Work Text:
That lullaby.
It haunts, like murmurs of fleeting joy from a distant past.
A gentle weight on his shoulder as he scribbles. (A harsh weight on his throat as he scribbles.)
Every note is etched into the scars on his neck—every pause another stab at where his heart should be.
He sings it often because the kids claim it’s their favourite. One of the little rascals said it makes him sound softer.
Maybe it does. (It does.)
Another voice joins him, sometimes. He keeps his own quiet, in hopes of hearing that one better.
It always fades away first.