Basch Zwingli stood in his window, staring out at the melancholy view that his tiny budget could get him. The skies were grey, the grass was dead and parched, and the tombstones were contrasted with the brown grass in perfect, macabre order.
Nearly everything in the view was perfect. Thought the headstones looked different, they were perfectly aligned, spiraling out in a perfectly measured starburst from the mausoleum in the center. The gates stood tall, rarely ever closed, and, as everything else was uniform, so was it's only visitor. He always appeared, no matter the weather - which was odd, considering that, at least in his outward appearance, he seemed like the kind that hated being ruffled.
He wore an ascot, for god's sake.
But, Basch found himself gazing out his window from 5:30 to 6 in the morning for this man to come, place a hand on the final stone in the final row. He unfailingly put a bundle of morning lilies (Basch's sister's favorite) to rest on the grave, and he stayed like that, head bowed, murmuring to the person that rested there. It was a constant in Basch's life, and the Swiss man enjoyed constants.
After a year of silently watching the man in what certainly was a private ceremony, the man seemed to sense him for the first time. He looked up at Basch through shining square spectacles.
His eyes were a remarkable shade of violet.
For a moment, Basch stared back at the stranger. He was sure he looked like a deer in the headlights. It took less than a second of this awkward staring contest for Basch's flight or flight instinct to kick in. But instead of moving away from the window or just dropping the curtain, he raised his hand in a silent wave, his face relaxing into a… fairly… pleasant expression. The brunette on the ground blinked at him for a moment, then turned and walked off.
This soon became the constant. And Basch's morning stalker-moment became less and less pleasant and more and more aggravating as, though the stranger would always look up at him, he never returned the wave, and basically just blinked at him every time.
Until the spring of the following year, that is.
It was just after an incredible rain. The ground was muddy, the grass actually green for once. Birds sang, squirrells played, and the sun was barely peeking over the trees. The man had left the lilies on the grave, and he was smiling as he started to leave. He glanced up at Basch, and Basch raised a hand. The man adjusted the ascot around his neck, then with a radiant smile in Basch's direction, he raised his hand in a wave.
Basch couldn't help it. As soon as the man had turned his back, he broke out in a wide grin. The rest of his day - from dropping his sister off a her high school that he had only graduated from two years before, to going to work at the bank, his day was brightened by a man he didn't know the name of.
Of course, the world had to crush his happiness the moment it noticed it. The world never had been kind to him.
Lili had falling ill. They said she wouldn't survive. His work understood, and he was allowed to stay at the hospital with her.
She only had a few weeks.
Three weeks later, he stood in his apartment, staring at the patch of bare dirt visible outside his window. There lied Lili Zwingli, passed away at barely seventeen years old.
As he stared blankly, movement caught his eye. The man stepped through the iron gates. He stopped at the grave he always stopped at and left the bundle of Morning Lilies he always left. Nothing was different, and Basch didn't know whether to scream at his ability to live on when everything in his life had been shattered, or to weep with relief that one thing stayed the same.
But then the man continued walking, instead of speaking to his loved one. He placed another bundle of lilies, one Basch hadn't seen before on the bare patch where his sister lay, then looked up at the blonde in the window, a grin on his face.
Basch stared for a moment, then sprinted from the room, down the stairs and to the cemetary gates. He didn't notice the tears rolling down his cheeks.
He also didn't know what he'd say when he got there, but the stranger did, apparently. Normally he would be very disturbed, and probably shoot anyone who tried to hug him at any other moment. But right now… he really needed a hug.
"My name's Roderick. This," he said, gesturing at the grave that always set next to him, the one he visited every day, "is Gilbert."
"Zwingli. Basch Zwingli. That's my… my sister." he choked out, pulling away and looking at the stone in front of him.
"Well, Basch, would you like to get some coffee sometime?"