zeifure  asked:



He slips into bed after dousing the lamp, hand still aching from the hours of writing and eyes blearing with exhaustion. A sigh of contentment escapes him as his head settles on the pillow.

What a day.

Earlier that morning Fakir had been struck by inspiration like a lightning rod, hurriedly excusing himself from breakfast and rushing to his desk to scribble down the story that had been drifting through his mind.

It was a cutesy little tale about a duck and a boy and a kiss, and he knows that Autor is going to ream him for falling into typical fairytale tropes in the morning. But the idea nagged at him too insistently to simply let it not be written, and so Fakir had spent the day writing until his hand felt just about ready to fall off his wrist.

Fakir hears a soft, sleepy quack beside him and sees Ahiru curled up beside him. She fluffs her feathers and in the dim light of the room he can see her azure eyes flutter open, and Fakir feels his chest constrict with affection for the tiny duck on his pillow. She gives another soft quack when she sees him, and he gives her a small smile.

“Sorry for waking you,” He apologizes quietly, stroking the top of her head with the tips of his fingers. “I’m coming to bed now, so just go back to sleep, okay?”

Ahiru gives another quack and settles back down, and Fakir feels something inside of himself melt. Like springtime, he thinks. Like warmth, like life, like the sun. And she is the sun to him, a tiny ball of joy that thawed his heart and found him the strength to change.

It’s probably because he’s so exhausted that he’s so bold, but Fakir feels light as air and as warm as a summer day and it’s all because of her, so he leans over and presses a soft kiss to the top of her head.

And then suddenly there’s a bright light and loud, alarmed quacking and there’s a feather in his mouth.

He splutters, wide awake and confused as to what exactly just occurred, but all sense of logic leaves him when he hears a voice that is decidedly not a duck and sees a naked girl sitting beside him, wide-eyed and surrounded by a pile of feathers.

Fakir promptly launches himself off of the bed, colliding loudly with the nightstand.

“Fakir?!” Ahiru shouts, and she sounds just as concerned and confused as he feels. He hears the bed shift, probably her trying to see if he’s alive, and he presses his face harder against the hardwood floor.

C-C-Cover up!” He all but shrieks, blood rushing to his face so quickly that it makes the room spin. 

He can hear her ‘eep!’ of realization, and the rustling of covers. Fakir risks a glance upwards to see that Ahiru has cocooned herself in his quilt, eyes wide and face flushed and looking so ridiculously beautiful that it makes him want to shout because he should not be thinking about how adorable  she looks right now.

“What-What happened?!” She squeaks, and it is absurd just how badly Fakir has missed her voice.

"I don’t know,” He says from the floor, head spinning. “I haven’t even written any-”

And then it hits him. He sits up slowly and stares at his desk, at the stack of paper sitting innocently on top of it, before flopping back over in an embarrassed heap.



“So you’re telling me that this,” Autor slaps the stack of paper in his hands with distaste, “is what brought her back?”

Fakir takes a sip of his tea to cover the growing flush on his face. “Yes,” He says, voice clipped.

"You are aware that this plays into every overused cliche there is in literature, yes?”

Fakir’s eyebrow twitches. “I never claimed that it was any good.”

Autor snorts, flipping through the manuscript. They grow quiet again until the man glances back up at Fakir from beneath his glasses, his own eyebrow quirked in question.

"And you still haven’t told her as to what this story entailed?”

Fakir puts his cup down and gives his cousin a pointed glare. “No.”

"Why not?”

Fakir is not about to tell Autor that it’s because he’s too embarrassed and ashamed to admit that he had stolen a kiss while Ahiru had been asleep, nor that he was too frightened that she did not feel the same way, so he simply says, “That is of no concern to you.”

Autor clears his throat as he skims the pages again, and Fakir decides that he does not like the smug grin growing on the other man’s face. He takes another loud sip of his tea, shooting daggers over the rim of his cup as Autor glances up at him with no small amount of mirth in his eyes.

“Well then, I guess that I’ll just trust that you’re aware of the fact that in fairytales, the kiss only works if both parties involved are in love with each other.”

Autor has always been too perceptive for his own good, so Fakir believes that he is perfectly justified in spitting out his tea all over his jacket.

;alskdjfa;slfd i blame you for this