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Rafayel wonders if you also feel an empty ache in your chest whenever he leaves for days.
You should—you must, right? To be alone in the unbearable void of the fear of being forgotten, afraid of waking up and the opposite set of eyes stare vacant at you, unable to understand why you mean so much to them. Curling up the same polite smile you’d give a helpless stranger you bump into on the street, instead of the lovely, playful one reserved just for each other. It would be such an incredibly dumb, pathetic thought if it weren’t for the fact that it simply keeps happening to him.
He doesn’t miss a single text when you’re gone. Good morning, cutie. Have you had breakfast yet? The new cafeteria near your workplace sucks, don’t come here. Good afternoon, cutie. What did you have for lunch? Thoughts on my outfit today? Good evening, cutie, let’s watch an episode of our show online before we go to bed. Look at this stupid-looking seagull I saw today. Good night cutie, you’re coming back tomorrow, right? I bought a new nice-smelling body wash today, come soon and use it too.
So whenever he leaves and you don’t text him good morning or good night, something within him stirs. How childish, right? Grown man, afraid of being forgotten just because you didn’t text him a pic of your lunch or you were too tired to video call him before bed. He knows. He’s aware. And standing up from the couch, staring at the distant sea of Verona, surrounded by friendly acquaintances, he decides he has to wean off. Because it’s how life works—you can’t stay by his side all day, all hours, each minute. He would love that. But you have your duties, your friends, your life. An entire life before him and after him. Before you met at that beach and after you completely forgot about him, a promise washed into the sea to turn into sea foam.
If his heart aches every time more than an hour passes by without hearing your voice or getting a text, he would’ve laid dead the day after you met him again. Because he also has things to do; he has to paint, he has to travel, he has to attend exhibitions, he has to save His people. He can’t be at the mercy of some mortal, enraptured, caught and harpooned by the mere glimpse of a shy smile, or a gentle touch, or the way your eyes lighten up whenever he brings you flowers, or…
Focus.
He walks aimlessly around the hotel room, gathering his thoughts. Perhaps it’s a good thing that you don’t text him as often, probably too busy fighting off a stray wanderer on a high-level mission. Yes, you have your own things to worry about and so does he.
And it would be such a delicious thought—the one of you cradling into his arms, needy, guilty, touchy after being worried of him going MIA—if it didn’t sting so much. You deserve it! He wants it. He loves feeling wanted, needed, the warm nuzzling of yours when sleeping together (is there anything there for you, anyway? His skin runs colder than humans, are you just pretending? Do you actually enjoy it?).
So when his mind is finally set, he hears the unmistakable sound of the hotel room opening with a click and turns around, his eyes widening.
“Surprise!” You shout, running to hug him, jet-lagged and slightly hungry. “Did you expect me?”
And it’s when he feels the warm of your body seep into him through his skin and straight into his thumping heart, calming it, slowing it into a comfortable, familiar rhythm, that he realizes that he’s thoroughly fucked.
He hugs you back, an elated laugh escaping his throat (a sound that embarrasses him, he sounds too relieved for his own good, how pathetic), and nuzzles the top of your head. Poor him. Pitiful.
He can never let you go even if he tries.