my heart of the sea

The key in Sylus's pocket hasn't stopped burning for days.

Frankly, he'd throw it into the ocean if he could. God knows he wants to. But he won't. He can't.

It's all he has left of you.

He'd stood at the back of the funeral, due to the private nature of your relationship. A part of it had been painful, but at the same time he'd been grateful for the ability to slip away, returning to your grave when the sun had set and everyone had gone.

The picture of you, happy and smiling and alive, sends another knife through his already aching heart.

He stands there for long. Too long. Enough that Mephisto flutters to his shoulder, cawing quietly in his ear. He can't find it in himself to shoo the bird away. Instead, he walks.

Sylus isn't sure how he ends up at your apartment. Maybe muscle memory. All he knows is he blinks and he's standing in your living room, key still in hand.

It still smells like you.

Everything is just as you left it. The blanket he'd bought for you over the couch, the plushie you'd won the first time you brought him to the arcade, the sweater you stole from him hung over the chair.

Everything goes blurry, and it takes a quiet caw for Sylus to realize he's crying. He doesn't bother wiping the tears away. Maybe because if he doesn't, he can linger on the memory of your warm hands cupping his face, kissing them away and promising everything will be alright.

When he crawls into your bed, holding your sweater close and shutting his eyes, he can pretend you're still there, that you'll be home any moment.