Kingdom Hearts II (c) Square Enix, Disney
Pairing - Seifer/Hayner
Warnings - sparse, but coarse language. Also: gay.
For - CamoBeanie's mini-contest
Also - Please note that this is written ambiguously. It is meant to be read as either Seifer or Hayner being the protagonist. Inspired by Mozart's Lacrimosa.
He was beautiful in the way that models can strike you speechless, but without the shallowness of it. His looks were probably not all that different from anyone else's, but he personally thought they were. He knew they were. It was the eyes. He made him feel something inside when their eyes met.
He was dangerous in the way a soldier cuts down in his enemies, fighting for what he loves with no remorse. And when he hunched over and tried to hide his tears, he felt like something - like that thing inside him cracked slightly. But he never tried to comfort him, because that soldier would rise up and hit him for ever having said or implied that he wasn't fine. That he wasn't happy. That this wasn't right.
He was haunting in the way he looked out in the distance, as if there was something he could never say, never tell and only hope to ever overcome. It was something he had to face on his own and it was something he had been living with for a very long time. The other man knew this, never brought it up, but would always bring that haunted man out of these moments, because if he looked at him too long when he was like this, he thought... well he didn't know exactly. He wanted to help, but couldn't. He wanted to fight for him, fight with him, but he knew he wouldn't be allowed to.
Of course he wouldn't be allowed to.
It wasn't until he left to go fight that battle that he knew, without any doubts, and with complete, stifling conviction he had been in love with him.
Was still in love with him.
And now he's curled up on his bed, hasn't showered in who knows how many days, scraggly hairs on his chin too long to be whiskers. His clothes have not been changed or washed. He's got his old school album in his lap and he's trying to ignore the way the pages seem to be wavy, as if they've absorbed moisture. He wonders, wonders... if he had told - if he had said something - if it would be different. But no, he realizes, it wouldn't be different. That man is too stubborn and too independent. His mask over his emotions would never have come away or fallen or cracked or ever, ever given anything away, even with the words the other still holds inside, the ones never said.
The ones that will never be said.
So he tries to feel happy, to feel content at least, in some sick sense of self-consoling that he never said anything. The hurt he would feel at being rejected must surely be greater than what he's feeling now. (Part of him knows this is a lie, that if the pain was worse, he would have killed himself or tried to by now, but he ignores that part of him. Tries to make that part shut up as soon as it starts talking. But he's losing it).
Another part of him thinks that even if he had confe- said something and the other felt the same for him that he still would have been rejected. He knows this, with a terrible clarity that makes him also realize he might know that man better than anyone. He would still be rejected so there would be no pining for each other, there would be no loss if something went wrong, and he might even be able to get over him and move on at some time. (And this thought always, always makes him angry. how the fuck could I ever get over you? Fucking bastard. Fucking secretive, self-righteous bastard).
The worst part of this is the sneaking suspicion (or self-centered, selfish hope?) that he was trying to protect him. He doesn't know what he needs protecting from, but that makes him angry, too. Is he not allowed to fight on his own? Who says he needs help, anyway?
This thought makes him laugh. They're both stubborn assholes. To the very end, they're both stubborn assholes.
On the left side of his lap is a letter he read a few days ago. Or was it a few days ago? Has it been a week? He doesn't remember. He read that letter when he had just shaved and wasn't rank with stench. He knows every word by heart. He has read it over and tried to discern a different meaning for it other than the obvious. He's tried to pick up any clues from it, any ... any messages for him somehow coded into the words. But... he knows there isn't. The letter says what is says.
He smiles softly to himself as he remembers the man had always been so blunt, so it's fitting this letter is blunt, too.
On the right side of his lap is a pistol, loaded, and safety unlocked. It's been sitting there for a long time, just like that. Since yesterday, maybe. He's been sitting on his bed like this for at least that long, too.
He remembers a saying, one said often, but he hadn't thought of it until now and, silently, he agrees with it. He makes his decision and picks up the pistol.
It's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.
Self-righteous bastard, indeed.