The title "So simple in the moonlight" is from one of the songs that inspired me. This fanfiction is again a three shot but, to try and follow the rhythm of the story itself, the updates will be purposely irregular; second chapter will be posted in a week while third (and last) chapter will be posted one day after chapter two. It may sound weird but I assure you that it will make sense.
Also, brace yourself because hardcore angst and second person narration (again. I'm that evil).
Thank you YamiYugiPuzzleshipper for helping me with the edit, even though I'm still grieving upon the killing of all those poor commas.
Shonen-ai, malexmale, Major Depressive Disorder etc. Other warnings will follow. Yugioh doesn't belong to me *whines* life is that sad,
Enjoy!
It was not his eyes that caught your attention. Oh yes, they were shiny, and rounded, and huge, and violet, and beautiful. But eyes are something that only other eyes can see, and you never trusted yours for judgment too much.
It was his laugh. His bright, brisk, crystal clear laugh. A laugh that resonated inside your chest like the sound of a small, silvery bell. One of the few things that made you feel alive.
He always managed to make you feel alive.
Like that time that you had been laying on your couch, staring at the emptiness of the ceiling and analyzing each boring flake of dust that floated in the air. You remember so well his hand. It stroked your shoulder first, gently but firmly grabbing it. Gripping you back to reality. Then it slowly and softly moved to your cheek, and you turned to face him. And he smiled again. That bright, beautiful smile of his.
You two met in the night. A cold, winter night. It always happens in the evening. The world seems less dull and distant when there is no light to tell you how much of the world you are missing. But of all the things that you miss, you realized you didn't miss loneliness once you had lost it. It was peaceful beside him. Leaning your head on his shoulder was natural, soothing. Welcoming. He was always there.
He used to always surprise you. When he said your eyes were bright, when he said he loved the sound of your voice, that sound that you are slowly forgetting, when he said he loved the feeling of your fingers entwined with his. When he said he loved you.
And it was one of the last times that you sincerely cared about something. Maybe you did not care about him only because he made you feel better, more of a human, but because he seemed to enjoy being with you and you wanted him to keep enjoying his time. It wasn't complete selfishness, was it? If you still cared, maybe you would feel guilt at this point. But there is only the same pain as always, right in the middle of your chest, a void ready to suck in everything that you have left of yourself. There must still be something to suck in; you aren't all too sure. Maybe the void will be more skilled than you in finding out. And once you will again lose what you owned, would he still care?
Maybe he would…
Yes, he definitely would.
Once, you had a nightmare. You used to have nightmares almost every night and that is the reason you hate sleeping. Besides, you think you are absent and numb enough for yourself, you don't need to sleep to prove the world that you are quiet. The world does not seem to even notice your presence. And you ignore the world as well. But that time you dreamt something, you can't even remember what, but it was enough to move some of the tears that you had kept frozen inside your eyelids for so long. And he was there.
Tears strolled down your cheeks more easily after that time. And with each drop falling it was like a small bit of pain was strolling down, away from you as well. But it never went away completely and that was both scary and frustrating. And then you used to cry at nights, sometimes, because the feeling was too much and you were not used to bearing the weight of emotions.
In the morning it will all be better.
It was always like that; he said that tomorrow would make things right, that the sun would fade your worries away. Night is for dreams and chimeras, it's not real; you don't have to fear. But you did not fear the night. It was the day you were afraid of, because in the day you couldn't find your place, you were assaulted by anguish and worries, fearful of facing another twenty-four hour time of your life. When the night came, most of these hours were already gone for good. But he said not to worry your head anyway.
His arms were warm; your coat has never been able to replace them in the slightest. His hands were gentle, never rushing you and always waiting for you to respond to their touch; hands not meant to let go. His lips were soft, soft as his words, as his smile when you used to say that you were confused. And his mouth was warm too, warmer than his arms even, and it didn't have to voice out words to speak to you clearly.
But you had to ruin everything, hadn't you?
What could you possibly offer? Pointless promises, some cries, some nightmares, some empty kisses from your dry mouth. He didn't deserve that. He was worth much better.
You probably broke two hearts that day.
Which one was the most shattered you don't know, but maybe it wasn't yours. You have always been so selfish, so cowardly, so fearful. Why didn't you work on yourself, you could make things right, better at least. But you were sure you were going to fall down. To lose another battle was pointless, so better not to even try.
"Am I not worth trying?"
His words were probably what hurt the most. Because they were true. But not in the way he thought. He was worth, he was; he was worth anything and everything. But you weren't.
He never asked what was wrong, what started all of this. And it was for the best, because you have no idea how the pain started devouring your spirit. Maybe he had some ideas though; he was good at guessing and he could read you as a children's book, as if your empty, foggy, eyes were limpid and clear as colorful pictures of princesses and glittering fairies.
Glittering…
Soap bubbles glittered. Back then, when you two played with soap and the rounded things started fluttering and floating around the living room. Oily as puddles, but white and bright. Soap bubbles were like his laugh because a laugh can be oily too when it soothes, and calms, and brushes on your ears like gliding notes. A smooth laughter. And then, it was your own laughter. Laughing had been nice, the sound of your voice was sharp and rugged almost and it bounced from the bubbles back to your mouth. The watery spheres trembled at the sound and when they were about to shatter and explode in dozens of microscopic drops, they glittered as diamonds. Little dots of gleam.
How is it that things are always at their best the very second that foregoes the end? Just like the bubbles...
He never asked what was wrong, he just understood. And then, he was by your side when you needed him. And when you burst out crying looking at your eyes through the reflection on the oily bubbles, he didn't ask you why, but he held you in his arms and hugged your frame, letting your head rest on his shoulders. He wasn't angry.
That was not pity. Love is not pity.
But love and pity are both emotions and you are not at ease with emotions. They are overwhelming. You are too much of a coward to fight them and learn how to use emotions. The gleam in the bubbles and the gleam in his eyes did make you wish you could feel as well. But it wasn't enough.
Ten days later, it was over.
"Am I not worth trying?" he cried, his violet eyes bright with anger, hurt, and tears.
No. You are so worthy.
"I am not worth trying," you mumbled.
