Disclaimer: Lolo and related characters belong to Namco Bandai Games. Solitary Shadow makes no profits out of any of her works.
Author's Note: I'm starting another fic, yet another Lolo x Guntz. It's been nearly a year since I wrote Nightmare and I'm getting inspired - I think winter and autumn is the best time for me to get inspiration for Lolo x Guntz. That and Klonoa x Guntz is all I have been thinking about recently.
This is a new fic, emotional and typically dark. It deals with issues like cutting and mature themes, so don't read if you're offended easily. I plan to make this a threeshot. It might end up a normal threeshot or a very long doubleshot, depending on material.
Enjoy.
- Kyrie eleison; Christe eleison; Kyrie eleison... -
- (Lord have mercy; Christ have mercy; Lord have mercy...) -
He never leaves my mind.
Whenever I wake up in the morning, he is there, looking down sadly at me, his blue eyes soft yet dim. Was there ever a time when he had bright eyes? Never, I guess. I cannot remember his eyes ever having that beautiful, healthy shine that teenagers should have. His features, although handsome and fine, are clouded with sadness and hurt. He's so vulnerable, so closed to the outside world and I wish sorely I could help him get better. He's always there with me-
Well, he isn't physically there, at least.
He's constantly interfering with my dreams. I can dream about the Temple, for instance, and among the crowd of corrupt priestesses he would stand, looking at me, that impeccable sadness in his eyes. But considering the way the priestesses treat me - I think I would rather prefer watching him, as sorrowful he seems. He is pure, clean, and in a totally different level from those priestesses, one I have respect for. I feel that he is wonderfully chaste, although self-destructive.
There are things he does, things I cannot - dare not - comprehend. When he does those things I'm frightened. Why do I not run away, some might wonder, but there is something about him that is oddly addictive. I cannot leave him. There's just too much I want to help him with, and even when I know that he refuses help, I want to stay with him. Because...
...just because.
I like him too much.
I try and try to bring a spark of life into his eyes. Some days I succeed in making him smile, and I'm happy. Sometimes I fail, and he droops miserably, but he never shouts at me or treats me badly. He does the latter to himself. As a priestess sent to help him, I must continue with duties. That is what I am supposed to think, although I suspect that duty is not the real reason I keep on visiting his house; it is something else and more, I should think, and my pity is bordering on intense liking and care.
I get up and head for the kitchen, drinking a glass of cranberry juice. Looking at the crimson liquid suddenly reminds me; I put down the glass, wash myself, change and then pick up my bag. Of course, I rummage through it to check if everything is in there. I open a cupboard, take out a roll of bandages and tuck them away.
I'm out.
It's just the same record over and over. He plays Mozart over and over again, the needle on the old-fashioned gramophone sometimes jumping due to neglect, but he never notices. He just lies there, staring into space, listening to the unfinished score of Mozart's Requiem. He weeps as he hears it, his beautiful eyes glistening with tears. That is it. He just listens to Requiem, sometimes singing along quietly in Latin over the harsh, unfinished notes, and cries endlessly.
And he cuts.
He doesn't particularly care about how or what he cuts himself with, I noticed; he'd use a razor sometimes, and when I confiscate it he just buys a new one, or makes do with broken glass. I remember when I took the entire stock of razors away, and he became deranged - he'd went and broken every window in the house, and when I came by the morning after, he was sitting amongst the broken glass, laughing dully as he drew rough circles on his hand and forearm with a piece of the broken window.
Talk about unstable, I'm dealing with a psychopath here - a psychopath who's feared for his notoriousness whenever he goes bounty hunting. The only reason that he has not been locked up yet is because he minds his own business, and he's helping the police by catching people with prices on their heads. The police like him, although the feeling is not mutual. He helps with too much. So he's left here, uncared for except for my presence, cutting himself and weeping while listening to the agonizing strains of the record.
I open the door. He's dressed but not wearing shoes, lying on the couch with his eyes closed. The record is on, but quietly. He isn't weeping or cutting himself, although I can see some dark red rings around his ankles and wrists. Old scars. He doesn't stir and for a moment I wonder if he is sleeping, or even dead; but then he opens his eyes, greeting me with that ineffable sorrowful smile of his. He doesn't get up, but he smiles, and I smile back to him.
"Good morning, Lolo." He greets me. There are dark circles below his eyes, his cheeks gaunt and almost hollow, unspeakable melancholy etched into his face. But there are no tear stains. He always washes himself; sometimes more than twice a day. Everything about him is somewhat psychotic, somewhat obsessive, and I cannot understand those vices.
"Good morning to you, Guntz." I reply, using the softest voice I can. I take out the roll of bandages. "Your usual treatment."
Guntz does not resist and calmly holds out his left arm. His arm is ringed and scarred from many months of mutilation, and it's sinewy with firm muscles. He's physically fit due to extensive training. I wrap the bandages around his arm, and pats it gently as not to hurt him. "There. All done." I look pleadingly into his eyes. "Please, Guntz, is there any way you can stop hurting yourself?"
"No." Comes the soft reply, and I have to leave it at that, although I hate having to leave it like that.
"What a unique angel you are, Lolo." He mutters. "What a unique angel you are." And then he spirals back into sleep.
He always says that.
I look around. The room is dark, but well-cleaned; he is not a scruffy one. Sometimes I catch him polishing his guns, ready for the next bounty. His dead eyes focus on the metal, gleaming it and polishing it to perfection. His nimble, delicate fingers caress the weapon, almost lovingly, and he stares at it for a long, long time before moving on to the next gun. Guntz always does the same for the other guns, especially a unique rifle that he clings to whenever he is insecure or ill. "My lucky charm," He says to me. "It's my lucky charm. It's the only thing I can hold on to apart from you." I feel complimented, yet cannot help but feel pity for him. There's always the smell of candle wax and weaponary polish hanging thick in the air. Guntz doesn't care at all, but it makes me feel lightheaded. No matter. It's the way he lives.
He always has two straws in his glass. I suppose it creates the illusion of companionship so he isn't lonely. He does some very odd things also, like lighting cigarettes he never smokes. He presses the burning point onto his wrist or ankles and smile. I see the burn marks and feel sick every day - because unlike cutting scars, they don't heal as well and the scars stay for a long time. I've never been able to understand this - I've never been able to understand him. He is confusing and mysterious, even deranged, and I've got to accept that. He is Lunatean. Everyone has awkward habits and vices around them.
Of course, I would be lying immensely if I said that Guntz was the same. He isn't. I've always thought differently about him. He is outwardly strange and cruel, with a number of extremely destructive habits and lifestyle. But I feel drawn to him somehow and I share a level of understanding with him, even if I don't understand everything about him. I'd think he was a psycho and somewhat paranoid with all those little habits he picked up over the years, but he is thoughtful, even if he mutters to himself every time.
He lives simply and in the way he likes. He eats when he can, and goes out hunting when he can. He always succeeds in less than a week. Simple. And in his free time he'll sit on the couch and paint his arm red with blood.
"Lolo," he calls me.
"Lolo, such a unique angel you are." He smiles, stroking my hair in a very gentle fashion. It's a gift. A twisted, personal gift. He'll smile again and say in an almost inaudible sing-song voice, "Oh Lolo, such a unique angel you are!"
He sometimes asks about the residents of Breezegale and how they are all doing. Ah, and he asks almost constantly about Leorina; she used to be his roommate and former girlfriend before she left. Leorina doesn't ask about him. She doesn't care. Even though she's one of my closest friends, I hate her for not caring, because she's partly the reason Guntz is in such a mess. Oh, don't get me wrong, he started quite a while before she left - but if she had stood by him instead of rejecting him, I believe he would have healed. That's why he weeps. As he listens to Requiem he tends to cut himself over and over again, tears falling from his eyes and crimson blood falling onto the tiles. That blood is his way of crying out in despair. Guntz just doesn't know how else to explain it all, just how to express himself, because he never learnt. I cannot teach him. He does not want to know.
At the table there is a sponge cake. It seems to be one he made himself. A few months ago, he said that I could eat here if I wanted to. He cooks well, perhaps because of his hardships and way of living alone, and he's more like his cheerful self during those times. I rather enjoy watching him blend and mix ingredients, his eyes hovering over the tabletop as he recalls a recipe. I cut a slice carefully and take a bite - a slight tang of lemon mixed with cream assaults my senses, and I smile. He remembered my favourite cake flavour. I take another bite, and another. Apart from the sponge cake, there is only paper. Paper which he uses to write suicidal poems on. Something he used to do since he was thirteen, he told me, and he said that it wasn't serious.
I believe this.
Not because I'm heartless, not because I'm cruel. I know him so well. Whatever he expresses in words he never does. Whatever he indicates with actions he always does.
What a sad, miserable creature he is, I think, and I push away the plate. I go over to him again, sit down next to him and stroke his cheek. He's beautiful when asleep, a vision of heaven. If there was a God above other than the Goddess, I think that he will look like Guntz.
But when he wakes, he is doomed to hell, and remains so until his next slumber.
Poor, poor miserable creature, I think, and I rise, sitting back down on the armchair. No harm in watching him.
Popka's out there greeting me.
"Lolo!" He calls, happy for once. "Come over! Pango's made dinner for all of us."
"Who's coming?" I ask. I don't want to face Leorina, not after what I've seen today. I don't think I'll ever be able to face Leorina. Guntz was never mine, Guntz was her boyfriend and partner, and she hated him because he was twisted. I don't particularly like her either at the moment. She should have cared more. If only she had...
"Tat's coming, and so are Leorina and Chipple. Leo's not staying long, though." I breathe a sigh of relief. I won't have to face her for long. Thank the Goddess for that.
Pango is like a friendly uncle to all of us, wonderfully kind and gentle. Despite his work, I feel safe when he's nearby, because I know he's fiercely protective of those around him. Whenever I see him with Boris, laughing and playing, I smile too. How can one not smile with them around?
I go over and sit down for dinner. Tat's there, flirting with Popka. Dear Popka, so wonderful, like a sibling of my own. He understands little about my work and doesn't quite understand why I keep going there, but then I can't say much for myself either. Tat's a pretty thing too. They go so well together.
Chipple hands out the side dishes, not talking, but his smile says more than anything else. He's not too talkative, but under the care of Pango he's regaining confidence. Chipple's a nice guy, not one I particularly know about in detail as he doesn't talk often to anyone, but when we make conversation we're okay with each other.
Ah, but for Leorina.
She sits on a corner closest to me, talking to me constantly. She's perfectly all right when she's talking about her mission and her past adventures, and I listen intently, because those tales of battle intrigue me so. I have no idea why. Perhaps I wasn't born to be a priestess. I enjoy tales of destruction so much. But whenever she turns to talk of Guntz, I get annoyed. Because Guntz isn't the bad one, and I know because I saw for myself.
"Are you still going over?" Leorina asks me. I nod. "Goddess, Lolo, stop that. He's a psychopath. He'll persuade you that cutting solves everything soon." She shakes her head in disgust. "I've never seen a person with more issues than him. Why are you still going over here? I don't want you getting influenced by him."
"He's kind of alright." I mutter awkwardly. Leorina looks disbelievingly at me. She doesn't believe a word of what I've said.
"Was he hurting himself again today?"
"No."
"Thank Goddess for that. But I bet he'll be starting again soon." Leorina says dismissively, and then it's all over. She doesn't want to talk about him any more, even though she's the one who started the conversation, and I detest her for it. "Pango, I'm going now. Don't expect me back until late."
Typical.
She goes out every night looting or chatting up others. If she had used that time to care more for Guntz, I believe that he would have gotten better. It's at least partly her fault that Guntz is broken, but she'll never acknowledge that much.
Family dinners end this way. Always.
Every single time.
"What did he do today, Lolo?" Popka asks me, bright-eyed. I'm in my house, ready to sleep. He lies close, looking up at me. I rack my brains - what did he do today? Ah yes, he was writing poetry and talking to me about his past adventures. Right. So how do I put that into words?
"He was... telling me about Volk City. How it all used to be before it was ruined. Apparently it was prosperous and grand before people began fighting and ruined it all."
"Seriously?" Popka's eyes are wide. He doesn't like Volk City, but I have a feeling that if I explain further, it might quench his continous dislike for the city itself. He's so easygoing like that. I love Popka like a brother.
"And he was writing too, writing about-" I stop and dither. I have no idea what to say now. Popka waits, but I have little idea how to finish my sentence. I can't tell him the truth, I simply can't, because it hurts too much.
"What did he write about?"
"Cutting himself." I finish. There's nothing else I can say. Popka's eyes widen. Ah, Popka's not entirely new to the cutting concept, but he isn't familiar with it either. He craves attention, pure, innocent, gentle, always wanting to be loved. He has been abandoned before and doesn't want that to happen again. He wants to hurt himself because he thinks he's ungrateful. I want to hurt myself for him so he won't have to. I've never cut before, but I want to. I want to tell Popka every detail, how sick and thrilling it is all, how it feels to revel in the twisted pleasure when you look at your mutilated arm. I want to tell him how satisfying it is to look at those simple scars, but there is nothing about it I can tell, because I never did it to myself. When I look in the mirror I see a pale, guant face looking back at me and I smile. It feels good to starve your body of the attention it needs.
Cutting looks nice. I want to do it myself. The image is delightful, seductive, and beautiful. But how can I explain this?
"Cutting himself? Has he been doing that again?"
"Yes," I blurt out, the words coming out in a rush. "Yes, he cuts himself! There's always a razor dripping blood somewhere around the house, and he's forever pressing cigarettes into his skin, and- and-" I'm aware that the other neighbours must be hearing the racket I'm making. But I can't stop. "He's always a bloody mess, there are all those gashes on his arms and wrists, he's laughing as he does it-" I'm aware Pango is pulling me, yelling at the other people to try to calm me down. "There are rings of blood around his ankles and he- he can't even- even walk without-" I'm screaming. There are more people now, trying to restrain me. I see blood. Trickling down my fingers, his fingers, his laugh and dead hollow eyes. "Stop it, stop it!"
"Lolo, calm down!" Pango shouts, holding me close.
I let out a strangled gasp, and then my body shudders. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Oh Goddess, I'm so sorry." I whisper. "He cut... there was blood... that's all. That's... that's really all. Enough. I'm sorry. That's... all."
"Oh Goddess, the poor thing..."
"What is the High Priestess doing, continously letting her go there?"
"Shouldn't be allowed..."
"The poor child's losing her mind..."
I don't know who's talking anymore. I don't care. Besides all the murmurs, there is another voice, ringing crystal clear out to me. I recognize it.
"Hang in there, Lolo. Calm down. Everything's fine."
But it isn't, it isn't, it isn't.
...Oooh.
Everyone's kind of OOC here, as you can tell. Next part will be coming along soon.