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“What do you think, Duvet? Do you like your gift?”
Felix keeps quiet, deep in contemplation: he is a wonder himself, lips parted around a gasp, irises drinking all the light in the world. Her poet, her muse, the seven stars of her very own Pléiade.
The bookmarks are hand-painted, hand-cut. Argos’ colours, floating on the table like blooming nymphéas.
“You made these… for me?” Soft fingers caress the offering — careful, incredulous. “Kagami, it must have taken you hours!”
“Hours spent thinking of you.” He blushes, a delicate shade of pink she could never mix on her palette. “Am I not the luckiest girl in the world?”
Felix picks the bookmarks up, holding them to his heart: like something fragile and precious, like the treasure he is.
“Thank you. I’ve never had anything like this before… Thank you.”
Pretty things didn’t last long in Colt’s hands, so Felix has learnt to seek beauty elsewhere: devouring books, feasting on ideas, drinking rhymes with the desperation of a dying man. Through it all, he has marked his progress with his own crumbs, postcards and metro tickets and shreds of anything — so he’d never forget how far he had come.
On the other side of the woods, there is a house with a garden; at the end of the trail, there is a little bridge thrown across a pond, a curtain of wisteria to shelter kisses and sighs.
“Happy birthday, my love.” Felix leans into her touch, into the hand that gently cups his cheek, and Kagami cannot help the pride that bubbles in her chest. She made this: she is the reason for his smile, his gentle sunbeam of a smile, as surely as if she had painted it herself. “This is all yours to keep, and so is my heart.”
Felix tastes like the turn of a page.