The room was quiet. It wasn't an unsettling, eerie silence, just… comfortable. The night was still, Paris was sleeping, and the only sounds that resonated were those of the gentle breaths coming from the girl hunched over her desk, still wearing her clothes from earlier in the day. She looked sad - even in her sleep there was a melancholy to her face. The moonlight danced across her pale face, shimmering on her hair and casting a company of shadows across all of the contours of her face. She had fallen asleep drawing - a pencil clutched in one hand, and a notebook resting half-shoved beneath herself.

In the quiet dark, the boy gazed at her from her window. He hadn't intended to stay here as long as he'd already been - sitting perched just on the windowsill, his eyes training over and over her small form - watching her body move gently with the rise and fall of her chest - he had just come to check on her. He found himself doing this often, coming to her window in the dead of night just to make sure she was okay. Sometimes she was awake, scrambling to finish some schoolwork, or working intently on a design for one clothing piece or another, but other times she was like this, having become too tired to continue her work and falling asleep where she sat.

Tonight was unusual, though. Normally, the boy would have leapt onto her balcony, stayed for a moment, and then departed - but tonight he stayed. Tonight he watched the moonlight dance a waltz in her hair, hair that had become disheveled and had slipped from the usual pigtail style that she wore it in, draping half across her face and over her shoulders. Tonight he watched the shadows as they grew and changed, ever-changing as the night rolled on. Tonight he pressed his hand gently against the window and, giving it the slightest pressure, found that it opened for him.

Hesitation, fear, anxiety - he felt it all come to him as the window quietly squeaked open. He should close the window and leave - he shouldn't have stayed this long. He shouldn't have come at all. This was stupid - he had someone that he…

The wind billowed past him, flowing into the window, and he watched as it reached out, dancing its icy fingers up the girls spine, sending a shiver through her body that caused her to curl in on herself and shift, her pencil dipping lazily out of her hand and rolling across the desk. He darted in, catching it as it sauntered off the desk and plummeted - it wouldn't have made much noise but she…

He was standing beside her now - he could see more clearly her face as the moonlight played on her skin. Rosy pink on her cheeks, under her eyes, the light flitting across tracks of tears that had dried hours ago but left their mark on her skin. Tears clung to her eyelashes, and he wanted nothing more than to wake her up and demand to know who had put them there, who had caused her such sorrow that she had fallen asleep crying about them.

He felt something snap in his hand and looked down - he hadn't realized he'd been clenching his fists so tightly - the pencil had cracked in half under his flashing anger and he felt regret at leaving evidence that he'd been there. He tucked the broken pencil quickly into his pocket, he'd have to find a way to fix it before he left, but for now…

He found himself crouching beside her, watching her sleep. This was the closest he'd been to her during these late-night visits. He'd never dared to come inside before, but tonight… something had compelled him to try that window - to let himself in just to watch her. She was so small - he'd never quite noticed it before, never quite observed how her eyes, so big and so bright - so full of life that they lit up when she spoke - consumed most her face, but here, now, with them closed so gently, she looked so frail. She looked like she'd break if he got too close.

With a gentle breath, she stirred, shifting and pushing her notebook away from her body - turning her head away as she readjusted herself on her desk. How could she sleep so comfortably, half-hunched onto the surface of the desk, nothing to keep her warm - nothing soft to rest her head upon, the spirals of her notebook digging at her porcelain skin as her arm stretched across it?

Curiosity took hold of him, and he crept to a better angle at her side, peering over her at the neglected notebook, feeling a swell in his chest as he gazed down at what she'd been working on.

The sketch was dark, a simple black-and-white piece, but he could feel the warmth pour off of it as his eyes scanned every visible line. He remembered this place, this night, these feelings. His heart ached, both in sadness and in… something else. Something new - or maybe it was old but was sleeping within him, but it hurt more than the sadness that pitted his stomach and sent his throat feeling dry. It hurt him deeper than anything he'd felt before.

Unable to help himself, he gently lifted her arm, careful not to wake her, and stole the sketchbook away from her sleeping form, he just wanted - needed - a better look. He'd put it back when he as done, but he needed to see it.

The rooftop in the drawing was an all-too-familiar sight - he'd spent many nights there once he'd discovered the magnificent view and privacy it afforded, it was a place of quiet solitude and, at times, self-reflection. He had sat on that very roof while searching for answers about himself, about her, and about… His mind danced away from the subject as he ran a thumb across the drawing, careful not to smudge the pencil. The railings on the rooftop were adorned in roses, dancing in a light cast by the candles they surrounded, petals drawn with such delicacy that they almost looked real. He felt like he could stroke a finger across them and feel the soft, velvety texture even now. His gaze coasted down the railings and found the center focus - his own melancholic expression.

This had been the night that he'd worked hard for; he had prepared so much, gathering everything for weeks beforehand, and hoping beyond hope that the person he'd done all of this work for would appreciate it - appreciate him. When he had found himself alone and feeling sorry for himself on that rooftop, that's when he'd seen her. She had been wearing the same expression he saw in this drawing - a distant longing in her shimmering eyes that were normally so bright, her smile long-faded after a disappointing day of heartbreak. He'd felt the same pull to her then that he did now, he realized, as he glanced up to make sure she was still sleeping. He watched her eyelids twitch against a dream that had consumed her, her face twisted into an expression that he couldn't identify, and saw the tears, now playing with the very tips of her eyelashes, threatening to scatter and fall at any moment, glint in the moonlight.

His heart ached again, and he found himself forcing his eyes away from her face, pulling himself back to the drawing. Her sketch was so gentle, so light, but every stroke made his chest swell with that same new emotion. She had fallen asleep, crying, while drawing this. Why?

Why why why? His head spun, this had been months ago - so long that he'd nearly forgotten how much that time with her had meant to him when he was so in need of a friend. It had been all but wiped away by recent events, but now he felt the memory bloom anew, this ache in his chest growing as he melted back into that feeling from that night. He'd been so disappointed, so ready to give up on that person. So ready to take out his anger, his frustration, his sadness on them. When he'd seen her, just a few buildings away, staring at the same starlit sky that he'd poured his very soul into that night, he'd gone to her. Without a second thought, he'd gone to her - and he had consoled her when she was at her lowest, just as she tried to do for him not long after. That night had been important to him - how could he let himself forget it? That night had spurred all the others - had encouraged him to come and see her, even when she didn't know it, if only for a moment, for months after.

That night had brought him here now.

He closed the sketchbook. His chest felt like it was going to burst if he stared at the drawing for even a second longer, and he couldn't take it. He made his way back to her desk, slipping the notebook onto the surface, and moved to take his leave. He needed to go - to let the night air sap away at this feeling, to take it away from him. It didn't feel bad, it wasn't a negative feeling, but it was so powerful, so overwhelming - he didn't want to feel like this anymore.

When he was halfway to the window, he paused, hand half-outstretched to open it once more. The ache had grown in those few footsteps, and he now found himself wheeling around, looking at her, gazing at her dark hair, at the way the shadows made her so much smaller, so much frailer, so much more.

She made a sound, half between a squeak and a cry, and her hand twitched, grasping for something but finding nothing. He wanted to go to her, to pick her up and soothe whatever demons were plaguing her in the night, to pull her into his arms and tell her that everything would be alright. He wanted to be selfish - to hold her like he'd never held anything before - to take her into himself and keep her safe from everything. But then, he thought back to the drawing, to her tears, to the flecks and speckles he'd noticed smudged into the lines, who would keep her safe from me?

The sound came again, this time accompanied by a shudder that wracked her body and a groan. He thought for a moment that she might awaken, but she remained where she was - curled into herself and reaching for something that seemed to escape her in her dreamworld. Her face was twisting, contorting away from the melancholy he'd seen moments ago into something darker - a sadness that seemed to consume her whole being. He could feel it coming off of her in waves, and thought back to someone he'd saved before. That hadn't been a fluke, that had been opportunity, and he couldn't allow opportunity to strike here. To strike her.

Before he could stop himself, his feet were dragging him towards her, all swagger and bravado by the wayside - his hand, still outstretched, now reached for her. Gently, ever-so gently, he hoisted her into his arms, supporting her small frame against his chest and feeling her curl into his warmth - her hands clutching into his chest, grasping onto him like her life depended on him. Her eyelashes were wet with tears again, and he felt them against his body as she pressed her face against his chest - he held her tighter, hoping to take the pain away.

He carried her up to her bed, never faltering, never halting, as he clutched her tightly, sinking into the mattress with her still in his arms. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, found himself watching as her eyes darted behind closed eyelids, tracing the features of her face with his eyes as he gently laced his fingers through her hair, stroking and soothing - calming her fears while she slept.

It was wrong - so much of this felt so wrong - but he just wanted to be there, he wanted to stay and hold her tightly until all of the troubles of the world, all of her troubles, were swept away and never returned. No matter the reason that she had cried, no matter if it had been because of him, he wanted to stay there for her. He wanted to be here when she awoke, to sit beside her and see her smile again like she had smiled at him that night. Even if he had to take all of her sadness into himself, he wanted to take it all away.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, cradling her against himself, it felt like minutes. It felt like hours. Days. Weeks. Time moved at an immeasurable rate, speeding up and slowing down, halting and racing, dancing and twirling around him. He could hear her heart beating against him, sometimes hammering, sometimes soft and fluttering. Whatever nightmare was plaguing her, he wanted to tear it away - cast it off into the darkest depths of the world - and leave her serene.

"Cat…"

He shuddered, an icy chill running up his spin as he felt her hands twist and grasp tightly against him. His limbs felt numb, and he nearly dropped her from his grasp as she writhed against his chest, burying her face into him. He heard her breathe deeply, as though she was taking in the whole of him, his smell, his feel, his aura. He was going to burst. The aching, burning feeling in his heart swelled to cataclysmic levels, threatening to consume him on the spot. He felt cold despite it all, and felt the sadness of that night wash over him.

Drowning in his own self-pity, wanting to scream his own sorrows from the rooftops. He wanted to run, to hide, to leap from her window and off into the night, never to return. How could one girl, one simple, plain girl do this to him? How could she twist him up inside so much, so much so that he wanted to disappear, to let the feelings in chest implode and suck him inside, vanishing him from the planet, from his despair.

"Cat…"

But he couldn't do that.

If not because of himself, but because of her. Because he was the cause of her sorrow, the cause of the dreams that now plagued her in the dark.

"I'm here," he whispered, and, despite his own hesitation, planted a kiss gently against her forehead.

He couldn't hide himself away, couldn't disappear into the darkness and leave her like this. Whether it was right, or whether it was wrong, he had to stay. Maybe not here, maybe not now, maybe not forever - but for as long as he could, he had to stay.

And just for a moment, just for once, just for her, he would be selfish.

I'm not saying I blame anyone on here, I'm just saying that I was partially on board with Marichat, and then I read the fluffiest fic I've ever seen in my 25 years of existence and here we are.

Advanced thanks to anyone that sits through and reads all of this - sorry it's a bit of a mess, I'm in the middle of packing to move and got blindsided by an idea following a rewatch of Glaciator that spawned literally the last line of the fic and I then had to write around that, so there's definitely a lot missing from this that leaves much to be desired.

However, I'm pleased with the product of an hour of effort, so I'm just gonna go with it. Are we too far-gone to start using yolo again? 'Cause yolo.