I own nothing except the story.
Trigger Warning.
ANGST.
Ms. Christina I partially blame you for my new obsession with angst.
This is a songfic from Who Knew by P!nk. Listen to it while reading if you wish.
"Count your blessings now, before they're all long gone."
They had told him, and he didn't know what they had meant, but he did now.
A silver haired man sat alone in a room, dark blank walls reflecting a dark night and solemn mood. There were no stars to be seen, the bright lights penetrating the atmosphere and blinding the beautiful stars.
Ja'far missed those stars.
They were the stars he sat under when Sinbad had confessed to him, all those years ago.
The same stars they were under when Ja'far had given himself over to Sinbad fully, just a few months later.
The stars that Sinbad and Ja'far had stood under, upon the balcony of the newly built palace in the country they had formed with friends, when they had promised to love, to be each other's number one, forever.
And they were the stars where he had his last true kiss with Sinbad.
Because the day after, his love had vanished, and was replaced with another.
His hand burned with heat when a memory, a brief flash really, had gone through his mind when he thought of what had happened shortly after he had left this country of Parthevia for the first time, and what had happened. Sinbad and Ja'far had joined hands, and he had believed in everything Sinbad had said since then.
Who knew that'd be all gone?
He wished he'd had some warning, anything, more than that one sentence to help prepare him for what had happened.
Anything to prepare him for the loss of his one true friend, and his one true love.
Ah, but if someone had said that in just three years' time Sinbad would be completely possessed and lost to Ja'far, he'd probably have punched them or stabbed them.
He remembered when they had been so convinced, so sure, that they would always be safe, together. He remembered a life before Ren Hakuei had taken his place as Sinbad's love.
But he really couldn't blame Hakuei, could he? He wanted to hate her, oh how he wanted to despise her and hate her and maim her and just—
No, he couldn't let those thoughts into his head.
Sinbad had worked so hard to dispel those thoughts from his head in the first place; he shouldn't let himself get like that again.
He'd lost his robes, his home, his love, his knives, and his light.
So… Sinbad really couldn't blame him for thinking like that, right? This place, this room, was doing something to him.
This room in particular had been one of the various punishment rooms in the old palace of Parthevia, after all. And one which Ja'far had spent a lot of time in as a child, and which he received many scars, physically and mentally.
Ja'far had told him about this room, so why did Sinbad assign him this room?
Because Sinbad wasn't even in control of his own body anymore, that's why.
A spirit named David, which had called upon Ja'far for various deeds, in Sinbad's body.
He wished he could hold Sinbad, the Sinbad he remembered. He wanted to keep him safe. He wanted to be able to say he knew Sinbad again.
He'd give anything just to see a glimpse of the Sinbad he knew and loved again.
Tears poured from dark eyes, nearly blank with despair and depravity. This had been impossibly hard on Ja'far; Moving to this place, abandoning Sindria, losing those he cared about. He wanted everyone back, even just for a day. Even if it was just listening to the other generals' talk about their Fanclub for him and Sin, he'd take it.
If it wasn't for his memories of Sinbad and how he'd saved him from falling once, he'd have fallen the minute that he knew Sinbad was gone and wasn't coming back.
But the time passing makes it so much harder for Ja'far to keep himself in the light, and the only thing keeping him sane was the knowledge that when he fell asleep, he'd be able to see the Sinbad he knew.
If only he could fall asleep and never wake up, he'd be so happy. His wrists had been slit, blood streaming down the pale flesh and mixing with the tears. He felt like his pain was flowing out of him with his blood, the crimson color reminding him of the red in a sunset which he used to sit with Sinbad and watch every single evening. The thought snapped him out of it, taking the knife he had hidden away from his skin, and looking at the blood staining his shirt from his new uniform. Another memory flashed through his mind, a painful one. He hadn't even done anything to get that punishment… No! No! Don't think like that!
He remembered how many times he'd hurt Sinbad, made him bleed, but this hurt loads less.
Hurting himself always hurt less than hurting the person he loved.
His mind spiraled back into despair, the blade once again pressed against his sensitive skin and he pressed against it, slicing through skin and causing the crimson liquid to come through and pain to shoot up his arm as he cut, again and again, more pain and more blood pulsing into his mind as he cried, apologizing again and again to the Sinbad that he knew, and the Sinbad that was lost. Deeper and deeper were the cuts on his wrist, slicing through skin and mussel and vein, sometimes scar tissue. He apologized again and again to the Sinbad he knew as he felt himself slip into the darkness of sleep after he made one cut too deep.
He only hoped he never woke up to this hell of a reality ever again.