You are the night-time fear
His abducted coat saved the rest of his clothes from most of the wear of centuries hiding him away, but he still washes the dust from them. Even without tears and rifts they feel fragile, too thin, broken down. Once the water clears he leaves them to hang somewhere in the cold air as he hunts for Mabel. The best way to dry them would be to wear them, but he doesn't feel like he'd much enjoy the sensation of wet cloth sticking to him.He pads, quiet and barefoot, past the unknown rooms. He feels like an intruder.
When he finally finds her in the kitchen he almost turns back again. She's bent over her work, seemingly absorbed by it, salt and seaweed in her tangled hair. Why had she come back? For her sister? For life itself?
He feels like he brings every bad thing in the world with him: unanswered questions, memories, pain. Carefully he clears his throat to snap her from her focus, just in case she hasn't heard him already. "I'm done," he announces, which is entirely pointless: he's back, isn't he? And his skin still carries a pallid sheen (likely from him misjudging the temperature), his long, long white hair hangs unbound (and slightly tangled) across his shoulders and back, and he's only covered by the towel clinging to his narrow hips. Quietly he ghosts forward, placing one hand on the back of her chair.
"Is there anything you'd like me to mend, or get for you?" He feels like an anxious dog in some ways, desperate for her approval, her presence, and equally desperate not to let her know.
He just wants to stay. Wants her to stay. He doesn't want to be alone. Doesn't want to lose any more.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
