Title: denial

Genre: Angst/Romance

Rating: T

Plot summary: Knowing the truth is one thing. Accepting it is another. You've never dealt well with change – especially where he is involved. Post-game AU. Second-person POV. One-shot.

A/N: A writing experiment from my old FFXIII drabble stash that I decided to rework and publish. Character/relationship study, minimal dialogue, emphasis on style and exposition. Credit to hubby for tense fixes. :-P

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denial – refusal to recognise or acknowledge

xxx

I just wanted you to know, he had said.

It flatters and unnerves you both at once, this infatuation of his. At least, that is the term by which you've described it. You refuse to consider the possibility that it can be something more.

But it niggles at you, because infatuations don't typically last this long.

It's been six years now. Six years since you first became aware that he harboured more than platonic feelings for you. Back then, he was weak and vulnerable, caught in a death struggle no fourteen-year-old ought to have undergone. So you took up the role of his mentor. While that decision was made grudgingly – you are a solitary creature by habit, intolerant of helpless, needy tagalongs – the chasm left by your precious sister's absence accommodated him all too well. In short, you needed someone to protect. He, in turn, needed someone to protect him.

So you cleaved to him and he to you for survival purposes. This forced intimacy eventually gave rise to friendship, which you came to cherish. Past the initial misstep, you found that you appreciated his company. His quiet, reserved manners (as opposed to the moronic hulk of obnoxiousness that was Snow) were unobtrusive, and you welcomed his thoughtful little gestures and intelligent remarks.

Against your unsociable nature, you grew fond of him. What you felt for him was a protective, familial affection – the type one would feel towards a younger sibling or a favourite pupil. You took comfort in his constant presence, in the surety that he would look out for you. You watched with pride as he progressed in leaps and bounds under your guidance, following your lead without question. Whatever direction he took from you, it was with a trust so pure and complete that it soothed away the hollow ache in your heart.

However, what you hadn't expected from him was adoration.

You were not – nor will you ever be – an unobservant person, and his shift in behaviour did not escape your notice. Throughout your l'Cie journey, you picked up on signs, little things he did that were too frequent and purposeful to dismiss as inconsequential. There were numerous occasions where you caught him staring at you before quickly glancing away, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. Not to mention he would greet you warmly in the mornings, be the first to tend to your injuries in combat, and insist on remaining by your side where others would keep their distance.

This baffled you.

You know that you are far from a personable character. The abrasive, aloof exterior is something you've deliberately cultivated to keep others out, to quash any potential for attachment. Yet he had surmounted your anger and doubt and even abandonment, emerging as your partner. That feat alone deserved praise; you can count on the fingers of one hand those brave (and persistent) enough to get past your icy shields.

Taking it one step further, though – daring to nurse a crush on you – was nothing short of miraculous.

Surely this was an aberration, you told yourself. The awe an impressionable child felt for his role model (not that you made a very good one), magnified by strife. A passing phase. It wouldn't last. You were all on a Cie'th countdown that would, at most, span a handful of weeks. Neither of you may even live long enough to reach the end of the conflict, let alone resolve this (comparatively) trivial matter.

Therefore, you saw no reason to acknowledge his one-sided puppy love. Flattering though it was to be seen that way, nothing would come out of it. Even under normal circumstances, you were ill-equipped to deal with romance, shunning both the drama it brought and the dependency on another for happiness. And while you were fond of the kid, there was no chance you'd reciprocate. The seven-year age gap was one thing, but the possibility was solidly out of the question while he remained a minor.

Nevertheless, the idea of uttering such harsh words of rejection made you reel with discomfort inside. He'd already been through so much, and you didn't want to be cause for further anguish.

No, best to avoid the situation altogether. As long as his crush remained unspoken, suspended in the realm of unrealised possibilities, you could continue feigning ignorance.

So you soldiered on, towards your impending doom. Fortunately, fate – or perhaps the gods themselves – decided to deal you a favourable hand. In the end, you freed the world from fal'Cie domination and reclaimed the chance to start anew. This transpired at Vanille's and Fang's expense, but you'd known all along that you wouldn't emerge from the conflict unscathed.

Mutual crisis averted, you surmised that everyone would invariably go their separate ways. He would resume what little remained of his childhood and return to school. There, he would find a more suitable recipient for his affections, and shift his focus onto them. You would become a name in a string of adolescent crushes, forgotten to more immediate, approachable others.

Resolving that time and distance would put an end to the matter of his unrequited feelings, you went out of your way to avoid it – and him, by extension. After participating in relief efforts, you set up residence in an isolated beachfront along with your sister and Snow. He on the other hand, moved to the main settlement-turned-capital, courtesy of his father's deepening involvement in governance matters. He'd suggested to stay with you at first, but that would mean sacrificing his educational and career prospects, and even he recognised the folly of such a decision.

As weeks gave way to months and then years, visits became less frequent as you immersed yourself deeper in your own world and he in his. When you weren't busy with border patrols or drill exercises, you kept yourself occupied with your sister's growing brood. Meanwhile, he graduated school early and joined the newly founded Academy, researching alternative energy sources to sustain mankind in the post-fal'Cie era. (Who'd have thought he'd turn out to be a genius scientist?) Meetings with old friends fell to the wayside, and before you knew it, more than half a decade had gone by.

Somewhere in the passage of time, you'd hoped this infatuation of his would go away.

Yet it hadn't, resurfacing with a sudden vengeance. Little did you know that the upcoming spring equinox would mark the occasion of this paradigm shift. In honour of ongoing tradition, he, Sazh and Dajh had flown in to celebrate the fireworks festival with your family. As the indigo sky exploded with arrays of kaleidoscopic lights, he'd taken you aside and made an admission you did not want to hear.

I just wanted you to know, he had said.

The rest of the night had passed in a haze of bewilderment and indecision. Disarmed by his quiet, impassioned words, you had searched his expression for any signs of deceit, only to find none. (Of course you would find none; when had he been anything other than sincere to you?) Then you'd found yourself at a loss of how to respond.

The pin had dropped. The delusion of which you'd wasted six years convincing yourself was finally, irreversibly shattered.

Your mind struggled to cope with this foreign information. The meticulous order of your universe had been upset, scrambling the mental tracks you'd wired to function with the opposite assumption. In an attempt to reorientate yourself, you'd bargained for more time to think about things. He'd acquiesced.

So you spent the next few weeks trying and failing to rally your old defence. It isn't possible, you summoned the familiar lie. But the conviction behind it had vanished. Wont as you were to turn a blind eye, you'd been privy to the opposing, persistent evidence. You'd understood the intent behind his lingering touches, his watchful gaze, the diligence and care in which he'd tended to the tasks you'd asked of him. In the wake of his confession – the final nail in the coffin – you'd exhausted the means by which to maintain your pretence.

Now you're left to face the truth and its consequences.

It's his third visit some four months since the festival, and it teems with the accumulated expectation of answers. You've managed to hold him off in the last two visits, but it's hardly fair to keep testing his patience. Having resigned yourself to this eventuality, you mark the pier as the site of confrontation.

He finds you atop the weathered wooden boards, your gaze following the crest and dip of the incoming waves. You hear him calling your name, and your flight instinct rears up as a dropping sensation in the pit of your stomach. But you've foreseen this and preemptively cornered yourself, leaving no route for escape.

Procrastinating is no longer an option.

So you turn to look at him. Really look at him.

The midday sun shines down with blazing clarity, revealing him for the young man he is. While he'd claimed the height advantage over you three years ago, never had you been so aware of it as you are now. His silver hair is longer, professionally styled, and his cheeks have lost their baby-fat, graduating to a defined jawline dusted with the faintest hint of stubble. He is wearing his Academy uniform today, a well-fitting ensemble of yellows and whites that accentuate his broad shoulders and narrow hips. His form is lean but sturdy, and you think you would fit into the cradle of his arms were he to hold you close. (A dangerous line of thought, one you dispel immediately.)

Puberty has been kind to him, transforming the lanky, effeminate-looking boy into a strikingly handsome man. How the tables have turned, and now you are the one staring at him. You avert your gaze as soon as you realise what you're doing, but not quickly enough to miss that curious gleam in his eyes.

He speaks, and you find yourself mesmerised. His voice has deepened with maturity, the once nervous, boyish cadences giving way to a soft, melodious tenor. The polite phrases he chooses are of the shy and reserved child you'd taken under your wing, but his tone is confident. He knows what he is saying, and his words reflect the acuity of mind and experience he'd gained throughout the years. There's an authority in his voice that wasn't there before; no doubt his promotion to Academy Director is responsible for that change.

He takes a step towards you, eyes fixed upon yours. Of his features, those have remained the same: green as the ocean and intelligent and expressive. But the quality of his gaze has changed. Back then, he had looked upon you with childlike worship and adoration. The adoration is still there, but underlying it is a distinctly un-childlike emotion:

Desire.

This realisation arrests you, pinning you down with the sheer magnitude of its weight. Your breath catches in your chest. Then, not unlike a chocobo caught in headlights, you go shock still as he raises his ungloved hand to your face. Where had his sudden boldness come from? But you permit the gesture, just like all the other liberties you've permitted him, because he's your dearest friend and ever-so-trusted partner—

His touch burns you.

The point of contact is minuscule, two fingertips against your cheek. Yet it has a profound effect, as though all of his unexpressed sentiment had been concentrated into that single touch. You feel prickles dancing across your skin, engulfing you in twitchy, uncomfortable heat. Your heart pounds furiously against your ribcage. 'Electrifying' would best describe what you're feeling, though you're in no state of mind to contemplate the irony of being struck by your own namesake.

For a dazed moment, you worry that you may be ill. But you've had your latest medical examination only two days ago, so the likelihood of that is next to none. Impossible.

It's him, you conclude. He's the source of this anomaly, this charged atmosphere between you. By exposing the truth, he's made things different.

And you hate it.

This tension discomfits you. It puts you in unfamiliar territory, wresting control out of your grasp. Having this newfound awareness – that he's male and you're female and all the implications in between – is not something you asked for. You don't want to redefine your impression of him. You don't want to flick that mental switch and lump him into that category (of attractive, fuckable men you'd take home one night and throw out the next). You want things to be the way they'd once been: you, his mentor and he, your pupil. It was a safe relationship. Incorruptible. Innocent. Free from the turmoil you are experiencing right now.

You don't want him to make you feel this way.

So you pull away.

No, the denial falls easily from your lips. This causes a furrow to form between his brows, and he questions why. Steeling yourself against his insistent stare, you throw out all the rationalisations you'd prepared for this purpose. That you live too far away. That you do not share his scholarly pursuits or idealistic world views. That you're too old for him – too hardened, too mistrustful, too bloodstained. He is already living up to his immense potential, building a brighter future for humanity, and you would only weigh him down.

You don't tell him it's because you're afraid.

He sighs and shakes his head. A dangerous resolve lights up his eyes; you can see the cogs turning in that brilliant mind of his. Then, with the cool self-assurance of someone accustomed to wining debates, he proceeds to dismantle your arguments. His reasoning is sound and measured, and you marvel at his prowess. It seems that he'd accurately predicted what you would say and formulated counterarguments beforehand. In this contest of wits, he clearly outstrips you – a classic example of the pupil surpassing his mentor.

But you refuse to budge.

Now that your arguments have been revealed for the flimsy excuses they are, you default to stubbornness. No amount of coaxing will sway you from your decision – you won't allow that. It boils down to one simple fact:

You don't love him. Not in the manner that he wants you to.

No, you will not entertain the possibility, however much he pleads and tightens that knot of unease in the pit of your stomach. Is it not enough that you care for him? (Such a small, pitiful consolation, your traitorous mind retorts). And while you would do nearly anything for him, embracing this altered dynamic and letting nature take its course is beyond you. You're not cut out for romance, after all. Nor will you defile your relationship by giving in to your baser desire to fuck him and this godforsaken sexual tension out of your system.

So here you are, locked in a stalemate, a clash of wills from which neither of you wishes to back down.

In the end, he relents. His form visibly deflates, and his eyes take on a darker cast, weighed down with disappointment and hurt and forlornness. The sight makes your gut twist every bit as painfully as you'd imagined. It's as though you're carving out your own innards with every line of pain you've etched into his expression. You've handed out rejection plenty of times; why should this hurt so much?

But you grit your teeth against your rising distress, maintaining your stance. So does he.

I understand your decision. But I've also made mine. Please forgive me if I won't stop trying to change your mind.

He takes you by surprise again, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. The descent of his lips sends another frisson of unwanted heat through you. But you resist the urge to jerk away violently, restraining your movement to a mere shudder.

Then, with a dignity that belies the heartbreak he must be feeling, he bids you goodbye and turns on his heel. His footsteps fade into the whisper of the waves as he moves further and further away, until he is nothing but a pinprick in the distance.

In the wake of his departure, you are overcome by a sudden, icy emptiness. Although the ocean breeze carries only the slightest hint of chill, you curl into yourself, clutching your forearms as though fighting to stay warm.

Where had it all gone so wrong?

This upheaval in his and your relationship isn't something you will readily adjust to. Not that you have any plans on adjusting. But his tenacity – a trait he'd oh-so-conveniently inherited from you – presents a problem. Romantic masochist that he is, he will inevitably return to ask you again.

Nevertheless, your answer will stay the same:

No.

That was your modus operandi from the very beginning. Leaving things unacknowledged meant that you kept yourself sane, and so unacknowledged they shall remain.

(Saying no will become easier each time, right?)

To think that everything had come undone with so simple a declaration.

I just wanted you to know, he had said.

I just want you to forget, you hadn't replied.

Somewhere inside the deepest recesses of your heart, there is a warm, hopeful space that houses the notion of possibility. Of what-if's and what-could-be's. Of futures yet undreamed, awash in bright skies and tender gazes and sunny smiles. But you had slammed the door on it long ago. Locked the latch and thrown the key away.

He's not for you and you're certainly not for him.

(or that's what you'd rather tell yourself)

xxx

Fin.

xxx

A/N: Just a little something to restart my creative engines. Review are nevertheless appreciated. :-)