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Emmrich Volkarin is nineteen years old and there’s a boy he likes, with the brightest eyes and a roguish smile. But wisps in the Necropolis are so curious, and it ruins the moment, and somehow the two of them never quite find the moment again.
*
Emmrich Volkarin is thirty, and he’s neck-deep in love with an Orlesian art appraiser, all urbane manners and lush lips and flawless style. She thinks he’s handsome and clever, and tells him this often, and listens when he talks about poetry. He thinks he could love her forever.
*
Emmrich Volkarin is thirty-five, and she doesn’t want to commit.
*
Emmrich Volkarin is forty-nine, and he’s – they said it wasn’t that, they’d said it wasn’t him, it was them – but he’s sure that it ended because his fiftieth is on the horizon.
*
Emmrich Volkarin is fifty-two, and Rook looks at him for a few seconds too long.
Though it might be nothing, bright-eyed thing that they are. It’s probably nothing. There’s more grey than black in his hair these days, and the wrinkles aren’t going anywhere. He’s too old; it’s too late.
*
Emmrich Volkarin is fifty-two and he’s kissing Rook in a graveyard.
*
Emmrich Volkarin is fifty-two and a half. He’s locked himself in his bedroom because he doesn’t want Manfred to see him cry.
He shouldn’t have argued with Rook. He should have just accepted how lucky he was to find someone like them.
But he did argue with Rook, and Rook is gone.
*
Emmrich Volkarin is fifty-three and the bed beside him is empty.
That’s not normal; Rook is always beside him when he wakes. Even if they wake before he does, they like to stay in bed while Emmrich sleeps. He’s usually awake before Rook is anyway.
There is a dent in the pillow from Rook’s head; the sheets are still warm.
Emmrich sits up, sheets slipping around his waist. “Darling?”
He doesn’t get a reply, but a few minutes later, Rook walks into the bedroom holding a tea tray.
Not only tea, but a bunch of violets on the tray as well. And toast and jam. “Manfred made the tea, I made the rest.”
“Breakfast in bed?” he asks.
Rook smiles and brings the tray over, setting it down on the bedside table. They lean in for a kiss which is significantly less chaste than most of their ‘good morning’ kisses.
“Happy birthday.”