Disclaimer: I don't own Metalocalypse
A/N: I wrote this back around Christmas, but never posted it here. So if you're seeing it again, you probably saw it when I posted it on livejournal or something.
Ulysses
Emotional attachments were of a foreign concept to him.
Taking into account the neglect he suffered on his mother's expense, it's no wonder that as he traversed through his time in life, that he pulled himself away from commitment of any sort with other human beings. It was for this reason alone, that he would often use women to any degree that he saw fit. His habits, with time, only began to mirror that of the one that bore him, as he tossed away his entertainment of the night once he had found sustenance. He wanted someone to feel what he had felt. Growing up in his squalor of a broken home, and learning to have to fend for himself—the crushing blow of being abandoned, unwanted, and unneeded. He had wanted others to feel that, needed others to feel that.
With time, he would find that he could form an attachment to something with no strings attached. He devoted his life to the guitar, and submerged himself within its art form. With the guitar, he could escape into a place where it was just him. He stayed that way through much of his earlier life, because with the instrument there were no messy emotions, nothing that would hinder him from moving through the frigid, abysmal hell that he deemed as life. It had become a crutch. His crutch—a source of stability in his life.
It would only be that sometime later, he would dare to take a chance with a young Norwegian man that crossed his path. Sure, his ways were childish and simplistic, naïve at the very least. But underneath it all, he knew what it was like. He knew what it was like to suffer at the hands of someone that was supposed to protect him, shield him from the sick and twisted side of the human world.
Even though the Norwegian was no better at dealing with his past that he had been, often succumbing to the hellish outbursts of anger or falling into catatonic states from which it would sometimes take him days to awaken—he knew. And so the two of them, both of them two very incomplete and fragmented human beings, came together and found something within the other. It was something neither of them could quite define with words, but rather, in silent action. A mere furtive look, a simple lazy glance, an angry quirk of an eyebrow, an aggravated frown or a distant smile.
They didn't care if no one else understood their relationship. Because as long as they knew what they had, that's all that ever mattered in the end.