A/N: Firstly, the first two sentences of this fic is the prompt given to me by Crispy-Gypsy to write it. Secondly, forgive the incredibly uncreative title. I bashed this out pretty quickly and I'm running on a lack of sleep now, and titles are currently pretty low on my priority list. Anyway, enjoy!
Amarant realizes that the churning sickness in his stomach may be what Eiko would call a "crush." He is seriously fucking annoyed at this realization.
He hasn't come to be assaulted with feelings. He hasn't come for feelings at all, period, unless the lessening of the annoyance that generally sits at the front of his mind on a regular basis could be considered a feeling. He has less than no interest in plays, and he's content to live without seeing the whole group he'd spent way more of his life traveling with than he thought he would. What he really wanted was to see her, but he hadn't bothered to question exactly why.
He's kicking himself for it now, because there he is, and there she is, and there it is, that feeling. An awkward party of three.
He's too busy thinking about how not to think about it to realize she is leading him to a seat in the crowd, and that annoys him, too. As if he were a dog following her around. He should have just walked out. He shouldn't have come to begin with.
Why the fuck is he still here?
But he's looking at her, because she's not looking at him; she's watching the show, absorbed in everything grossly romantic occurring on the stage. Maybe that's what she wants. But that's not what he wants. That's not what he is.
Why the fuck is he clapping?
He knew Zidane would get his fairy tale ending. Meanwhile, Amarant would still be Amarant. Except that isn't true. It's more like Amarant that has grown a malignant tumor with her name on it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He knows they're all going to convene, to catch up; he slips out before he can be dragged into yet another thing he wants nothing to do with, making a beeline for the pub and hoping they forget he had ever even come here at all. Hoping he forgets.
But, of course, she doesn't forget anything.
Amarant is beginning to think there aren't enough words for "fuck" in the English language.
She sits down next to him, beginning conversation with what might be actual, genuine concern. Why can't she see she's wasting her time? Why does she even bother on him?
She is everything; he is nothing. That's how it works. If he chooses to think about it, it's no wonder why he feels something for her, but he's seriously getting pissed at the fact that she can't just see it herself and give up the act. There's no point in trying to humor him. He doesn't want her sympathies. He doesn't want her noble kindness and her generous friendship.
He wants her to hate him, because that's the way things are supposed to be. Not like this.
"You run your mouth too much," he says, and he smirks when he sees her bristling out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he has control over something.
When they both stand, ready to go at it, he's sure things feel right again. When they almost start beating the shit out of each other in the street before guards break them up, when she snubs her nose up at him in disgust and strides away, he feels satisfied. The world is balanced again. Things make sense again.
That look was all he wanted, that look that says she's tired of him and his shit and she's ready to prove it. He wanted that look more than anything.
Her look.
And suddenly it's much too clear that that sickness in his stomach hasn't gone away, it's just turned into something even nastier, something even more un-Amarant-like.
Fuck.