Let no one say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Fonder is nowhere near the correct word. Pained is closer, and aching closer still, but none quite capture the feeling of a lover torn. It’s a simple truth that love, as fickle of an emotion as it was, cannot be cultivated through absence, unless the love was already there and out of sight. The phrase is nothing more than a bittersweet comfort, a feeble reassurance that would only placate someone who doesn’t know any better. And Kazuha knows better.
When the heart is isolated for far too long, the only thing the heart knows is to yearn. He feels it with every beat, the blood in his veins trickling endlessly slow, like molasses under his skin. Every function is slowed, as if the rest of his body itself is shutting down to keep his heart beating, leaving his mind sluggish and chest aching.
It’s poetic in a way, how he falls apart in the face of heartache. Love, that soft, delicate thing, could so easily sink its claws into his chest, poisoning him from the inside out. It was a double-edged sword, a beast with the sweetest kiss and sharpest teeth.
Kazuha loves you, with every waking thought, and it was killing him.
Of course, the pain was metaphorical, formed through his melancholy—melodrama, Beidou would call it—but it hurt just the same. He longed for those mornings, a month or two prior, where he woke up wrapped in your arms, with the warm feeling of your breath on his cheek. It felt like a distant memory, the edges rubbed and frayed from all the times he replayed it in his mind.
You both knew it was coming. A heart bound to their home could never stay tethered to a heart that longed to wander, as much as you adored each other. Loving each other meant waiting, waiting and hoping that love would last until the next time you see each other again. All you could do until then was just that: hope.
Kazuha never had to worry about his own love waning, as it only grew stronger and sharper with each passing day. He busied himself with handling the ship, writing letters in the moonlight and sending them back to you with vivid recounts of his adventures. Between the stories and affections, he would slip in a haiku or two, waxing poetic about the sky, the sea, your eyes, or whatever else came to mind.
Your returning letters were rarer, but he cherished them like each word was written with liquid gold. He read and reread them until he could recite them in his sleep, tracing the pad of his thumb over each line, and picturing your face as you wrote them. Did you smile as you thought of him, or did your face have that little frown? Were you thinking of him now, as he always was? Or have you forgotten what it was like to love him already?
Kazuha sighs softly, the sound lost in the cold, windy night air.
“Two faint hearts; well-loved—” He murmurs, hoisting himself to the top of the crow’s nest on the ship. He looked up at the stars, the corners of his mouth flicking upwards. “Reunited, once again.”
It wasn’t long now; in a few days time, the boat would be stopping in Inazuma harbour. There, you would be waiting for him with arms outstretched. He would catch you as he jumped onto the dock, spinning you in his arms until you’re breathless.
It was only a matter of time, until he would be back to where he belonged: with you.
Kazuha smiles. “I’ll see you soon, love.”
