It is nights like this, perhaps, that he hates the most.
Quiet, still nights, the kind of night where you look at the stars and contemplate the universe and your own insignificance in the vast scheme of creation.
Those nights without so much as a sound; no insects chirping, no toads croaking...
No voices and no companions for those caught by the Moon's beams.
These nights, he is reminded of the fact that... he has no one.
Sure, there's Yukio, but...
Yukio has never been the best actor, has he?
No, for he's never quite been able to cover his envious stares and his accusing glares.
Not from Rin, his twin, his other half.
He is alone.
His friends, those whom he so desired to reach out to and join, have abandoned him to his own dawnfall. Have been expecting,do still expecthis downfall.
All it would take:
one lapse in judgment, one overbearing moment of chaos.
And down goes the Prince.
But he's not fallen yet
(are you sure?)
Never will he, either
(you don't believe that)
It is nights like this, perhaps, so clear and crisp and stark in their beauty, that he hates the most.
For his mind is always, always so open, so vulnerable on such nights.
One word, one question is all it would take.
One mistake.
One slip.
Justone.
And they are watching.
Waiting.
For just...
One...
Slip.
It's a tightrope game he knows well but would rather not play. (what goes up must come down)
For—soon, maybe—hewillcome down
But for this one night,
He can fly.
And that, that lying, deceiving, conniving delusion, is what he hates most, perhaps.
For on these nights, these still, still nights where he can see the stars and hear his thoughts, he can lie to himself.(just for now, you're still steady)
And when the night is over?
He feels hope.
And isn't that just a sad caveat?
His black, tainted denial brings him peace, but only just and only so.
But sometimes he can't help but loathe and dread the day.
The days which follow those nights in which he can't think with all the static blur racing in his mind.
It is days like this, perhaps, that he hates the most.
For he is ignored and brushed off.
He has stopped trying to talk to them by now.
And most bright sunshine days,
He finds himself ducking his head in shame, frozen to the spot and face covered by a night–day curtain of hair.
Shame in himself, shame for his actions (past mistakes and present failures that blurred together into one depressing mess of thought, attacking him at his weakest)...
Shame for his audacity to feel sorry for himself. (until those clear, clear nights)
It is an endless road of sorry-shame-sorry-shutup-please-hate-sorry and he isn't sure how to get off it. (the daytime, the sunshine, the brightness
It is his Hell.)
He isn't sure if he wants to get off it.
(for he is burning and surely there is no way back, so why bother?)
Does he deserve to get off it?
[...Hell no.]
Okay then.
Often still, he finds, his throat will tighten painfully around the words in his mind, a vice preventing them from ever becoming anything more than thought and wish. He will never admit it, will never be able to admit it, but these times scare him just enough to make him wary of speaking at all.These moments remind him that he is not the one in control: that is the job of the puppetmaster, whom he is not. He is the puppet, the one held up by a fickle string and held together by weak wood and thin cloth.
[...then who is the puppeteer?]
...all of them, they are.
[why am I the puppet?]
...Because I dance the best.(Delusions and fact blur, blur, mix, blurmixblurmixbmliuxr)
true (always so true. So achingly true)
Sometimes, when his throat is full of moist cotton balls and his heart is clenching away in disgust, he thinks he sees a black shadow in Often, he finds himself ducking his head in shame, frozen to the spot and face covered by a blue-black curtain of hair.
Shame in himself, shame for his actions (past mistakes and present failures that blurred together into one depressing mess of thought, attacking him at his weakest)...
Shame for his audacity to feel sorry for himself.
It is an endless road of sorry-shame-sorry-shutup-please-hate-sorry and he isn't sure how to get off it.
He isn't sure if he wants to get off it.
Does he deserve to get off it?
...Hell no. Okay then.
Often still, he finds, his throat will tighten painfully around the words in his mind, a vice preventing them from ever becoming anything more than thought and wish. He will never admit it, will never be able to admit it, but these times scare him just enough to make him wary of speaking at all.These moments remind him that he is not the one in control: that is the job of the puppetmaster, whom he is not. He is the puppet, the one held up by a fickle string and held together by weak wood and thin cloth.
...then who is the puppeteer? ...all of them, they are.
why am I the puppet? ...Because I dance the best.
true
Sometimes, when his throat is full of moist cotton and his heart is clenching away in disgust, he thinks he sees a black shadow in the corner. This shadow is too out-of-the-way (too distorted) to belong to anybody, and yet...
it beckons. [come on, dont be afraid, come into the shade, away from the heat...]
But he knows that blue fire is the coldest of colors and always, always burns the hottest.
Oh, he knows.
Some days, he doesn't feel like leaving his bed. (some nights, he doesn't want to get into his bed)
He knows Yukio—bless him (if you can), for he is so naïve—thinks him to be lazy and driveless. Thinks he lacks motivation and care.
But Yukio is so very clueless sometimes, especially when he's at his most aware.
[answer me this:
why did I fall?]
because I look oh-so peaceful on the way down
[fair enough]
And it is years like that, perhaps
that he hates the most.