"Welcome back."
Fakir frowns at Charon's greeting, feeling it undeserved. What has he done to merit any sort of welcome or fondness, especially now? He stands still as Charon puts an arm around him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
The blacksmith's mind churns with questions too obvious to ask and sure to keep Fakir as quiet as he is now. You don't look like you've just been to a friend's wedding. What happened? Where is your duck? Why...?
His mental searching fruitless, he asks the one thing he feels the most appropriate to ask: "How was it?"
"Fine," Fakir answers automatically. "It was fine."
"Well," Charon replies, not expecting anything else. "Imagine you're hungry from your trip. Come on."
And the ensuing peace smothers the seeds of conversation for the rest of the night.
Despite efforts to keep the rumors as discreet as possible, Gold Crown Academy hums and buzzes. Fakir, the best danseur in the ballet division, dropping out this semester from a long-term, possibly career ending injury? The ballerinas at every level wail and gnash their teeth at the very thought.
But proof arrives. Erina from the advanced class shoulders Fakir as they make their way through the courtyard, the melodramatic cries of the ballet division echoing behind them. Somehow Erina holds back from lashing her tongue.
At least until she gently drops Fakir at the pond.
"What is this about?" she demands, gold eyes faintly flashing.
Fakir sits up and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Can't it wait, Erina?"
"No. You asked me to help you out of the office. I want to know why."
She glares, inwardly wondering why it's weighing him down more than she normally can. They're not exactly close friends but, after some time being the top two students in the advanced class, it's only natural for a sort of camaraderie to come about.
"Are you actually hurt?" Erina presses, only the slightest bit softer. "Or just sick? Your balance is really off."
Fakir grimaces with an exhausted exhale. "I can't dance anymore."
"Where did this come from all of a sudden?"
He shakes his head. "There's just too much to it. The short version is I can't dance."
"Well, when can you?" the ballerina asks.
"I. Can't. That isn't changing. Ever."
Erina frowns and tilts her head towards him. "You can't be serious."
"Please stop," Fakir implores.
"You expect me to believe something like that, Fakir? With no rhyme or reason to it?"
"Why don't you just go?"
"Hmph! Fine. I'll leave you with your ducks." Erina huffs before she stomps away.
Finally alone for the first time since returning to Gold Crown, Fakir pulls his knee to his chest and rests his head against it.
This, he tells himself, is the way things should be.