For a moment, his mind shorts out a little -- every thought and feeling and sensation leaving him all at once. It’s not the first time, but it happens with every touch of lips against lips. If he was feeling poetic, he might ascribe the reaction to some kind of leftover magic. But Fakir is neither inclined towards metaphors, nor denying the power Duck holds over him all on her own. 

As soon as he’s returned to himself, Fakir smiles. It’s not such an unfamiliar expression these days, but it still feels very new each time. Gently, he wraps one arm behind her back, letting it rest right below the curve of her spine in the space where he fits perfectly. 

He’s still mostly unsure about the whole thing -- he’s never been good at surprises. Or plans in general, come to think of it, and even though it hasn’t been all that long all things considered, it feels as if it’s been quite a while since he’s done anything without consulting Duck beforehand. But you can’t ascertain someone’s opinion about a present you’re trying to give them. Even he knows that. 

So he fidgets and paces and generally tries to burn off the nervous energy. There are still ink stains on his hands and sleeves, though he’s done his best to scrub them clean. Yes, he knows that any flaws of appearance will be remedied as soon as she arrives, but he still convulsively runs his palms against the fabric of his trousers in some vague attempt to wipe any marks away. It doesn’t work, which is absolutely par for the course. 

Some of the nervousness might be very specifically linked to this particular gift itself. Romance was never his calling (which he’s been trying to correct at every turn these past few months -- entirely for Duck’s sake), but this is beyond anything he’s ever attempted. It’s enough to drive him into a nervous fit, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, sighing repeatedly as he glances at the closed door of the abandoned chapel. He can almost see the scene play out -- he opens the door handle, waiting for the peculiar magic to take hold, only to discover that it’s failed him yet again. Leaving him as hapless and giftless as ever. 

Won’t that just make Duck’s holiday merry and bright? 

He’s pulled wholly from his thoughts when he hears an intimately familiar rhythm: the slightly off balance tap of footsteps that are now a daily constant. All at once, the heaviest part of the tension is gone all at once, disappearing like morning fog as soon as he turns and catches sight of her. 

❛ -- Hey. ❜

( and for all his worry and affection, for all his practice, he’s still a man of few words. ironic. ) 

Fakir has always and never really thought about roles. You are the knight reborn, Charon would tell him -- jokingly, at first. Then appeasing when Fakir was old and just aware enough to want what he’d always been told. And then, Fakir was older and more aware enough, Charon stopped saying it altogether. Words have power, you know; if that’s true, isn’t it terrible to continue to call yourself after the knight who died? 

The only one here who doesn’t want the story to move forward is you. 

He’s still not entirely sure what he is -- writer, knight, student, dancer, no one? But, even though it’s taken awhile, he now knows that he’s not the only one: not the only one who’s unsure themselves, not the only one of whom he does not know. 

Maybe he’s gone about it backwards (or maybe not), but Fakir’s never particularly cared for Princess Tutu. She’s always represented everything he’s -- well, stood against, yes. But more selfishly, she’s always irritated and terrified him by turns. He has never once been at peace with her aims and her existence, vacillating between wanting to tell her I can protect Mytho on my own, and stop, stop, stop don’t hurt him! Even after learning of her identity, even after what they’ve been through, he never felt particularly inclined to like her more or less than anyone else. 

No, the first living thing that Fakir felt himself open towards, notwithstanding his sewn together family, was Duck. 

Specifically, the small yellow Duck that had taken a supposed shine to him when he’d been in possession of Tutu’s pendant. Yes, he’s aware of why, exactly, she had been following him around. But that knowledge has done nothing to diminish the warm contentment he feels when he thinks of the small Duck that changed his entire world. 

Duck herself (all flailing limbs and wandering mind and her own brand of grace that isn’t graceful at all) took even more getting used to than Tutu, if only by virtue of being around more frequently. And he knows that logically, if he were to say the Right Thing, that he’s fine with Duck being a duck and that when this is all over and they go to whatever ends are being written for them (death? life? the beyond? something else?) he’ll be okay with that. 

But somewhere along the way, he’s come to find himself worrying when he doesn’t see that familiar figure bouncing around -- full of so much life and energy that she’s almost blinding. He’s come to find himself wondering how each facet of his life will affect her, and asking himself will she smile? Will she be alright? 

(If he’s being really selfish, maybe he’ll even admit to himself that he’d be fine leaving this story altogether when things are done and finding a happy ending without pages at all.) 

He takes her hand in his, but not to dance. Given the choice and the chance he’d always prefer to dance with Duck than with Princess Tutu. His grip is steady and sure as his gaze as he studies her, examines the light in her eyes and the way she holds herself. It’s true that there’s a marked difference between Tutu and Duck -- a kind of armor built from magic and confidence. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re embodying a dance god from a story. But he knows those eyes. He knows that smile. He knows those words, even if they’re spoken without stutters or pauses. 

❛ Yes. ❜

That’s right -- he’s come to find that he’s not so sure of who he is without having Duck to measure against. But that doesn’t feel like any sort of step backwards. In fact, it feels a little like progress. 

Don’t think this means that we’re working together, now, he’d said once. 

❛ Hey -- just so you know. I’m -- ❜ An apology doesn’t really cut it. At all. He’d been a terror, plain and simple, closer to a monster than any sort of man. And she deserves -- well, the world, of course. But something meaningful to start. 

❛ You know what it means. ❜

He exhales, but it’s not the usual short, sharp marker of annoyance he’s prone to. Tilting his head to the side ( decidedly not to wipe any sort of humorous expression from his face ), Fakir resists the urge to roll his eyes. Barely. But still.

( smoochies !! ) 

It’s one of those idyllic afternoons -- golden and warm and something that inspires poetry, probably, if you’re into that kind of writing -- when he realizes that he’s seized with the sudden and undeniable feeling that something needs to happen. The problem, of course, is that he’s not sure what that something is. 

He’s not alright with this inability to connect feelings and names. It’s happened before -- in fact, it’s likely happened more than he both knows and admits. But despite his history of mistakes and wrong choices, he cannot settle into his day without knowing. Without knowing why, every time he catches a glimpse of Duck ( her retreating silhouette, her smiling face at breakfast, her back as she sits on the grassy hill by the lake, draped in sunlight ), something urgent and wispy flutters in his chest. 

There’s the first explanation, familiar and well worn: anger. But the moment he entertains the idea, he throws it away. Fakir has not had a reason to be angry in such a long time that it feels more foolish than kindness had when he was younger. He throws the idea away with no surrounding fanfare.

It was incorrect and ridiculous, but it was an explanation and its absence kindles a singular flame of panic that he disguises poorly. The next time he sees her, he yells something about work and busy and both leave red faced, confused, and upset. The guilt follows him for the rest of the day, mixing with the panic and adding frustration to the pyre, and as the sun begins to sink lower he is on the verge of a headache, wishing he’d never gotten involved with this whole story in the first place. 

But that’s not right. That’s not even a good lie. The story had been cruel and tragic and undeserved, but the story also lived under his skin. In his hands. It was a steady, restful monument that marked his past and faded into a cobble lined, sun-drenched future. The story had brought him to Duck. 

-- Oh. 

The gears clicked into place so quickly, he flushed in embarrassment that it had taken him so damn long. It was obvious, strikingly obvious -- but, to cut himself even the tiniest measure of slack, it was obvious in the way of seeing, of hearing, of being. 

( He loved her, didn’t he? ) 

When she appeared in his door, quiet and wide eyed, testing his mood and her own at the same time, he stood. But that was as far as his mind would allow him to go when realization dawned that -- oh, oh -- he was going to have to tell her. 

There was a reason he’d never considered becoming a writer before the mantel was placed on his shoulders. 

She called his name once, questioningly, and his body responded without his consciousness in tow. He lifted a hand, extended it like he was inviting her to dance, and his chest pulled once more when she reciprocated, light glowing like a crescendo behind her eyes. 

He’d meant, probably, to go for her forehead. One gesture of affection he still remembered from the fragments of his childhood he could recall. It felt -- like him to plant a kiss on the top of her head. But whatever force had him in its grip ( he knew the force, he knew the name ) curved his back and brought his free hand to press against the line of her jaw as his lips dovetailed with hers.