((I normally don’t write fanfics or anything of the sort, but I woke up at like 4 am and had this idea and I hope you guys don’t kill me because there’s so much angst I could die. HAVE FUN))
For him, it was just another day. No matter how many times she attempted to convince him, there was nothing special about it; there was no need for celebration. He could never understand why one should celebrate a countdown to his own death, and no matter how many times he attempted to explain this concept to her, she never seemed to get it. Rather, she understood, but refused to conform to his wishes. Because of this, there was, however, one aspect of the day that he would look forward to, although he would never admit it.
Every year, when dinner had come to an end and he was able to return to his quarters, a small parcel would appear on his desk, without fail. It was never anything grand. Black tea, mostly, as he was not a material person in the least. But he knew it was from her, and that was all it took to cause his heart to swell.
She would come to his room late in the night. The familiar way that she turned the doorknob gave her away. Always so quiet, in case he may be sleeping. Her feet were always barefoot, and he would listen intently to her bare-skinned feet moving towards him. She would find him waiting almost expectantly at the edge of his bed. Without a word she would join him, and beneath the rustling sheets of the mattress she knew so well, she would make love to him until he was unable to keep his eyes open any longer. And while his head rested against her chest, and her fingers weaved through his hair, she would whisper the words when she was certain he was too tired to protest.
But this year would be different. This year, there would be no parcel appearing on his desk, waiting to be opened. No matter how long he waited, no matter how late it had become, no matter how much he yearned and wished and stared with lifeless eyes towards his bedroom door, she would not appear to comfort and love him as only she could.
This year, he would skip dinner; his stomach would be uneasy. He would sit alone at his desk, a candle burning solemnly at his side, as he inspected each empty container of tea that she had gifted him over the years, each fondly kept in the desk drawer nearest to him.
This year, he would not sleep comfortably against her breast. There would be no sweet words on her lips for him.
This year, he would sit with his head in his hands, desperate to keep his emotions in check. This year would be no happiness.
This year, it became different from the other days of the year.
This year, he would mourn, until his sadness and guilt pushed his face into his arms, and at his desk sleep would claim him.