Alfons loves the gray sky of early morning, and he forces himself to wake up earlier than usual, just so he can see it. He rubs the sleep out of his lightning blue eyes with the heels of his ink-stained hands, while Edward lays warm and sleeping beside him, tangled in the scratchy sheets and feeling nothing but contentment.
These skies are the only constant in his little life experiment; he knows that no matter how hard it gets to breathe or how much blood bubbles between his lips, morning and its grayscale atmosphere will always come and go. His clockwork little happiness in a world where everything is so small, but so goddamned big at the same time.
Alfons pulls on a stained shirt and his wrinkled trousers from the day before, stifling yawns and coughs, trying to be oh-so-quiet and not wake Noa or Edward. But when he starts walking through the flat, his footfalls sound like so many gunshots and the building shudders and creaks with every move he makes, like some dying, ancient creature, and the German knows that he can never be entirely quiet.
He can never disappear all the way.
He presses his palms against he rain-streaked window so hard that they leave greasy handprints, all sweating condensation, on the surface.
His prints, his mark on his morning sky.
What's beautiful about these mornings, is that Heiderich can own them. He owns this little patch of the world, all the silent streets and dark windows and shadows, and he loves all of it.
Smudges and color-smears of pink and blue are appearing above the rooftops, like a spreading disease over all of Munich. The most beautiful sort of plague, ever.
Alfons rests his sweating forehead against the window, and his goosepimpled hands shake and fumble for his handkerchief, as his shoulders heave and he starts to cough.
He can't find his handkerchief, it's on the nightstand, but he doesn't want to fetch it and wake Ed. Doesn't want to force those amber eyes open before he has to, because he'll lose all lucidity and he'll think of his brother and feel nothing but hurt--so, he coughs into his hands.
Alfons's hands are drenched when he finally stops, and he's scared and feeling nausea rise in the pit of his stomach. In this moment, he knows he's going to die, someday. He accepts this. He knows he's going to die soon, and it's because he did this to himself.
He wants to apologize to God for destroying the life he was given, but he's not sure how.
The blood starts drip-drip-dripping down his lithe fingers and onto the floor, and it matches the rhythm of the leaking faucet in the kitchen. There's a sort of primal comfort in the sound; it scares him, but Alfons can't help but feel peaceful, wasting away under his morning sky, listening to his own blood soaking the floorboards.
It's okay, because he's God for these precious pre-dawn minutes and he can do anything.
This is his clockwork little happiness, but the seconds are just tick-tick-ticking by faster than he can keep track.