A/N: In my family, the little white doll (can no longer remember what they're called. Mom used to call them rain dolls) was supposed to bring good weather. It might be different for others. I don't remember if there's a tree outside his window (tho' now that I think about it, I don't recall seeing one) but let's just say he's at a different castle, hmm?
Une Belle Journée
"Oi, Wolf, look!" Wolfram turned around and saw his idiotic fiancé waving at him with a lumpy...handkerchief? No, wait, it was a white doll-thing, rather crudely made actually, that seemed to have been made from a white piece of cloth that had been stuffed with a little ball of fluff and had a roughly-drawn face. "What the hell is that?" he inquired, mildly annoyed at how happy his idiot of a fiancé could be this early in the morning. Yuuri, effervescent despite his fiancée's bad mood, replied. "You're supposed to hang it outside of your window on a tree and it'll bring you good weather! Wanna try it? I'd like to go on a picnic tomorrow!" Wolfram sighed, but only so that he'd have had the appearance of having resisted doing such a wimp-like activity. "Alright then, whatever."
It was now ten years later, and Wolfram wanted to be ready. Glancing in the mirror at his reflection, he was briefly taken aback, first by how beautiful the boy in the mirror was in his off-white, elegantly decorated tunic, and second by how pale he looked. It's not as if it'll matter, he thought bitterly. All they'll see is my pretty clothes and everyone'll assume I'm all right. The sad part was that he knew it was true. He had put on a facade of vibrancy for so long that no one was likely to think that he was capable of having depressing feelings and thoughts. Especially, he noted to himself with a twist of his upper lip, on the Maou's wedding day.
That's right. After he had served his liege lord so faithfully for years, clinging to him and supporting him throughout all of the Maou's various trials, not even letting go when his darker and lighter selves merged, only waiting for the day his feelings would be reciprocated, Wolfram had been cast aside like a worn pair of boots for a pretty, human girl. How he'd raged and stormed when he'd first heard the news, if only to hide the turmoil and desolation within himself. Why? Was he not enough? How many times had he degraded himself for the sake of his king and love? How many times did he need to prove that he loved Yuuri? What did he have to do? Honestly, Wolfram could not think of anything he hadn't done to make his king love him, except maybe become female.
He laughed cynically. How he wished that there was some way for that to happen. And how typical of a human male Eager to chase after the first attractive thing with breasts that came around. Disgusting. And yet, Wolfram loved him anyway.
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." he whispered to himself. He'd heard the poem the last time they'd gone to Earth, when Jennifer had, in a fit of soon-to-be mother-in-law happiness, burst into the poem. Wolfram had loved it the minute he'd heard it, for did it not describe the depth of his devotion to Yuuri? And now, on Yuuri's wedding day, all he could do was sit and be pretty while the man he loved married another.
He paced around the room, becoming more and more angry and frustrated with each step. How dare he?! How dare Yuuri toss him aside? He, who'd done so much for Yuuri, was now relegated to the position of "old, over-jealous, friend". But he could not sustain his rage for long, and eventually he dropped into an overstuffed chair and gave himself up to his overwhelming misery.
Happy days ran through his mind. Days spent chasing Yuuri, being with Yuuri...loving Yuuri. And now it was to be over. But what could he do? He was just a friend of the groom, and soon, who knew if even that post would be open to him? Wolfram was sure that Konrart had that position covered. Fairly drooping with depression, he walked over to the enormous window in his bedroom and looked out at the sky. It seemed as if it was about to rain, and the wedding was to take place outside. How horrible for that slut of a bride, he thought sarcastically and spitefully. After all, it had been she who had nagged and pleaded for the stupid wedding to be in the gardens, stupid girl with no respect for ancient traditions and only room for foolish fantasies in her little mind. (And here, a little voice nagged at him, do you really have any room to talk? You'd kept thinking he'd love you, did you not? Wasn't that a fantasy as well? At least hers is coming true...but he ignored it.)
Turning away, he walked slowly towards the door, about to leave for the prelude to the horrific agony that would be the rest of his life when a glimmer of an idea appeared in his mind. He turned back, and, striding quickly to his desk, wrote something in an elegant, flowing script on a scrap of parchment (and hadn't that been one of the few things Yuuri had complimented him on, his perfect penmanship?), then stowed it inside his tunic. Gathering speed, he started to run down the corridor until he was outside, and traveled to the tree directly outside of Yuuri's bedroom (the bedroom we'd shared, whispered his mind, but he paid it no heed) and gazed at it solemnly for a moment. It would serve. At least this way, he'd keep his pride, if little else.
Taking the elegant, stiffly embroidered sash at his waist off, he formed a hangman's noose with one end and shimmied up the tree, taking it with him. He got bark and dirt on his clothing, but no matter. He could always clean himself up later (and if he couldn't get a few small stains off, what of it? The undertaker surely would.). Wolfram secured the free end of the sturdy sash (and hadn't the merchant said, with his beady eyes gleaming avariciously, that the cloth was so sturdy it could hold the weight of a sand bear? He was obviously much lighter, so really, there should be no problem...) over the thick middle of a branch, tying it with a double knot. He closed his eyes, steadying his nerves, but also running through a list of regrets in his mind. Was there anything worth staying for? Anything worth being tormented each day, watching the man he loved love another? Anything worth the torture he'd go through, knowing what they did at night, knowing that she was where he should be, lying in his king's, no, his Yuuri's arms? No, he decided firmly. There wasn't. But what about Greta? a small corner of his mind whispered. What will she do? Briefly, he hesitated. Perhaps, just maybe, he could stand it for Greta...? Surely she'd be devastated, knowing that one of her "parents" was gone, and he could take the few years of pain until she grew up? No. She seemed happy enough with her new "mother", that shameless whore that Yuuri'd found. Greta would never miss him. Nobody would.
What of Cecilie? What of Mother? the same corner sighed again. Think of how sad she'll be, knowing you're gone. NO! Wolfram mentally shouted. She has two other sons, doesn't she? I'm sure she'll find comfort in the arms of some strange man. But..! the voice tried to protest again, but this time Wolfram was not having any of it. He ignored his misgivings, fit the noose around his neck, and took out the scrap of paper he'd hidden in his vest, clasping it securely in his right hand. Then, he stood up, balancing precariously on the tree branch, keeping from falling off of the somewhat slender wood only because of years of training. Brushing off the bits of bracken that marred the colorless perfection of his wedding finery, he was soon once again immaculate, beautiful. Wolfram had no intention of being remembered as sloppy and filthy. Once again, he shut his eyes, composing himself for what was to come. Perhaps that voice tried to interfere with his plans again, but if it did, he didn't hear it, so intent was he on accomplishing his final task.
his eyes, he took a breath.
gathered his dignity.
(...poor comfort now...)
he let himself fall.
(...like Lucifer, falling from grace...)
And so it was, that as the newlyweds came running from the reception into their room, laughing and flushed lightly with wine and happiness, the bride glanced out of the window and shrieked.
Konrart came running, saw the scene outside of the window, and froze in horrified shock.
Yuuri had already taken off at a sprint to outside of his room.
Gwendal rushed in and looked outside. His mask crumbled and fell completely for the first time in years.
Greta walked in, saw what was outside, and burst into hysterical sobbing.
And Yuuri, poor, foolish Yuuri, who didn't know what he'd had until it was gone (and if you'd told him how clichéd that was at the time, he'd have killed you) had already taken his best friend (and the man who loved him, his angel, his Wolfram) and cut him down from the tree.
He held him in his arms, like Wolfram had always wanted him to do (when he was alive, a little voice reminded him), with Wolfram's head in his lap, too stricken with grief to cry, too in shock to do anything else.
Wolfram's golden curls were spread around his cold, pale face, like a halo, really, and his vibrant green eyes had closed forever.
He wasn't breathing. (he'd never breathe again)
He was beautiful in death. (as he'd been in life, but colder, and lifeless; a cruel sort of beauty, left by Death to taunt Yuuri about the prize that the life-taker had stolen from right under his nose)
Yuuri's glazed, anguished eyes took in each delicate feature of his once-fiancée, including how the fingers of his right hand were curled tightly around something, a scrap of paper.
He gently uncurled the white, cold fingers and drew out the scrap of parchment.
Upon reading it, he screamed his agony to the heavens, tears running down his cheeks.
The paper said:
I want to make you happy, so I'll hang myself outside your window to forever bring you sunshine and beautiful days.
... I love you, Yuuri.