Title: Percy's Lament

Author: Lady Feylene

Disclaimer: Characters herein do not belong to me. I am making no money off of this.

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Slash

Pairing: Percy/Oliver


Summary: Percy reflects over everything he has lost in his life, and the futility of human emotions.

lj-cut text="Angst ahead"

There is never more pain then when something dies. I don't mean something living, not exactly. Feelings. Emotions. Bonds. Nothing is more painful then when they break, shatter, fall, twist and bend into something grotesque.

In a way, I suppose feelings are alive. On some strange metaphysical level they have life and breath and motivation of their own. We have no control over them, rather they control us. They follow no rhyme, reason, or scheme. They are wild, unpredictable and often we wish we could live without them.

Or rather, *I* do.

It seems everything I touch dies. Every bond I ever form. First Penelope, leaving me for reasons she could not give breath to. Then Oliver. Oh sweet Merlin, Oliver. Off to pursue things more I 'important' then me, despite the fact that he does not say so.

And now my family.

I have nothing. I have no where to turn. I am here, alone, among strangers. Oh, I know their names and faces, but I do not *know* them. They are simply people I see, day in and day out. Personalities I interact with on a daily basis, that's all.

How can I tell them what I fell? How can I tell them that I want little other then to curl up and die?

They would not understand. They would look and shake their heads, and perhaps one would offer to take me to St. Mungos.

I do not need a doctor.

I need my *life* back. I need the people that I love, the people that claimed to love me in turn. I gave them all I had, and they did not care. Penelope, Oliver, my family…did they simply not understand me? Were my motivations and actions so unfathomable that they were incapable of looking at the world through my eyes?

I pride myself on my honesty. Regardless of how it hurts, I am honest. And yet even that is suspect, it seems.

They believe me to be some sort of spy, lifted to my position simply to keep the minister informed of Dumbledore's movements. Merlin, I do not care one way or another what the man does! He is a loose canon, and he will most likely bring our world to ruin, but so would half the other lunatics that claim to run things.

I simply wish to keep my family safe. I left because they could not handle my honesty. They would rather believe the worst of me, it seems, then known facts. That would rather believe that I am being used, rather then I *deserve* this position.

I hate days like these. I sit here, in my flat, alone. I stare at the table before me and I wonder what else I can be doing. I want to write to Oliver, but he hardly writes back anymore. And if he does, it is either useless prattle that I do not care for or understand, or it is to chastise me. And most recently, to cut me free.

I should have known that this was impossible. We never see one another, let alone speak. We have only our letters to keep us in touch, and they are fragmented and full of worlds the other does not comprehend.

I imagine he has met someone else, and that is the reason for this sudden unexpected bit of news. These accusations, these pleadings, and these dismissals.

Why is it that the world wishes to believe the worst of me? What else must I do, to prove myself? I have done all I can. I can do nothing more. But it is never enough!

I suppose that some fault lies with Oliver, in this matter at any rate. He has always been emotional and volatile, and given to these fits of disbelief and self pity. But I really thought we were beyond that.

I stood by him, regardless. When I brought him home to my parents, I did not attempt to hide what we were. I spoke of him often at work, to the point where they would walk away should his name come up in conversation. I waxed poetic about him in private, filling volumes with verse in his name. And when I found myself so lonely to give in to my baser urges, it was him name I called out into my pillow.

But these are not things I can tell him. I can only break it down to it's barest pieces. I am not one well versed in emotions really. Or, should I say, in putting emotions forth. I can simply tell him that I love him, and that I don't understand, and that I only want him to be honest with me.

And then what? Another month of bliss, and 'it's just like it was', and then the problems start again. He will never give what I have given. He swears up and down that he does, but he does not. I believe that he is in love with the 'idea' of me.

He loves the idea of someone who loves him. He is in love with the thought of someone shedding tears for him, and longing after him, and shaping so much of their life around him.

But he does not love me. The warning signs were there, really. But I ignored them. As always, I shoved them away. His constant talk of his life, his friends, his interests…all things that I was not a part of. It was as if he were unconsciously telling me I no longer had a place in his life. But I wanted so badly for it to not be true, I ignored it.

I am a fool. I have always suspected this deep down, but I am loathe to admit it. Now I have come face to face with it.

I imagine I would be a bit more fond of emotions were they not so horrid to me. Oliver is well aware how depressed I have been. I long for everything that was familiar to me, but it is far beyond my reach. He is all I have. He is what I cling to. But he has pushed me away.

I am rather numb with it, to be honest. My reply was stilted and is gone from my mind already. There was little I could say, truly. There is little I can say now.

I am not going to do anything stupid, as they say. Despite the fact that Oliver has essentially said I am not worth it, to work for, I am not going to lose my control. I am not going to attempt to end my miserable life, intentionally or not. I am not going to damage myself, I am not going to drink excessively, I am not going to make use of the narcotic's dealer down the street.

Despite the fact that my life is an utter misery, and suddenly much worse, I still *care* about it. I care about myself, because it seems as though I am the only one left to do so.

I do however, believe I am going to vomit. I feel vaguely ill, and my dinner is suddenly not sitting well with me.

I do not know what I am going to do tomorrow. I do not know what I am going to do when I receive Oliver's reply. I do not know how I am going to wake up tomorrow, or the next day, or even stand up from this chair.

But I know I will, and that is really all that matters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~