a/n: So this is weird. I did a free write, and it sort of just spilled. I don't know what else to say.
title: super nova
word count: 1034
characters: Charon, Cyrus, Team Galactic, Arceus, Giratina
pairings: one sided CharonCyrus.
rating: T.
super nova
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The universe is only one of His brain cells. It wasn't only a dream.
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Charon claims to be a moon, but-instead of Pluto-he has forgotten his premeditated path and taken to revolving around Cyrus. Godlike and stern, Cyrus molts no emotion and sheds no colors of aura—far in contrast to Charon's own sickly green hue. And Charon has all the capabilities of being a friendly old man—with the candy and the listening skills (aided by cumbersome hearing aids) that strange, young children flock to so naturally—it's just, Cyrus has corrupted him.
Imagine! Working for everything so hard: all those years in a dimly lit lab—experiment after experiment—foiled by the ten year olds new stations claim to be "modern saviors." And for what? They had no idea what was at stake and what was to be gained.
But Cyrus knew. He knew everything, as Charon came to realize. And yet he knew nothing.
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Light for all, for here forth, we dust the stars, make them shine free of grime and drivel.
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Charon's a cliffhanger, grasping desperately to Cyrus' every word like his life depended on it, gasping like a fish out of water—seeing death for the very first time. He clings to what he knows, even if death is the more pleasant alternative.
So it is when Cyrus leaves that Charon is lost—and that beacon from Sunyshore City has been extinguished at last. This world has no hope left over—what, with robbers, murderers, cheaters, lairs permeating our lives on a daily basis and dirtying humanity? Cyrus would make a great king, sitting upon a wide throne in a new, pure, virgin world where the sun never sets, the leaves never rustle ominously, the Murkrow never fly overhead. And these Arceus-damned emotions stay behind in a forgotten world; the one even Giratina deemed unworthy.
(What a life! Charon reminds himself to never cease praising his own God. Glory! Behold!)
Cyrus faded out of the picture—into a bizarre place where night is day and day is night and logic is hopelessly abstract. Somewhere deep, where the light never shines, Cyrus calls home.
(Charon tries to imagine a scenario where he could have sacrificed himself for Galactic's worshipped leader, and he comes up with nothing more than broken dreams like shattered glass bottles on a busy street.)
Cyrus can claim servitude—his only true friend—to the beast of such treacherous shadow. He received his new world with honor—void of everything right, and in a twisted and beautiful way, it brings tears to Cyrus' unflinching, unblinking, cloudy eyes.
Enjoying oblivion… Charon never could have survived. What happened to Mars, to Saturn, to Jupiter? Did they fade away, too? Or did they surrender to the disloyalty that crept into their beds as they slept? Doubt? Loss? Fear? Charon scoffs at their so-called dedication.
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They say religion evolved for a reason. That—oh—time are so hard; we need something to unite us all, something to believe in, some fountain of faith. And stories were handed down across generations—people saw things and told others and decided it was the Will of a greater force, because there are certain phenomenon that cannot be analyzed by crude minds. This word came to pass as The Truth. Though few have seen Arceus—His form, His power—they believed in Him and all His lesser—Giratina, Mew, Palkia, Dialga—the names that line the book so heavily, as if coated in a dense starch.
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Charon's getting old. Life is suffering; he's had too much of it and learned this. So when the world turns cruel and threatens to rip his last shred of happiness away from him in a flash of lightning, who is there but Cyrus! Too good to be true; too horrible to be fake.
And Charon remembers when Cyrus was so helpless, and Charon might have reached out and dragged a finger down his master's arm. Let me comfort you, sir. Things don't always go according to plan. The gap drifted. Worlds collided. Debris and foul air tangle through Charon like forest fire. His eyes water; he is blind to Cyrus, who stole power to be the The One, like an Ark story: Cyrus could have started over on the fresh slate for all that was good in the world. He kept one whitened hand on the red chain, another on pieces of umbrage from Giratina's lair.
(He could have taken Charon to the new dimension: the one who had little else to live for.)
He didn't. He lied. They would never be a part of Cyrus' dreams beyond the constraints of life itself. The ones that expand like water into ice and break the bank, they never were taken into account, but they melt away just as quickly.
The gap closed. Cyrus gone. Charon ruined.
When Charon blinks, he realized he might have imagined the whole thing. And then he glances at Rotom on his kitchen counter, and it feels like a kick to the gut. Insult to injury. It still feels like Cyrus is there, watching him. He wonders if he's crazy.
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It is impossible to fall in love with a higher being and not be afraid. No exceptions.
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He waits patiently in his house. He mutters to himself. He opens bottles of chemicals with long, scientific names and lets them free into his breathing room; it's too noxious to live, but Charon feels like he can't die. His skins starts to fall from his bones and his bones start to fall from each other, but until Charon slips from that slender thread of existence he dangles from, there's a heartbeat in him yet.
He waits for the man he belongs to. It was written in blood and sealed with a loveless kiss. Never breaking, never bending; contracts are unfortunately rigid.
So he keeps waiting, wondering if there will ever be light for all while he still believes.
(And on the inside, he's just about ready to explode.)
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You're watching the disaster happen—unaware that it's happened long before your time. That's a supernova.
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end?
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