this is a songfic.
song; lover i don't have to love - bright eyes
pairing; axeliku ( axel x repliku )
fandom; kingdomhearts
rated; for cursing and implied sex
credit; iiiii don't own kindgom hearts. that's why it's on and not in video-game form.
please review, i cry and throw a temper tantrum every time you fave and don't review. ):
I want a lover I don't have to love
You don't have a heart, so I can't expect you to use it; my heart is a cheap imitation, beating by burrowed veins, so the same is true of me. This works well for both of us. You come back angry from rigorous missions that seem to have no real purpose. You find me, angry at my hollow existence and angry at the world. You seize me aggressively, selfish feeling fingers sliding wherever they like. I don't mind. I lean into you, and you lean into me. We are honest in our apathy.
We are not in love and we don't mind.
I want a boy who's too sad to give a fuck
I don't mind when you're gone, not really. If I ask where you're going or when you'll be back, it's only out of unattached curiosity. I don't miss you, nor do you miss me. This is a mututally accepted fact and we are content. It's never you I miss-- it's your warm tongue, your amazing fuck. I miss the sensation and the rush but never you. At best you're a toy whose entertainment is missed when it is not around to play with.
...Sometimes, though, I find myself missing your smile. No one else ever smiles in the castle. ...It's just your smile I miss, though, never you. I don't care about you.
The others like to harass me whenever they see me-- they seem to think it quite fun to point out that I'm fake. I know their underlying feelings. They're jealous of my beating heart, despite its obscure origins. They'd like to rip it out, pulsing wildly, and eat it if they could. They are malicious in their jeering, so much so that I do all I can to avoid them. I am nocturnal in my living habits, venturing from my room only long after the others have fallen asleep. I sleep heavily during the day, finding solace in unconsciousness. I am shrouded in mental darkness, its haze lifted only on those nights when you come along...
But it is not happiness you bring me, only pleasure.
I don't love you.
But you, but you...
Some nights, you disorient me. You'll slip silently into my room, as always-- but your eyes will hold a different light. Your expression contrasts starkly with your usual one; instead of the usual self-indulgent hunger, I see something else. Something warm. It is wholly and completely disarming. You advance to my bed with no amount of desire, and I am confused to my core. There is something almost gentle about your nature, on these nights.
You sit on the edge of my bed, wordlessly. You meet my eyes--such a piercing emerald, your eyes-- and I look away. We never look each other in the eyes, as an unspoken rule.
But on these nights, you break all the rules.
After a long stretch of silence, you speak.
"If I had a heart, I think I'd say you were beautiful."
I am a deer, frozen between two sparkling emerald headlights, unable to react. But you aren't expecting a reaction, nor are you looking for my consent. You climb under the blankets beside me, tug me in a tight embrace, and rest your chin on my head. I do not move, I do not speak. I can't.
The rest of the night, you hold me, whispering similar things, all starting the same:
"If I had a heart, I'd say I think of you every moment I'm away from you."
"If I had a heart, I think I'd want to be with you always."
"If I had a heart, I might love you, Replica."
You write such pretty words, but life's no storybook
The next night's fuck is always urgent, aggressive, and utterly silent. Whatever underlying emotion you'd hinted at before is eradicated when you storm into my room, eyes blazing with a sort of wild passion more intense than ever before. Your strange, gentle behavior will never last two nights in a row. You clasp a powerful hand over my mouth, liquid fire rushing through your veins. Our bodies move with such great force it's like we're fighting. And we are fighting.
We're fighting our weakness.
We're fighting the thoughts, the "feelings", the hopes. We fight the concept of happiness, fight with more vigor than in any battle. 'What if, what if…' Those two words are poison. We smolder underlying desires by unleashing our physical desires. We can't be happy together. It's not safe, it's not right. I can't have him, he can't have me.
But we have this.
Love's an excuse to get hurt. And to hurt.
Sometimes, though, the what-if's keep me up at night. You lie beside me, sleeping soundly after another night just like every other night. I watch your chest rise and fall gently with your breathing, and the possibilities consume me. A stray lock of scarlet hair falls into your face and what-if is closer than I'd like.
What if you thought I was beautiful?
What if you wanted to be with me every moment?
What if you had a heart?
…What if you loved me?
Your mouth flickers just the slightest in your sleep—are you dreaming? —and I feel as though I've been chastised for my silly thoughts. I am fake. You're not real. These fleeting fancies are not a reflection of a possible reality.
I don't love you.
You don't love me.
That's the way it always will be.
Do you like to hurt? I do, I do
We are not in love, and we don't mind.