'I wonder… what do I think of you, Fakir?'

He had raised that question, early that morning, even though he knew he would only receive the same answer as always. Fakir never seemed to like discussing this sort of thing– or anything really.

Whenever he speaks of feelings, Fakir's very deliberate calm always breaks, and he turns aggressive, pushing and pulling and forcing him against mirrors and demanding he look at how ugly these feelings have turned him, see how this sorrow contorts your features, see how it ruins your peace, isn't it ugly?! Is this what you want?!

It did not mean anything, when he was heartless. He did not even wonder, then, why Fakir behaved this way, so uncharacteristically rough and violent, as if it were a great and dangerous matter he was warning him against. He did not question anything, because he had lost even the ability to wonder. Or rather, he did not feel the need to know.

Now…

It was still only some small part of him wondering, but it was still no presing need– it only came to rest, heavily, on his shoulder when he was alone, but it departed lightly and gently when Rue and Fakir gave him orders. They decided most things for him, shouldn't they also give him a good answer that will satisfy this wondering and put it to rest?

But asking was, perhaps, a mistake–

The way he felt in Fakir's presence before Fakir gripped his face and cornered him, shouting abuse, was markedly different. Fakir released him as soon as he felt him trembling.

—

Fakir did not allow him to go to the ballet.

He was left entertaining his half-heated specter of wonderings.

—

Fakir changed his mind and permitted him, seemingly in an off-handed manner, but he could feel a familiar, nostalgic warmth in Fakir's manner, even through the gruff words, and he smiled knowingly.

(This seemed to embarrass Fakir, who mumbled an insult, but it did nothing to dampen the fondness in Mytho's chest.)

His one condition was not to listen to Rue.

—

Mytho peacefully watched the recital without wondering anything, losing himself in the dance as always; even if he was not physically on-stage, it worked just as well.

Could it be said that he loved dancing, that he enjoyed it? He could not answer that definitively, but he knew he needed it, in much the same way one needed water or air.

Rue prompted him to dance with Ahiru when the awkward girl was brought on-stage, but not desiring to be barred from attending such events in the future, he ignored it.

All was well…

All was well, until he was suddenly seized by an overwhelming emotion, heart railing against his ribs like a caged beast, the surrounding air was all at once heavy and startlingly electric, throwing his all his senses into high alert; suddenly, everything was unbearable– the crowd too stifling, the stage too, bright, the people were too many, everything was a thrown into whirlwind of panic, wings beating frantically, unable to break from a course set by the storm.

He could only stand, above the suffocating crowd, with head raised like one who is drowning, struggling for breath– and scream, transfixed by fear.

There were whispers, forceful words, strong arms cradling him like a child, but nothing reached him through the raging winds.

"Damn that Princess Tutu!"

With a name to his fear, his feelings found a voice, and he awoke from the storm, still winded, to find himself tightly grasping that familiar warmth like a lifeline, as if Fakir's warmth might imbue what his his heart needed to break from fear's icy vice-grip.

"I'm scared. I'm s-scared…"

"Calm down!"

They're on their knees now, he realized faintly, outside, was it the bridge? Mytho was still clinging to Fakir's back, Fakir was now stroking his hair, but the image of a kind smile, peach hair, white feathers, and trailing ribbon still haunted him for the pain she brought.

"It's okay! I'm the only one here!" Fakir's voice softened then and he shifted so he could watch Mytho's expression, without breaking the embrace. "What is it? What are you afraid of? Tell me."

"Tutu–" Mytho choked out the words, breathless. "I'm afraid– of Princess Tutu!"

After all, she was always the one chipping away at his fragile white walls and draining the security of his heartless existence, shard after shard. It was not the water he was choking on, but the air of the world beyond his shell, fraught with fear and uncertainty.

Without a heart, he could not feel Fakir's warmth, now soothing him with a steady embrace and stroking hand; but unburdened by a heart, he never felt the icy stabs of fear to feel need for that soothing touch, now quelling the startled beats of his heat to a synchronous rhythm, before sending him softly to dreamless sleep.

The world beyond the shell was both warmer, more affectionate and colder, more frightening than anything he had known.