The transition happens in stages—sobs becoming hitching breaths, hitching breaths becoming steadier inhalations, the particular pattern of someone whose body has exhausted its immediate supply of sorrow and needs time to generate more. The sadness doesn't disappear entirely—I can feel it still present in the tension of his shoulders, the weight of his head against my neck—but its acute expression has passed into something quieter.
Silence.
The particular silence that follows emotional release—heavy with aftermath, somehow sacred in its stillness.
Grief dwelling in spaces where words feel insufficient and presence becomes the only meaningful communication.
He finally moves back.
The separation happens slowly, reluctantly, his body acknowledging the need for distance while clearly wishing it didn't have to. His face lifts from my shoulder, and I catch my first clear look at the evidence of his vulnerability—silver-blonde hair disheveled against his forehead, eyes rimmed with redness that speaks to the intensity of his crying, cheeks still glistening with moisture that hasn't yet dried.
Beautiful even in grief.
Perhaps especially in grief, when the masks are down and the true person underneath becomes visible.
I reach toward him without conscious decision, my fingers finding his face with the particular gentleness that tender moments demand. My thumbs trace across his cheekbones, wiping away the remnants of his tears with careful attention to every lingering drop. The moisture transfers from his skin to mine, his sorrow literally becoming part of me through this simple act of care.
"Better?" I ask.
The question carries weight that extends beyond its simple syllables—checking his emotional state, yes, but also acknowledging the significance of what just passed between us. Allowing space for whatever answer he needs to give, whether that's affirmation or admission that recovery will take more than a single crying session.
He smirks.
The expression is subtle—just the slightest curve at the corner of his mouth, the barest hint of familiar personalityreasserting itself through the lingering fog of grief. It's not the full, cocky grin I've grown accustomed to, but it'ssomething. Evidence that the Nikolai I know still exists beneath the vulnerability, temporarily obscured but not destroyed.
"Better," he confirms, and the word carries newfound determination that makes my chest warm with something that might be pride, might be relief, might be love in its many complicated forms.
He's going to be okay.
Not immediately, not completely, but eventually.
And that's enough for now.
"GREEE!"
The declaration erupts between us with the particular enthusiasm of small beings who have run out of patience for emotional moments they don't fully understand.
Grim poofs into existence in the space that separates my face from Nikolai's, his transformed form still radiating that impossible golden luminescence that makes him look like a tiny sun rather than a harbinger of death. His scythe—thorned and flowered and gleaming with light rather than void—waves through the air with obvious excitement.
My smirk grows as I take in his appearance properly for the first time since waking.
"Wow, Grim!" The exclamation escapes with genuine appreciation, my eyes tracking across the details of his transformation. Where shadows usually trail from his robes, golden wisps now drift in their place. Where void usually fills his skull's eye sockets, warm light now emanates with steady glow. Even his posture seems different—less the hunched anticipation of a creature waiting to claim souls, more the upright confidence of something that creates rather than ends.
"You're like Nikolai!" I observe, noting the similarities between his transformed state and the Fae magic that fills this cocoon. "Is this a Fae form or something?"
Grim's response is pure performance.
"Gree Gree Gree!" he declares, beginning a dance that involves waving his golden scythe in patterns that might be celebratory or might simply be the movements of a being too excited to stay still. His tiny form spins and dips, robes flaring around him in golden spirals, and then?—
Is he... shaking his booty?
The movement is unmistakable. Grim—harbinger of death, collector of souls, terrifying presence in his usual form—is actuallydancingwith enthusiasm that includes what can only be described as booty-shaking. His skeletal rear end (does he even have a rear end? The mechanics are confusing) moves in rhythm with sounds only he can hear, tiny hips swaying with abandon.
A giggle escapes me.
The sound is unexpected, bubbling up from somewhere deep before conscious thought can intervene, carrying genuine delight at the absurdity of what I'm witnessing.
Then I pause.
