Forgotten.

It's four am and she's still awake, as always. He can hear the way she curses as, while the time fades on, fatigue falters her concentration and causes mistakes that make her want to continue.

He first wakes up at one and listens to her play, flawless for a long while before the mistake happens and it's just a hissed 'shit' before she starts again and he drifts off, assuming she'll be asleep beside him the next time she wakes up.

She's not there at two and he listens to the languid, melancholy chords for a few long minutes before something goes wrong, he doesn't catch the mistake, only hears her dismay as she begins again and rolls over; falls back into a restless sleep.

Then it's four and the common little curses are becoming more panicked and agitated with every single miniscule flaw; her pinkie slipping off a key a moment too late or the tempo falling slightly for a few basic seconds and she has to start again. Perfection is her goal, she doesn't care what or how long it takes. Then she starts to whimper with every little mistake and he has to leave the safety of his lonely bed to tramp through to the next room, floorboards creaking under his bare feet.

He rubs the slumber out of his eyes as he approaches the small corner of glowing light in the otherwise dark room. She's hunched over now, knees pulled up to her chest as she pushes her heart and soul into the music with wide arching arm movements. He stands above her, knowing not to interrupt her mid flow so just watches the way her pale fingers - not so contrasted to the keys - work their way up and down the range of notes, battling so hard to get it right.

Of course, the more frantic she grows to not make mistakes, the more easily they occur and he hears it this time. She lets out a low whine, arranges her hands to start again. He places his fingers over hers, clumsy in comparison.

"No more," he sighs, gracing a fingertip down the rivets of her spine and leans in to kiss the top of her head. Repeating, "No more,"

"Just one more time," she murmurs, finally allowing her head to tip back, all damaged cheeks and bloodshot eyes. "Please?" He shakes his head, feeling like her father and hating it.

"Kara, you need to sleep. Come on," Kara sighs and runs her fingers over the keys sadly, a fresh batch of tears staining her face. He sees her defeated expression and bends down, wraps one arm around her slight waist, the other hooking under her knees and lifts her. Burying her nose into his skin, she wraps her arms around his neck, allowing herself to be settled into the bed.

"I love you," Michael states and she smiles, runs her fingers through his hair once before turning over and curling her limbs up to fall asleep.

Michael wakes up at eight and can already hear her playing; he groans and again drags himself out of bed and into a hot shower, getting dressed before facing her. She’s in the same position as the night before, only now she’s bathed in the early morning light, highlighting the protruding ribs and vertebrae flush against her skin. He stands in the doorway, watching her play with a half smile that parallels hers as she gets it right over and over. Eventually, she just stops, stands and walks towards him.

“Morning,” Kara smiles and kisses his cheek before disappearing.

It seems like the bad spell is over for a while but Michael knows, knows for definite, that it’ll come back because in all truth, this is what Kara does. She gets obsessive. Unhealthily obsessive. She won’t eat, sleep, talk for hours and days on end because she simply can’t get something right. Michael can’t alter the habit or compulsion in her, can’t stop it.
And it terrifies the shit out of him.

It’s really only a few hours; she takes a shower and lets Michael kiss her lips when she’s dressed, then they quickly undress each other in the afternoon before eating lunch together. Then he finds her pale legs wriggling out from under the bed, followed by a head of red curls and a big plastic box full of sheet music. She rifles through it for a long while before selecting something that hurts Michael’s eyes and looks like it could take weeks.

“You’re starting something new already?” he asks, desperately cleaving onto the few moments he knows is all he’ll have. She nods, finding raking the wild hair away from her eyes and neck, finding a tie to secure it with and smiles.

“It shouldn’t take long,” her face falls at seeing the blatant dismay on her boyfriend’s face and she steps into his embrace, wraps her hand around the back of his neck. “Look, I’ll spend a few hours on it, then we can get dinner or something, okay?” he sighs and leans to kiss her slowly because he knows the promise is vacant.

Michael wakes up at four am, listens to her whimpering and rolls over to fall asleep again. He just can’t anymore. He can’t.

He sticks through three more pieces, carries her to bed and strokes the tears off of her face before it gets too much. He packs his bags when she starts the fourth and tells her through the music. She doesn’t stop the motion of her hands when he says he’s leaving, barely questions it as she’s not listening as much. So he kisses the top of her curls and locks the door behind him because he knows she always forgets.

He worries about her every day but doesn’t hear from her. Not when she’s too busy to pay the electricity bill and has to work through the agony by candlelight, not when she refuses to eat or sleep for too many days and falls away from the little cushioned seat and hits her head on the wooden floorboards.

The sad thing is that she barely notices he’s gone. Misses the warmth of his skin sometimes but without him she can work completely uninterrupted. And she lets the obsession overcome and fill her as she works so desperately to fulfil the overbearing compulsion to be utterly flawless. So, eventually, she does the one thing he can’t do. She forgets him.