A soft sigh filtered through the room, carried along by the gentle breeze coming through the open window. The lace curtains rippled lazily in the sunlight, casting muted shadows in delicate patterns across a mahogany desk. Paper littered the desk, and the floor surrounding it. A tall man with dark hair was sitting, a pen lying discarded beside a haphazard stack of paper. His head rested heavily on his arms as another frustrated sigh escaped his mouth.
The writer lifted his head and looked out the window at the rolling hills outside. A desolate feeling swept over him, eyes darkening with pain as he remembered the sound of... no. That thought could not be allowed to progress any further. He leaned back, stretching his arms above his head, arching his sore back. His arms dropped, collapsing to his lap, shoulders drooping and tense muscles protesting the movement. He rolled his head, stretching his neck slowly. He could almost feel hands on his shoulders, gently rubbing, kneading the stiffness away. Almost.
The writer stood up abruptly. Thoughts swirled through his mind even as the lace curtains swirled in the suddenly cold wind; the clear Autumn sky had disappeared, replaced by dark, angry looking clouds. A scent of snow, sharp and cold in his nose. Fitting weather for his mood. He paced the small room, back and forth. Back and forth. Sparing only the occasional glance at the paper-strewn desk; inspiration had clearly fled with the sun.
His feet stilled, bringing him to a stop in the centre of the small room. his eyes drifted shut as he allowed himself to remember. Soft green eyes, dimpled cheeks. A laughing smile and long auburn hair always pulled back in a loose bun. Gentle hands on his shoulders. His back. His chest. His face. Tangled in his hair as soft lips pressed warm kisses into his sin. Into his very soul. He'd never feel that again.
A sob ripped from his chest as sleet lashed against the open window, the wind gusting irregularly. The papers on the desk were getting wet, the cold slush melting slowly in the now frigid room. The writer paid no attention to his work being destroyed. He had heard a sound above the noise of the fierce storm. A sound he never thought he'd hear again; a sound achingly familiar to him.
He barely dared open his eyes; couldn't bring himself to open them, hoping for something that could never be real. Slowly, so very slowly, he opened his eyes, sending a silent prayer for the vision before him not to vanish. The muse. There the muse stood in the doorway. A half-formed curse on his lips. He wasn't looking at the writer, he was looking at the open window. The muse rushed past the writer, running to close the window against the gale a strangled cry escaping his throat.
The writer turned, witness to the muse crying as he desperately tried to save the soggy mess that was the writer's work. The writer crossed the room; silent footsteps carrying him to the side of the weeping man. He lowered a hand, shaking, to the muse's shoulder; wincing as it passed straight through.
The muse choked out a single word. The writer's name. Never had a word sounded so beautiful to the man who made his living off of them. The writer moved, breathing the muse's name softly as he walked to the window, and out into the clearing weather. The muse looked up at the emerging sun, sure, that for just a moment, he had seen the writer smiling back at him.
A soft sigh filtered through the room, though no earthly lips had moved.
