Before you start reading, note that this fic contains major spoilers about Symphonia's endgame and the relationship between Lloyd and Kratos. Tread cautiously.
This did not turn out how I'd liked. It's too short and lacks all the right detail and I just could have done so much better.
All unnecessary whining aside, I am in love with Father/Son pairs and family moments in general, and Lloyd and Kratos's relationship is not an exception. Majority of the game had them at a distance from each other; needless to say, that made me furious and longing for all the genuine smiles and hugs and feels, even more than the OVA provides. (Also, they did the hug before I could get to it!) But even though I admit I cried watching the OVA's version of Kratos's farewell, I still wanted more. More emotions that would punch the living tears out of you. It's pretty awful, but I hope I can get at least one sniffle out of you after reading!
Silence, oppressed by a looming, despondent parting, hung thick in the air.
Lloyd would abide by his father's final decision, having no intention—despite the pang in his heart—to ask and beg and plea for him to stay. But selfishness consumed him, and he refused to release his father until he satiated his devils of desire. Every moment with Kratos—every time he'd instructed him, protected him, reprimanded him—was a cherished hellscape, one that contented and tormented him.
His heart burned with avarice; he knew this. Yet he longed for one more thing, before Derris-Kharlan would steal his father away for eternity.
"I've dragged you into this until the very end." Kratos's expression was stern, but Lloyd did not miss the flash of his lips pursing downward.
"It's okay," whispered Lloyd. Inwardly he admonished himself; his words betrayed his heart, and his lips moved on their own, blissful of his attempts to put his desire into coherency.
For the next few seconds, his father observed him warily as he struggled behind his heart.
Throbbing pounded in his ears. His throat felt dry, desperately grasping for words. He opened his mouth to grope into his exerting mind for the right thing to say, but could find nothing. His mouth hung open, void of the conflicted emotions trapped in his heart.
There was a wall, Lloyd deduced. A wall built on strict formality, on their controversial relationship, on their differences and similarities and everything that was preventing them from playing their roles as father and son. Part of him longed for a firm handshake from his father—another a genuine smile. But the clock was sprinting.
"It's time for me to go," said Kratos, and Lloyd blanched. Please—what he desired would take strenuous effort to say, to do. In spite of his implorations, his father pressed on: "Please use that sword to send us to Derris-Kharlan."
Lloyd did nothing.
He remained still, eyes boring into Kratos's in piling hysteria, that his final goodbye to his father would be based on the strict premise of formality.
And the wall would only be breached if Kratos contributed his share of acceptance.
He stared at his father with beseeching eyes. Please, Dad. Please. His eyes pleaded what his mouth could not, while Kratos's scrutinized his suddenly docile expression. All he wanted was to have a moment in which Kratos was not his acquaintance, not his blade instructor, not his mentor, and he was not his acquaintance, not his trainee, not his student.
All Lloyd wanted was to have a moment in which Kratos was his father, and he was his son.
And Kratos—understanding the message—suddenly wore an expression that smoothed his facial features, his eyes mellow and his smile bearing a gentleness so tender that Lloyd felt himself fall apart and his heart soar.
"Dad," he cried jubilantly, sprinting forward past the invisible, shattered remnants of the wall of formality and throwing his arms around his father, tears shamelessly cascading down his cheeks. "Dad!" he repeated, for every single time his father had scolded him with the intention of protecting him. He repeatedly cried "Dad!" for every single time his father had done something out of love and care for him, for the time he'd protected him from Yuan, for the time he'd accepted his ideals and allowed himself to keep living, for every single time he had been his father. He tightened his grip around his father's torso, his tears of mirth and compassion and happiness flooding the front of his shirt, his sobs doubling in pulsation when he felt strong arms warmly—finally—return his embrace.
"Dad!" he kept on screaming, wracked with sobs and love and ecstasy while Kratos—with hands as gentle as a father to his beloved son—rubbed comforting circles into Lloyd's back and softly pressed his son's head against his own heart, a cadence of gentle beating that soothed Lloyd's zeal.
Just once, he wanted nothing more than to be a family.
And Kratos, tired and grateful, shoved past his veteran age and his angel wings to give himself to his son.