Work Text:
When Fakir danced with Princess Tutu, their feet never brushed the ground; higher than the clouds they soared, lighter than air, circling each other like leaves caught in the wind, hands barely touching, like a breeze ruffling the feathers of a gliding swan.
When Fakir wrote, his words flew off the page and hovered above them in the sky. The words in his stories lifted them until their earthbound bodies no longer felt the pull of gravity.
But then the dance was done, the words were done, and Fakir lost his magic and Princess Tutu was no more.
When he danced, Fakir remembered flying.
When she flew, Duck remembered dancing.
Fakir and Duck settled into their prosaic world, toes and webbed feet on the ground, thoughts free of fantasy, sobering reality their lot. There was nothing left but their pond and their life and their memories and each other.
And, odd as it may seem...
...it was enough.