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“What are you thinking about?” Sascha’s voice gently snaps Mud out of the reverie. As his eyes focus again, the Mud in the mirror appears, a bewildered expression that looks out of place with the fancy outfit and carefully braided hair. They stand behind him, so he leans back ever so slightly. A gentle purr rumbles against his back, and the unsettling thoughts melt away.
“Nothing much”, he manages to mumble. Sascha knows, of course.
Since his return, Mud has been spending a lot of time sitting in silence. Nobody ever asks why. Even though he’s not quite yet ready to tell the full tale, enough has passed through the grapevine– telegraphic updates in the Rising Stones, hush murmurs in the Royal Promenade, quick couriers delivering updates to the noble houses and seats of power. In their nightly embraces, Sascha’s fingers weave through his nightmares, push away the loose threads. Enough is known, and enough can be read in the newly acquired fine lines between Mud’s eyebrows.
This is why they don’t push. What they do is squeeze his hand, their huge eyes looking at Mud instead of the reflection in the mirror. It’s a reminder to be here.
Despite everything, it won’t be difficult to be present, here, today.
When the doors open for him, the first thing he sees are the faces. In the airy, bright space lined with the flowers they chose, all those beautiful faces looking at him, all of them beloved, all of them full of joy and of love being beamed straight at him.
For the past few weeks, he’s been so tired, carrying the weight of so much grief for so long. Mud has been feeling as if a grey veil separated him from his friends, choking him as he spoke, blurring every meaningful word that tried to reach him. He had started to feel disconnected from reality, as if he’d left part of himself behind, forever. As if he could never again be whole, or fully focused on the present, or feel completely safe and relaxed ever, ever again.
He’s already tearing up when his eyes trail further ahead.
At the end of the aisle, they are the lone figure in the center, not very tall, adorably scrawny, unable to hold down the corners of their mouth. Their hands are held together, fidgety, impatient, and he can’t tell if he manages to walk and not run towards them. Simultaneously he wants to tackle them and behold them untouched, like this, in their tailored clothes and the contained energy of a thousand stars, held together by the bright green stare affixed on him. He picks up their hands, their stare, does everything he can to not kneel and have a breakdown right there.
Sascha grabs his chin and pulls his face close to theirs.
“You’re still here. With me.”