Characters: Auron, Lulu (mild Auron/Lulu)
Rating: PG
Words: 922
Summary: Auron's own death never bothered him much before, but she shouldn't have to look at him as close as she does sometimes like he's not real.
Note: Semi-unedited (I couldn't help myself!) quick-write, just kinda shoveled off my hard drive. Also pretty much the first time I've ever seriously written Auron. Or Lulu. Or Auron/Lulu. In addition, I totally didn't even know what to do with Lulu in this fic, and it shows. So this probably sucks. ... Enjoy. XD
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Auron's own death never bothered much him before.
It was just a fact of life (or, well—you know) that night he regained consciousness, vision and mind at once a blur but then suddenly painfully clear as the light of Al Bhed electric lamps and memory of Yunalesca's relentlessly cold eyes pierced him, startling him and coating him in what felt like a cold sheen of sweat but was most likely his imagination as the dead have no need for temperature regulation.
He did not remember arriving at the outpost, did not remember his last hours as a living being, only remembered the thundering rage at the keeper of the final summoning that shattered his faith into something unrecognizable—like his face oh Yevon his face, he was looking into the mirror by his bedside he now knew why that eye would not open, remembered the terrible searing heat of her punishment but could not remember how he survived it but—but it didn't matter now, did it? He was dead, not living, dead—deceased but not departed, not like Braska who was totally removed from the world but Auron was dead but still here like Yunaleska and Jecht and Yevon, oh Yevon...
But if it was one thing he had always prided himself in it was composition, yes, which would now be very useful as pyreflies drifted in and out of his sight when he dared to let his guard down, with people's stares and the church's eyes everywhere, watching and all-powerful. After he silently left the outpost in the dead of the night, he devoted nearly every moment (as there were now no longer things like"waking moments"—just moments) to playing alive, just like one plays dead to survive. He was playing at life, because if he didn't he really would be dead, swept away by a summoner like so much dust under the rug that was the Farplane.
He told himself it was easy—it was just like being alive except he could laugh at death and threats of it, laugh because he was already dead and all he had to worry about was being swept away like dirt by some sort of janitor of the living, laugh because sometimes he almost went mad in all the silence of Spira and the darkness of Zanarkand.
Laugh because all he could do now was play at life in order to keep a promise to a friend.
So the next time he lets down his guard is ten years after his revival, when the younger ones and Kimahri are asleep—he does not consider her a young one, though she is indeed in the middle of the guardians' age spectrum—he finds it easy to be at ease with her in her graceful, almost brooding silence. They exchange little observations, a few words that mean many—usual for the two, even when they're alone.
Tonight, however, he is a little too at ease—the presence of pyreflies is the norm in Macalania, but the mage is perceptive and notices that the bright lights arise not from the forest, but from the legendary guardian's sleeves, his fingertips, his mouth as he brings his lips closer to hers.
He pulls away, looking at her with one good eye. Lulu—Don't worry, she says reflexively, drawing back. She won't tell.
As if to remedy the newly made distance between them Lulu puts a hand on his that is as pale and luminescent in the dark as the moon and does not look into his eyes. She knows there's no reason to tell the others ... and, well, now at least she knows why he heals so quickly. Her laugh patters out like the soft rain that is beginning to fall on the roof of trees above, short and weak.
But don't worry, Lulu says again, drawing near to him as she had before, a little more hesitant this time than Auron's known her to be. She won't tell.
... And it bothers him.
It bothers him because she shouldn't have to bear his secret on her shoulders under Yuna's innocent eyes, and under others' reverent ones. Because she shouldn't have to distract the others while he fends off eternity, willing his form to stay in this world.
Because she shouldn't have to look at him as close as she does sometimes like he's not real.
Even now, amongst the scentless flowers and lifeless grandeur of the Farplane, he doesn't regret going to Zanarkand—to death, to the end—and most of all doesn't regret getting up that night and walking out into the world again, new but old, the crisp night air not irritating nor refreshing. But Auron does remember wistfully when he was swept up by Yuna's graceful wand, dead for so long that he hadn't really remembered how to live, and how Lulu's eyes lingered a little on red—but he did not see her shed any tears, and he did not shed any of his own (could he have, even?).
And it bothers him.
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A N: So yeah, sad as it sounds, this is one of only three or so times I've ever written Auron or Lulu, and the first time I've finished an anyone-but-Seymour-and/or-Yuna-centric fic during my 4 years or so in the FFX fandom. Sad! But then again, I don't finish what I write a lot.
With this fic, I wanted to time myself writing something in order to practice writing faster, and didn't edit it much to try and curb my propensity for sitting on fics and editing them like crazy for months on end. So hopefully this is just kinda like the lowest common denominator of what I can do (yeah, right).Anyway, I'd really like to know how this was, especially concerning its characterization of Auron and/or Lulu and its style. I 'd also like to know how the whole no-quotations thing went ... well, thanks. :)