AN: Short ClowYuuko drabble. I don't really know; I just was compelled to write something.

Butterflies are spattered across her silk bedsheets, like a child's favorite cartoon character, emblazoned on their blankets and pillowcases. A recurring theme, in her clothes and her home,

as if she didn't have enough around her to remind her of destiny, of hers and his and everyone else's. As if she needed further reassurance that the world around her was impermanent, a fleeting knot in an endless thread of worlds, stretching out into forever,the kind of time that no-one had, except for her.

His, she's his and only his, he thinks, as his fingers thread through her thick black hair, burying his face in the strands, inhaling the scent of smoke, of sake, of her strange perfume.

At least, on this morning, she is his, with the shoji slid back, opening onto her garden, the early light streaming in and creeping up towards the four-poster bed, its grey fingertips just curling over the edge of the mattress.

She keeps no clocks in her home; she always knows what time it is. Instead of clocks, her house has clutter; rooms full of books, artifacts, treasures. Everything and anything anyone could ever want.

Her house also has her, and this is everything he's ever wanted (more or less).

Her skin is ridiculously pale against the contrast of the dark purple sheets, like ivory, and just as smooth.

He lays kisses on her jawbone, her cheek, her ear. Grinning as she stirs.

Delicate hands slide into his, and she smiles sleepily, lips fluttering like the wings of her favorite creature:

"This is not forever."

It's sad but true, a fact, not a conjecture, but it's romantic in its own way, romantic in how it only makes him pull her closer, makes his heart hurt with wanting, makes her grip tighten as they move together, all too aware that the time that had been given to them is running out.

She can't shake him from her skin, even now, so many years later (or at least, it feels like years, like decades).

She knew how silly it was, to fall in love with something (someone) so impermanent, to stray from the idea that romance was foolish, a game that always ended with both players walking away a loser. But she admits, she loved everything about him: the glasses on the bridge of his nose, his long, black hair (not as long as her own, but she loved how it clung to his back, stuck to the skin with sweat in summertime), his eyes and his smile. Even the idea of him, of his impermanence, stays with her, like an ache.

She hates him, too, for being himself. For dying, for leaving her alone, for being so selfless and kind of perfectly wonderful. She hates him for leaving her behind, because selfishly, she wanted their love to go on forever.

But only one of them understood and expected the concept of forever; only one of them had a future that stretched that far ahead.

She cannot help but feel this way; widowed, almost.

Lying in her bed, missing his warmth on a spring morning, she closes her eyes and inhales his scent, of old books and gardenias, of wine and of herself, can almost see him, sitting in her garden, feet in the pond, gazing at the koi fish.

She can feel his hands threaded through hers, loving and gentle, appreciating her like he appreciated everything, reverently tightening his grip...

Ah, she thinks.

This is forever.