Title: Drabbles
Warnings: Slash
Disclaimer: All character are the rightful property of Ubisoft I own nothing
Some things will sound a bit strange, mostly because I tried to follow the 100-words limit
Sorry for mistakes I'm not a native speaker
Leave a review if you like the drabbles
Enjoy yourself!
He was unable to stand it. Perfection was so close. He would just have to reach. But he didn't. He didn't feel worthy. Perfection was beautiful and pure. White. He was the complete opposite. Stained. There was red on his white, and blood on his hand. It blurred his sight. It was disturbing Perfection. Tabs of red when he looked at him. He could wince, but he restrained himself. He could feel the hate. Not that he mind. He earned it. A mismatch of feelings. He could remember times when it was perfectly balanced. He ruined it. He ruined Perfection.
Hate and anger. All he felt. All he would gave him. Murderer. Killed him. Killed his family. Killed the life they built up together. Wasn't he enough for him? He never needed more then him. He would stay quiet, would stay unnoticed, if it would have give them a change to stay together. Unlike him. He had to choose. He chose. He hated him so much for choice. So much for showing what he truly felt and taking even the last reasons for living from him. He was living in ruins now, haunted from ghosts. He hated him. So much.
Was is plain dislike? He hoped so. Disliking unequal hating. Hating would be worse. He didn't wanted him to hate him. Affection would be nice. Even the slightest hint. Concern uttered throw soft glances instead of cold stares. Touches. He wished he would touch him. Like he imagined it in his head. Suppressed moans and tight closed eyes. He felt pathetic. He couldn't look him in the eyes afterward. The insults get worse. He would hide in the bathroom and wash his eyes until nobody could tell they were red before. Back he would see it again. Surely it was hate.
He didn't hate. He didn't dislike him. But he couldn't tell him that. All he could do for the group was at least acting strong. He shouldn't feel anything. It wasn't the right. It would disturb their mission. And he couldn't let anything disturb the mission. Neither Lucy's silent and reproachful glances nor Rebecca's taunting and ambiguous comments. They distracted him from his work. And his work his life. It was all he had. All he was. There was no place for anything other. Not for feelings, not for him. Not for love. And so he didn't said anything.
He'd like to draw him someday. Naked. He already know what colors he could use. Deeper tanned for skin. Restless brow for eyes. Black mixed with brown for hair. He would see and he would paint. Paint perfectly. Absolutely stunning. It would leave watchers worthless, wondering in their little limited minds how he managed to create such a complete example for pure beauty. And he would only smile, won't answer her pestering questions and would try to ignore the voice telling him he was a fraud for acting like he did anymore then to ban soul and body on canvas.
Silent gestures. Affection through glances. Nothing he wasn't used to. Just where it come from was different. He wasn't stupid, he could see what was going on. And sometimes when he sat on a roof, he quietly wondered if he didn't felt at least a bit similar. Beautiful eyes. He couldn't deny this.
But back in the crowd, he know he would never do anything. He was afraid of judgment. Frightened of losing the lost piece of his security. Letting one person know, showing one person was already to much. He struggled through the crowd, feeling protected. Hating his dependency.