Written for lyriette on tumblr.
The prompt:
"...sometimes fakir would write stories saying the both of them would have a shared lucid dream together that night when they fell asleep, and maybe in their dreams ahiru could be a girl and they could chat and dance and do many things they can't in the waking world?"
Rating: K+
Genres: Romance, angst(ish)
He drops his quill with slightly trembling fingers, nervous excitement humming through his veins. This is okay, isn't it? He misses her terribly. Guilt claws at his insides but he's too tired to care, pushing back from his desk as his chair loudly squeals against the hardwood floor. He winces and turns to see if he's woken her, but Ahiru is still curled beside his pillow, one wing over her head and back bobbing steadily up and down with steady breaths. He lets out a slow breath of his own because he's grateful that he hasn't woken her; if he had, he wouldn't have the will to go through with this.
Fakir quietly puts out the lamp on his desk and at once the room is flooded with inky blues and the cool grey light of the moon. He shuffles to bed, too anxious to change and too exhausted to care. He prays that it works, and hopes that he can live with himself in the morning.
He awakens at the lake.
Fakir is perched in his favorite chair, portable desk in his lap and quill in his hand and the sun burning on his cheeks. At first he thinks that he's merely awoken from a dream, a simple fleeting thought in the late morning sun, but then he sees her.
She's kneeling at the edge of the pond, throwing crumbs at the birds who drift among the lake's rippling surface. Her hair is long and red, catching the light to shimmer in a thousand different shades. Her voice is soft and somewhat off tune as she hums a song under her breath, and all at once Fakir jumps to his feet, writing utensils clattering loudly on the wooden dock.
Ahiru turns to see him running to her, eyes as blue as a May morning and cheeks flushed red with surprise.
"Ah, Fakir!" She squeaks as he engulfs her in his arms, tight and disbelieving.
"It worked," He murmurs, burying his face into her hair. He tightens his hold around her slim shoulders. "I can't believe it worked."
"What worked?" She asks, and her voice is as sweet as anything he's ever heard.
"My story." He says. "I wrote a story."
"You did?" She quacks, cerulean eyes wide and so, so beautiful. He wants to kiss her in this moment, but he refrains.
"I did," He confesses. "I don't want to make you human in the real world. It's risky, and I don't want to take the chance of hurting you in the process. But also…I know that you want to stay as a duck. We promised each other that we'd be our true selves."
An almost bitter laugh bubbles from his throat but the sound is too pathetic. He holds her closer, too scared to look her in the eye. "I just wanted to hear your voice again."
"Fakir…" Ahiru says, and it sounds like a whimper. Fakir pulls back enough to see tears brimming in her eyes. All at once the view is striking and terrible, and it juxtaposes horribly with the almost saturated hues of the flowers blooming around them in the grass.
"Don't cry!" He barks, harsh and scared because he'd done this. He'd imposed his selfish desires upon her once again, even if only in his dreams. How awful he must be, promising forever and then going on to crave her regardless. "Don't cry, please, dammit, don't cry."
"But—"
"No," Fakir cuts her off, voice hoarse. He's screwed up. He's been selfish and he'd wronged her. How insecure she must feel, how insignificant and unworthy, when it is he that should be cowing at her feet. "Don't. It's my fault. I—I promised you and I—" His voice cracks. "I still…I'm so sorry, Ahiru."
Ahiru sniffles, flinging her arms around his neck, lithe and warm and smelling of sunshine and reeds. He's confused at her reaction, but the satisfaction he feels at the feel of her form against him makes his self-loathing all the more palpable. But his hands are led by puppet strings, wrapping themselves tightly and winding his fingers in her hair.
"I missed you too," She confesses.
Fakir's eyes widen a fraction. He moves to lean back and meet her gaze but she grapples to him like a lifeline in a storm, tense and shaking and warm and despite his swell of ineptitude, he rubs her consolingly.
"I really miss you." Ahiru cries, hiccupping against his shoulder. "I know I promised that we'd go back to being ourselves but I miss dancing and I miss Pique and Lilie and I miss Mister Cat and I miss feeding all of the birds and I miss eating at Miss Ebine's and I miss talking with everyone and I miss you! I'm so sorry, Fakir. I tried to keep my promise but it's just so hard…!"
Fakir kisses her then, softly on her right eye. Ahiru stops, instantly, still as the surface of the lake on a windless day. He slowly moves to kiss the other, and then her nose, and then her cheeks. He follows the stream of her tears and murmurs against the side of her nose that he knows, dear God, he knows.
"I've written stories, you know." He says quietly. "Dozens of stories. Hundreds of them, all about you changing back into a girl."
"You did?" She asks, "But then why am I still a bird?"
"I never finished them. I was too scared that I'd hurt you, or that it wasn't what you wanted. I didn't want to force you into being a girl again, especially after I'd promised that I would stay by your side."
"But you have—!"
"But I still wanted," He weeps. "I wanted you back! I wanted to talk to you, to dance with you. I wanted to be with you, like this! As a human! But I promised you, dammit, and I still couldn't help it. I had to see you. I've been selfish."
"I wanted too," Ahiru whispers against him, and the feel of her breath against his ear makes his heart threaten to shatter his ribs. "I still want. I know I said I'd be okay with it, but…what if I'm not meant to be a duck anymore? I mean, we changed the story. Why can't I change? I mean, I still like being a duck but I want more than a duck should want. I want to dance, I want to speak, I want to sing, I want to be with people and make friends and I want to be a girl again!" Her breath catches, and his shirt feels damp from her tears. "I'm terrible, aren't I?"
"Not at all," He says, kissing the top of her head. "Not at all."
—
In the morning he awakens feeling a hundred years older, and part of him swells with dread as he sees the duck beside him shift and flutter.
She opens her eyes and at once he can tell, she knows. His breath leaves him in a great wind, and he asks with fear quaking his bones, "You dreamed it too?"
She nods.
"And you meant it?"
She nods.
Fakir sucks in a trembling breath. He leans over and kisses the top of her head, gently and hesitantly and with a love fit to burst through his skin.
"Okay," He says, and the words are already flowing through his head and his fingers itch for a quill. "Okay."
