness?
It is usually then that she awakens beside him with a soft but concerned quack, and he assures her he is fine. But she knows him, can read him with ease, and he can see the understanding in her eyes. So she cuddles up beside him and nuzzles his cheek with a reassuring quack, and pretends that she can't feel the tears on her feathers. And he is grateful.
xi.
It is early summer and they are back on the lake. Fakir can hear her splashing in the water below, and he decides to write a story. He spends all afternoon writing until he feels her tug at the hem of his pants in a signal to lift her up. He sets aside his writing and obliges, and the two spend the rest of the day watching the clouds.
After many hours he asks her, "Are you happy?" To which she replies with a quack, but he sees in her eyes her answer. They're blue as the sky and just as warm, and he feels his heart flutter. It's a silly question to ask her, especially after so long, but to see in her eyes what he feels in his heart helps to ease his worried mind.
When the sun starts to set he takes her home and they eat dinner together in a comfortable silence, and that night she curls into the crook of his neck with a sigh and with this, Fakir thinks, he can be happy.