something you don't
by mistsplash
He watches them like a predator, his large, devilish green eyes gleaming in delight. Slowly, scathingly, he grins at them, not out of pity or remorse or some suffocating feeling, but out of amusement. They're only his playthings in this large, painful playpen of a world.
His feelings have disintegrated into ashy nothingness. It is said that he can only feel that same prickling sensation of amusement, for he has been basking in it for so long.
He doesn't admit this as he answers their rather desperate questions, using that simple air of mystique and cleverly posed pity that he has mastered. He nods, looking sympathetic and understanding, and answers their seemingly puzzling questions with cultivating riddles. He gives no hint of the laughter that is threatening to burst from his lips, because they're just so fun to watch, scrambling around like they're the smallest beings in the world.
Which, in a sense, they are—but he doesn't tell them that, either. He's the good guy right now, remember?
He wonders, absently, if they've realized it yet. The answers are right there in front of them, and if they only looked, they would see all that he does, and they wouldn't be running to him for answers. Then again, they don't have the eyes of a Cheshire.
Benignantly on the outside, deceivingly on the inside, he smiles down at them, because he knows something they don't.
Author's Notes:
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