More Than Words

Boys Have No Right To Be That Cute

You were just going for a walk. The sun was warm on your skin as you walked, the breeze gently brushing your hair behind you. The kids were off on an adventure who knows where, and you'd decided to close up shop early just to take a stroll around town. You hadn't done that yet; heck, there were parts of town you'd never seen before. So why not take a look? You needed to find something to do to relax anyhow. 

It... did not end up being relaxing very relaxing in the end. 

Really, it had started out as a walk. You waved at the people you passed by, smiled at the neighborhood cop, lightly brushed your hands against the trees and bushes that you walked by.  The sky was turning a soft golden as the day got closer and closer to ending. Families walked by, children laughed, and you were a fly on the wall, watching everything unfold without taking part of any of it. You walked by a flower bush, plucking off a few flowers and handing them off to the people that walked by you, a small burst of warmth hitting you every time they smiled at you and thanked you for the flower. One little girl even had you bend down so she could put it in your hair. 

It was nice. This town was nice. These people were kinder then a lot of the other people you'd had the unfortunate mistake of meeting. They held so much joy in them, and all they had to do was exist to feel it. And why shouldn't they? The town had everything they needed; and they all had each other, did they not? 

You missed that feeling. Having that cohesive collection of people you could call family, without the baggage of your past resting on your shoulders. That gentle, steady warmth that grew from the inside out as you laughed with people you loved, spreading from your fingertips to every single person you'd had the pleasure of being able to hold close to you. 

But it wasn't meant to be. You couldn't run from the ever present hollow pit in the center of your chest; you couldn't take down the walls you'd spent centuries building up just by wishing you could. You sighed, your eyes glued to the sidewalk in front of you. No, you couldn't hide from something buried deep inside of you. 

Your mind wandered back to the paintings hanging on the walls of your apartment and store, the faces of the many people you'd known throughout your life all painted with bright smiles, contrary to what your many art teachers had urged you to do. Each one was carefully painted, every stroke filled with the love and anguish you'd felt the day you lost them. While you'd been praised for your skill, the meaning behind the paintings was lost to all but you. Nobody else could see the tear marks littered throughout the oil paint, the shaky lines covered later on as your hands shook from grief. Your families' painting had been the hardest, your mother and father the first you'd lost. As your mind went back to that dark, dark place you'd found yourself in when the painting was made, that ache in your hands returned, that ache from hours of working and bruises from your teacher stinging your skin despite how he'd died centuries ago. 

You yelped as your feet scuffed on the concrete, causing you to fall to the ground, your arms scraping against the warm concrete. Your eyes stung as you bit back another yelp, slowly starting to push yourself up. 

"Woah, there! Looks like you've taken a mighty fall there, kind (y/n)," a gentle voice said from above you, a familiar hand reaching out for you as you looked up to meet the eyes of that all too familiar voice. 

"H-Hisirdoux?" you gasped shakily, blinking up at him with wide eyes. He smiled softly at you.

"In the flesh," he agreed, gently pulling you up to your knees, carefully getting down onto his knees to inspect your scraped up arms. 

"I- you're alive?" you asked, disbelief evident in your voice. He chuckled. 

"Afraid so, love," he said, gently taking your hand in his. "It's good to see you, (y/n)."