i own nothing.
Warmth
It's one of the things he misses most when it's time to say goodbye. The soft little weight on his shoulder reading over the words on his lap, the tiny beat of her heart against his palm as he holds her, the embracing lightness he feels whenever she tries to wrap her wings around him, eventually settling for just his upper arm.
The day her warmth leaves is the day he dies, tearing every single story he wrote down the middle and snapping every quill in half before flinging them out the window and over the lake. There's no more use for them, and he couldn't give any less of a damn even if there was.
By the tree where he first opened himself to her. That's where she will always be.
Charon carves out an epitaph against the tree as Fakir stands behind, watching. The ink stained fingers of his right hand twitches, still feeling the tingle of the scar from years ago. There should be a weight on his shoulder, a radiating warmth tickling his cheeks, but it is gone.
It's cold here, he says to himself several months later while leaning back against the bark. It's cold.
But no, there is no such thing as cold. Only a lack of heat.
He sulks, crossing his arms and glaring at nothing in particular in the distance. It's winter, and the ducks fly overhead, quacking as they move south.
How disgustingly appropriate.
End