Drabble that I wrote in an attempt to get rid of a block. It didn't work, but regardless, here is the result of, oh, an hour or two.
Sick
He is sick.
But "sick" is relative to something that means something completely different, and he adores it. "Adores" is another of the words that he absolutely despises; he cannot find anything else to describe this feeling, though. It is there, and he is yearning for it like a Catholic school girl waits anxiously for the day that she can legally buy pornography. He is lusting for his illness to be cured, and the medicine is not an object, not a chemical, not a metaphor in the faintest sense.
It is the boy.
And yes, he is a boy, regardless of how hard he attempts to make it seem like he is matured. The boy is still just a child; the boy is still just a boy. Blissfully unaware of how much he loves the boy, because the boy is just a boy. Because the boy is just a boy. Because the boy is just a boy. Because the boy is just a boy.
No matter how much he repeats it in his head, he is unable to shut away the illness for good.
So he runs. Not far, and not without notice, but he flees. And he is a coward; he is not the superhero that the world makes him out to be. He is sick, and he is a coward.
Sick. Coward. Sick. Coward.
He sees images of the boy in his head; blank, emotionless, in thought, playing with a puzzle. The boy is a puzzle, and he wants to solve him. He wants to cure his obsession, his sickness and now. He realizes, though, that with these thoughts, the boy really is more mature than he is.
He hates that more than the word "adore".
And when he dies looking up into the face of his killer, of the supposed "God of the New World", of his first friend, he knows that this is not his cure. Even as his heart ceases its incessant beating, he is still sick and he loves it more than a human should.
But he is not a human.
He is a "superhero"; a sick superhero.
When he gets his wings – his horribly metaphorical wings – he flies down to watch the boy, to look after the boy. And his heart wrenches and yearns like that same Catholic school girl. But the school girl gets what she wants in the end, and waiting made the sensation even more worthwhile.
He, however, does not.
He is still sick.