On cold, windy nights, he missed her.
He missed her mannerisms: the way her slender shoulders shook as she laughed, the way her blond hair spilled over her back, obscuring the scars that his sharp eyes could barely see, but scars that his finger could trace repeatedly, obsessively…
…and tenderly.
He missed her scent. The faintest of vanilla, mixed with gunpowder, and, sometimes, after she'd spent consecutive nights in his bed, he could smell traces of sandalwood on her. He missed the way her breath warmed the chilly apartment, the way locks of her hair tickled his chest when she bent down to kiss him, pushing him down onto the mattress of his bed.
He missed how her hands wandered down his chest before fitting perfectly into his grip; how her soft lips soothed his chapped ones, sometimes even nipping his bottom lip; how her breathing increased in a steady rhythm before she would gasp out one word: his name. How his shoulder would be demoted—or was it promoted?—to being a pillow for her afterwards.
Sometimes, afterwards, exhausted, she would fall asleep. And he missed the way her steady, slow breathing would lull him into a dreamless, but peaceful sleep. And how he would wake up with her still in his arms, the faintest trace of a smile on her face when he bent over to kiss her, to wake her before the harsh beeping of the clock would.
But most of the time, she would speak. And he missed this more, their nighttime chats. How her voice whispered secrets, plans, and innermost thoughts. How he would respond. How both of them knew that, like always, they were lying, making empty promises, clutching to false hope.
The raven-haired man shifted in his empty bed, a sigh escaping his lips. It looked like it would be yet another sleepless night for him, for on cold, windy nights, he missed her.
Fin.
AN: Oh boy. I haven't written in a while. Two Little Bars is still stuck; I have really no clue what I'm going to do with that piece of work. I'm just getting back into the habit of writing fanfiction.
Constructive criticism loved. I shall use flames to bake cookies. I'm considering a followup in Riza's POV: thoughts? At any rate, thank you for reading.
- Chatte.
(Inspired by the song "Flavor of Life" by Utada Hikaru.)