He's curled up in bed, a blanket haphazardly flung aside as he loudly sobs in the darkness.
A clock tower tolls twice in the distance as his sobs slowly decrescendo into gentle rain.
He sniffs, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, not caring that it'd do nothing, that his vision didn't clear at all.
He glances outside, noting the beauty of the stars, the clouds silhouetted against the moon, lazily drifting across the night sky.
He grabs a nearby jacket, not sure if it was his or his lover's, and hastily pulls it on as he makes his way on unsteady legs towards the glass.
He sees his reflection, marred by grief and tears, damp saltwater matting his blonde hair. The light dances across his vision, seeping into the rain that hasn't yet fallen, and God, the jacket. It's Maru's, and it smells like the damned Altean. Reeking of cologne and roses and a sort of haze.
He can hear the sass, gently taunting in the way only he could with his vaguely accented English. Crying over me, Shuru? Again?
If he closes his eyes, he could remember so many distant memories of the blue-haired prince.
Together. Whole. Complete.
Alive.
He remembers standing side by side, pressing into Marth's side as they shivered together before the window, looking at the winter night.
He remembers drawing the curtains and turning to find Marth dead asleep, glasses askew on his face and a drop of drool barely missing the pages of the book.
He remembers the gentle kisses they'd share every good night, the quiet gazes between dusk and dawn, comforting each other over nightmares with soft words and hugs and whispered promises of safety.
He remembers the way his partner would gasp and murmur "Aishiteru," into his bare skin, the way it felt to hold his hands and to kiss him, standing on his toes to compensate for the slight distance.
He remembers Marth, whole and lovely and alive, and staggers back from the window.
"It hurts." He declares to the empty air as invisible knives drive themselves through every fiber of his being.
He drops to his knees and begins to laugh as tears roll down his cheeks, uncontrollable.
God, he's cold. So, so cold.
His breath seems to fog the empty air and he laughs, laughs as he cries and freezes, surrounded by the smell of roses in the moon's spotlight.
He's exhausted, suddenly. Tired, of all the grief and mourning and arrangements and cancelled trips and plans and dates. Tired of being angry at how the world stole the only person he ever loved.
He closes his eyes and sleepily wonders if anyone would find him.