Disclaimer: I don't own HTF
He wears camouflage-printed jacket to hide his battle scars. He wears his green beret because it reminds him of his late comrades and his time in the army. He constantly wears the dagger holster despite his condition because he needs it to be safe- to feel safe.
It doesn't matter to him that his 'split-persona' had always suck out blood, violence and death. The only thing he worries about are the people he held dear. Because in war-time, that kind of attitude was very normal.
He sees the self-proclaimed hero flying about saving people, and he feels a slight envy. There were no heroes in war, just winners and losers.
He sees the younger boys playing around and he wishes that he had had that chance as well. Even when his best friend drags him out to play, it doesn't matter how much fun he had- he would always remember bullets when the rubber ball flew at him; he would remember hiding from enemy soldiers when playing hide-and-seek; he would remember sleek knives dismembering limbs when he caught the shiny gleam of silverware. When he saw blood, he would always remember the blood, the corpses of his comrades, war... death-
But he keeps on smiling because that was the least that he could do for his friends. He keeps on laughing because they have put up with him despite his… condition. He doesn't blame his best friend when she hurt him out of fear.
But the period when she avoided him was agonising.
It had never mattered because they distracted him from his painful past. He smirks when the hero shows up to complain about his flip-outs. He smiles when his best friend shyly gives him a cake that she had baked. He laughs when his friends talk and joke around- because his old comrades would definitely be happy that he had started to move on that way.
In a way, they had expected their deaths that day. Just like they had every day.
His nightmares persist, but he's getting better, slowly.
He sees the shiny gleaming knife, and he doesn't feel that usual strong sense of fearful anger or bloodlust. Because it was held by one of his friends. But visions of severed limbs still litter his vision.
He hides his flinches and his weaknesses- because there was no room for showing weakness in wartime.
But it's not wartime, he would tell himself. The golden gleaming eyes that stare back at him from the mirror tell him otherwise. He touches his sharper canines and feels that overwhelming urge for spilled blood.
He locks himself in that day, refusing to touch his dagger in fear of losing control, until his best friend, his sweet and innocent friend calls out to him outside his house, worried about his health.
He takes a walk with her to calm himself. He leaves his dagger behind. He ignores his instincts screaming at him to 'Attack!' and 'Run!'
He ignores his itchy fingers scrambling around his left thigh in search of the dagger that should be in the holster.
He ignores the blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth where he had bit himself to sate his bloodlust.
He chews on a cookie that she gave him and pretends that his blood that had caught on the crumbles were only just cherry filling. She is scared, he knows. But she hadn't yet left him. So he tries to make her comfortable in return.
He bends down and gives her a white flower that he had just picked up.
Purity… Something that he could never return to. But the least that he could do was to protect hers.
He blissfully ignores her blush; he pretends to be oblivious. He may only be six years older, but she is too young at heart for him.
He had been a child soldier who never knew what he was getting into. Entering the war at sixteen, gaining his split-persona at eighteen, and coming into this town at twenty-one.
He never told anyone about what he had gone through. They never ask. In this town, bygones were bygones, they didn't care about your past. He was grateful for that sometimes.
He is kind to all of them, because he is making up for all the lives that he had taken in that way. He is amiable and tries very hard to atone for what he does when 'flipped-out'.
They don't really care. They just run as far as they can when his eyes shine a distinct yellow, with the hero there as a willing buffer.
He enjoys life in this town; it is a peaceful sort of chaotic. So many strange things that should not be possible, happen.
Sometimes he chases after the twin thieves with the hero when they steal something from him or his best friend. It wasn't the run-for-your-life kind of chase that he was so familiar with. It was simply a game of cops-and-robbers. It was more… relaxing, and dare he say, fun.
He is ill. He knows that. But he is getting better, little by little, day by day.
He sits in the bar and watches his friends play with the young boy. He reaches out a finger and feels warmth blossom in his chest when the boy takes it immediately, with all the trust in the world.
He tells himself to get better soon, because these are the people that he would protect again one day.
People die every day. But it was only those who knew his name, those who he knew, these people, that he wouldn't give up for anything. A shared look between him and the hero told them that they shared the same thought.
The hero was reliable despite his occasional idiocy. He was strong enough to match up with his other persona, despite their huge skill difference.
He let his fingers run across the leather covering his palms as he stared at his best friend, who was trying to hide her very obvious blush.
A flash of green crossed his vision. He watched as the hero flew after the twins, and rested his chin on his hand, fingers covering his smile.
He tilts his head to look at the purple-ette. She raises a glass and smiles knowingly. He raises his own in a mock-salute, and takes a sip. He doesn't join in; he won't until they ask him. He is perfectly fine with just watching, with just sitting there, acting as a guard.
He is different; he was a war veteran after all. But watching as the people in his age group laugh and mingle, he can't help but smile softly at their happiness, their blissful obliviousness to the dangers of the outside world.
But that was fine- he would protect them all. Even from himself.
A/N: So... Yep. This is a really short oneshot of what I felt Flippy was like. To be honest, I've never watched HTF (deterred by all the blood and gore warnings), but this was inspired by and dedicated to all the amazing fanart that I recently got addicted to.