Capable, You Say
By Kay
Disclaimer: KKM is not mine. Sigh.
Author's Notes: Yuuri x Wolfram, one-sided. Drabble. Woe is love. That's about all that's in me tonight, heh. Tentatively set in the unlikely and much feared future that will never, ever come if I keep clapping my hands and believing. XD Enjoy! Thanks for reading!
In the end, Wolfram does not burn the invitation.
His fingers twitch with the impulse every time he glances at the beautifully engraved fold of paper, its elegant cursive stamped in fine, black Mazoku ink. He keeps it on his dresser. It is an attempt to learn control; if he cannot face a mere mention of the wedding, he has no hopes of attending it. Wolfram isn't entirely sure he wants to, but there is also, at the bottom of the card, familiar enough to still bring an ache to his body, Yuuri's scrawled handwriting. A plea. Yuuri does not have the writing hand of a king even now, but maybe that is intentional. Maybe this is how a friend writes to one another. Wolfram isn't sure if that thought comforts him or has the exactly opposite effect yet.
In time, perhaps Wolfram will answer. When he knows what to say.
The summer is sticky, the sky sallow and pregnant with moisture that refuses to fall. Wolfram has been getting used to living again, with himself. He is capable of graciousness and a sincere smile. He can read Conrad's letters without bitterness. He loses his temper easily, but the wounds close, and he lets them. The silent, empty surface of a lake is beautiful. He had been pondering, somewhat wistfully, of sending for Greta to have her stay with him for a month—if there is something Wolfram misses more than Yuuri, it's his daughter, her curls tangled in his fingers and the dancing warmth of her love. Once, she had been the tool to get to his king. Now she is the unconditional he's always longed for, and not having her by his side makes Wolfram feel despondent most mornings.
It had been too much, it seems, for Yuuri to wait long enough for Wolfram to mend himself. Wolfram can't hate him for that, despite everything. Yuuri is not patient; he doesn't know how to yearn. Besides that, Wolfram feels proud that he's standing tall in light of this. Once, he would have been overwhelmed by the simple sheet of paper and now he's only rocked, like a hard wave has hit the stern, and finding his place again.
Wolfram doesn't reply. Not yet. Could he survive it? The ultimate test. He thinks he can. No, he knows—however difficult it may seem—that he's trained well for this exact event.
Wolfram wants just as much as he fears this—moving on, that is. It shouldn't be so easy and so hard at the same time.
(Had it been his own name on the invitation, beside Yuuri's, things would be different—the gold engravings would be edged in blue, the paper richer, heavier—and the days cannot be running out because they are already gone. Once, he would have sealed these envelopes with a drop of blood from his thumb; an old wives tale, to protect the invitations on their way. He would have married with raw fingers wrapped in white bandages.)
He knows Conrad will come soon, hoping to have beaten the post. Wolfram tells himself this, and that he should be ready to wipe his eyes when he hears hoofbeats.