The funny thing about the past is that it fades over time.
Marco's fingers are calloused—probably always will be—but she still holds his hands close. It's not like her skin is perfect either; he knows she's not afraid to get down-and-dirty in her work. Their hands are rough but she still caresses him with delicate fingertips, drops kisses on his knuckles and touches her cheeks to his palms.
When he looks at his hands, he doesn't see streaks of blood anymore. He feels like his hands can do more than just hurt.
She looks at him like he's not scarred, like it doesn't matter that he is, and it's fine because she has her own scars too. Still, her smile is bright and it illuminates the dark corners of his memories that he keeps to himself; that he only wants to share with her.
He feels warm, warmer than he ever was before, and he sees a future.
He didn't have a future before.
You'll never have a future, a familiar voice echoes in his head. The name Striker falls from his lips, but Connie, Connie, Connie is the only thing on his mind.
There's blood on his hands.
The funny thing about the past is that even though it fades over time, it never truly disappears.
They say that the present is a gift.
Someone's funny idea of a gift, Nicolas is sure, because now and here has never really felt like a gift. Not since he was a child, and it's no different now that he's older. To say things have not been easy for him is an understatement. After all, he is a Twilight and that is enough of an explanation in itself.
He's been tagged since day one, and the soft clink of the metal around his neck is a constant reminder that his days are numbered.
He doesn't have a future. Not with Worick, Alex or Nina.
So he fights through each day like he won't see a tomorrow because, hell, he might fucking not.
The celebre consumes him and he feels strong; no longer a weak little boy that crumbles at the sight of a retreating back. He feels almost invincible. He feels like nothing can stop him; like time isn't ticking away from him because he's in control of what is happening to himself.
He's drenched in sweat, his muscles are sore and everything aches.
But he'll continue to push himself beyond his limits, because he doesn't have a future.
The present isn't funny, nor a gift.
It's just present: a culmination of past ordeals and maybe-tomorrows.
Worick doesn't think the future is funny.
How can he find something funny if he doesn't know what it is? Though it's certainly intriguing, whatever it may be. There's something oddly charming about the unknown, as someone who's always known and always will know.
He has a vague idea of what's to come, but he can say with zero certainty what he'll be doing in five, ten, twenty years.
Benriya?
It's stupid-o'-clock in the morning and he knows that Nic and Alex are sleeping. It's one of those quiet nights when he just can't fall asleep because his mind is too loud.
He closes his eyes, a faint smile on his lips.
In five, ten, twenty years, there will be no Benriya.
No matter what he does, he can't make Nic stay by his side. He's already accepted that, probably. But Alex, maybe Alex? If he just asks her, pleads a soft, stay with me and be my future, maybe she will—
Of course not. She has a family she very clearly wants to be with. She has people that are more important than him.
But he doesn't have anywhere to return to, if not Benriya.
No, there's nothing funny at all about the future.
But he'd rather have the future than an empty mansion, forced smiles, torn books, and soldiers lining the front gates.
A/N:
I'm sorry for any inaccuracies; my memory is horrid and I've only read up to around ch.30. Please let me know if there's anything offensively wrong! Thanks!
Anyway the anime PV came out the other day woo. Really hoping it'll be a good adaption. Fingers crossed!