A simple game will include deathly opponents or laughable weaklings.
There will be no middle.
You are either chaotic or timid. But simply, does it matter?
You are only a mere piece in their games. A bitter laugh can surge through your throat.
Madness may have consume you. Or perhaps, it's a sorrowful laugh of loss.
There are two sides to such an amusing subject.
Just like it is with players and their opponents. To play is to play; and to lose is to lose.
To break a rule is to break a rule; such as to be complicated is to be complicated.
Felix understands this quite perfectly.
However, no one understands the complicated portion is the middle level. There are groups of timid yet powerful mundanes that can be conflicting.
What will you choose, I wonder.
Translucent blue dilated pupils stare shockingly at a inhuman corpse.
At least, that's what it seems to him.
The amount of fucked-up in such an insensitive beating is casually rolling off the damn charts.
Said boy frighteningly extends out his hand, almost horrified to caress such a "lovely" corpse.
He wants to avert his eyes, but he can't. He wants to cry, to weep, but he can't.
He can't. All he feels is hollow and void, empty and an unwelcoming icy sensation. In other words, he feels nothing.
Nothing but the somber wave of desperation and depression.
He is too sad and astonished that it's impossible for dry tears to roll out. It's also impossible for damp tears, too.
He can't fake cry, and he can't realistically cry.
Because of it.
It? What is it?
It.
It.
It is an interesting word. That's all. A word that keeps too many things inside. What happened in 'it'?
A murder, they said softly, as if talking to a small child whom had lost his father.
Why?
Why.
Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why.
That's the question.
The only question that is now a meaningless conclusion of words. Words that mean everything, but nothing.
They're pointless and pitiful, but nothing at the same time. Because no matter what happens, he can't rewind it.
Felix just wants his lover to sit up, yawn, stretch, and chuckle.
But that's only a pathetic fantasy. What's done is done.
But still.
Cry's death takes an enormous toll on him, shoving his breath out of the way like it doesn't matter.
Like only Cry matters.
THIS ISN'T EVEN A COMPLETED FANFIC.
AND I DON'T SHIP PEWDIECRY THAT MUCH ANYMORE BECAUSE there's barely any new FanFiction hahahaha-
And I'm pretty sure someone used this idea already of death.
But you know what?
Food.
This used to be my OTP, and thus, I will write it until I'm satisfied.