Hey everybody. I'm Venalosia Zea"Rel (don't try to pronounce that, it's impossible. ) and as I am... Well, quite bored, I thought 'why don't I translate one of my fanfictions in english?' and so...

Here. It's a cronkri thing I wrote exactly one year ago (okay, I wrote it one year and one day ago, now) and it had already been published on my tumblr. So if you're reading it and thinking 'hey, but I already read this before!' (which I highly doubt), it's juste I wanted to send it.
Well...
Enjoy your reading? There will be three chapters plus an epilogue. I apologize in advance for any mistake you may find.

February, Fourteenth.
One, four, zero, two. It would make seven, if we added up every number. But it's only a date, a page of the calendar, number and month, nothing more. Love's Day, day of disgusting pink hearts sticked on pale green cards, day of stories about "How I met you father" and "How I fucked your mother. It's the day which play spitefully with the feelings, making anger and pain, loneliness, growing in single person's chests.

It's why, at nightfall, the entire world closes its eyes to avoid the disastrous play of people falling along with the night. Like the rain falls, on Valentine's Day, the ones who didn't have girlfriend, boyfriend, lover fall from towers and bridges, jump from their rooves and end up crushed on the floor.
And the blood around their head is just like a flower. A beautiful, deadly flower that 'He' can never gather.
Things are always beautiful, when we know we cannot reach them.

Today it's February 14th. fourteen past midnight . 'He' isn't asleep.
For fifteen years 'he' has been watching the unloved falls,the red and yellows roses growing slowly on the tarmac, every Valentine's Day. The same single night, every year, he watches the world being torn apart by people falling for love.
'He' is 24, he already wrecked every single chance in his life. Love, family? 'He' doesn't really know anymore what these words mean. But he is sure Love, true love, the one who always win and never end in some sort of tragedy, is.
'He' also thinks some people don't have the right to fall, they just have to live. Otherwise the story wouldn't be.
For fifteen years 'he' has been watching, saying 'he' couldn't fall. 'He' almost took this observation like a yearly hobbie. Some people like to watch leaves falling from the tree...
'He' prefer to see other guys instead of leaves, towers instead of trunks. So he just looks at them taking a swan dive from the edge of their buildings.
'He' looks at their last fall, sitting on the barrier of his little balcony, 'he' looks at the future stage for the sick comedy the world is going to be for one day. An unhealthy comedy, full of deaths and weird people, but not a tragedy. The world isn't a tragedy.

In his eyes, the only tragedy is the five years he has lived. Five years... Five. One plus four. Fourteen. Again. Always. Five years, or fourteen? His name is Cronus. Cronus Ampora. The only good thing in his name... Is that it would never make fourteen. A bit of a boaster, way too romantic, he hides his thoughts behind a screen of stinky gray smoke and his feelings under an old black leather jacket. Poet and playwright of his life he always said.
And his tragedy, of course, had a name. A name which didn't make fourteen.

It's still Valentine's Day. Fourteen past five. Just for the night's scent, he closes his eyes. But doesn't sleep. Doesn't fall.

Manage to staying alive, another day. Waste the entire day watching the hours flow, four, one, two and seven. Manage to staying alive, holding the old balcony under me. Stay alive until midnight, February fifteenth. Live just another day.
Outdoing myself.
It has been five years. He just wants to add another day to protect his mind. Add another night to stand on the edge of his flat without falling.

Fourteen past begins to rise, as he stands up with it, in order to wash away the scars left by another sleepless night. He leaves the barrier he has been sitting on, walking in his little appartment almost aimlessly. Quite old lilac wallpaper, white tiles. He locked himself in his little, narrow bathroom. Purple, as all the other rooms are here. He loves this stupid color.

His clothes are soon scattered across the room, and he showers under the boiling water jet.
He counts the drops on his tanned skin, two, twelve and then fourteen. He counts the scars on his chest, ten and fourteen.
He counts. He counts the time he spends soaping, the time he spends rincing.
Ten and then fourty.
He looks at his watch as he dresses himself with clean clothes, blue jean and white tee-shirt as always. And the drops falling from his wet hair are the tears he didn't let fall for five years.
Five. One and four. Fourteen.
Five equal fourteen.

He just walks in his cold appartment, eyes wandering around without any aim. Fourteen steps, every time. He counts them. Fourteen. Then one step aside, to reach the button of the awering machine and listen the messages left during the night.
Maybe somebody worried for him?

You've got fourteen new messages.

Laugh. Sit on a chair -fourteen steps away, always fourteen - and play with hair while messages flows. Principally people who don't care about me. Friends. Family. Even some guys I barely know, and all of them wishing the same stupid thing.
Every year it's the same boring old story.

"Happy Birthday."
"Happy Birthday."
"Happy Birthday, Brother. I can't be here for it, so... I just wish it here. "
"Are you doing something on Valentine's day, Crony-sugar?" Ok, this one was... Quite stupid.

"Happy Birthday, Cronus! "
"You forgot your keys in my car, Cro. I'll come tonight to give them back to you."
"Happy birthday."
"Happy birthdaaaay."
"Beh...Bi Day ! " Who let a baby wishing me my birthday?

"Hey Cro, do you, by any chance, have my dvd? "
"Joyeux anniversaire." Yeeees, now, french. Wonderful. I had one or two french girlfriends...
"Platypus."

"Happy birthday."
"Cronus?"

This feeling of falling. How hurtful it is... A tragedy rewritten and then forgotten in a second. Flashback of five years.
Fourteen. Fourteenth message. And here I am, forcefully listening, heart beating in my chest.
A voice I didn't hope to hear again.

"It's Kankri. Can... Could you, please, call back? It's important. You still have the number, I'm sure...
And Happy Birthday;"