Chapter Text
How would it feel to have a story that can be told?
He draws a satisfied inhale as fresh, crisp winter air fills his lungs to the brim. It escapes him in an equally satisfied exhale, and his eyes are brought down to the constant flow of people directly below.
The view from the top is always the best, he muses, letting one leg drape languidly over the very edge of the rooftop as a subconscious smile grows.
No-one ever gets to such a height anyway. Except for him, of course. Both literally and figuratively.
It goes without saying that with insane height comes equally insane solitude. He’s always been a nomad, the lone wolf. The reputation he’s earned does compensate a great deal, but there are still some things that reputation alone can never make up for. Like that fuzzy nostalgia for what you never had — that’s what he feels whenever he sees a human strolling down the streets.
He tips his head backwards to suck in another lungful of winter. The cold shatters his train of thought, but it’ll regroup in a minute. He knows it’s still there — it’s always been there, and always will be.
His chest heaves in a sigh. Ah, but with him, you can never tell if it’s a sigh or just a normal exhale. He’s just so quiet. Too quiet.
Absentmindedly, he lifts a hand to his eyes.
When will I ever have a story of my own?
Perhaps that is a question that he will never find the answer to. It is par for the course, but it wouldn’t hurt to hope, would it?
His fingers curl towards his palm, firm in determination, yet also timid, like there’s a secret that needs to be hidden. Though, it’s no secret — at least not from himself, and the likes of him, anyway.
The flesh of his palms is lineless.