Author's Note: So guys, I needed to take a short break from Love at Gunpoint. Don't worry, it's still going on! But when I get an idea and it really starts bothering me, I know it won't get out of my brain until I write it. Hence, this weird combination of angst and fluff. I was thinking of putting this in the romance genre as well. I also tried second person here. Enjoy!

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"Gil, when I was gone in the Abyss, did you have a girlfriend?"

The question comes out of nowhere, nonchalant and light out of the pretty blonde boy's mouth. It's a simple question, really, a sentence you had subconsciously expected to hear someday soon. But it still stuns you beyond what you thought possible, because you can't believe that Oz, your master, could ask something like that.

The oblivious smirk on Oz's mouth kills you, almost, because Oz clearly has no idea what he just said. He has absolutely no clue why those words would drive you completely out of your mind. You fix him with a wide-eyed stare of disbelief, but he simply lifts an eyebrow, urging you to answer. As if you could. As if it was that simple.

Does he really think that you could do anything in the time he was gone besides try tirelessly to get him back? Does he really think that you could just get over his disappearance and live your life like you hadn't been stripped of something vital, something that made up your entire being? Oz must know how much he means to you—you talk about it all the time, whether on purpose or not, and definitely more than you should.

But was it possible that Oz didn't understand the extent of it? That Oz only understood a fraction of your adoration for him? God, had he listened to a word you said your entire life? And if he had, was he really that ignorant?

You could never call Oz, Oz Vessalius, out on being ignorant anyway. But in your mind you realize that he is. Oz was intelligent and impossibly beautiful and had enraptured you since the first gleam and shimmer of his bright green eyes, but despite this, he was still a teenager—still a fifteen-year-old boy, and still someone who couldn't pick up on cues that all of his elders already had.

And all of this shocks you to the core, rendering you numb. Because you always knew that Oz wasn't perfect, but his imperfections were what made him perfect in your eyes—and none of that had changed, but this was a flaw you somehow hadn't noticed. You'd stood by his side for fifteen years—five with Oz actually there and ten trying to save him from the clutches of the Abyss, which had swallowed him whole. It even seemed like more because of the incessant flow of thought centered on him that was caged inside your mind. But despite everything, you hadn't figured out every little detail of the untouchable angel you dared to call your master. You knew Oz didn't know everything, but you'd thought all along that he'd at least known something—that he didn't want to accept that his faithful servant and best friend was in love with him, but he'd realized it somewhere within the enchanting unknown realms of his mind.

But Oz didn't know at all.

Your stomach clenches uncomfortably, threatening to force you to heave your guts up. Maybe you should have felt relieved that your golden-haired savior hadn't figured out a thing—after all, you'd been hiding it from him all this time and had no plans to tell him. You didn't, though. You felt no speck of relief, no reason to let out a small sigh of silent happiness. It just made you feel worse, and it made no sense. You didn't know why you wouldn't be happy about this, but it didn't matter, because the room around you was spinning and the possibility of getting sick was still very much a thing.

It dawned on you that one of the reasons could have been that you liked to think of your master as an ethereal otherworldly being, but that this recent information suggested otherwise.

You loved Oz more than anything in the world. You cared about everyone, you knew—too much for your own good—but Oz topped everyone, and not simply because he was your master and you had to choose him above all. Oz might not have been anything special to other people (and these other people you usually thought were insane because of this), but to you, he was…

He was your liberation. He was a sight for sore eyes. He was an angel that had been granted to you from heaven. He was too good to be real.

He was your life.

Every time you laid your eyes on him, your heart started beating unbearably fast and your breath was cruelly taken away from you. By now this usually only happened for a second, perhaps less, but there were still those times when this happened for longer than was safe—those times when you thought your heart would stop and you'd drop dead.

Oz definitely knew it was horrible for you when he was dragged into the Abyss, but he clearly didn't know enough. He clearly didn't know that to you, being separated from him was the equivalent of being starved.

You needed him to live. You needed him every single day. But wait, maybe being separated from Oz was worse than being starved, because at least if you're being starved, you'll die eventually. When Oz was ripped from you, you knew you'd suffer until the day you got him back, and back then, who knew when that was. It was probably more accurate to imagine being starved—and then going through the pain you felt during your death-by-starvation scenario over and over again.

This was a terrible metaphor if you spoke it out loud, most likely, but in the depths of your mind no one had to judge you or decide if it made sense—nobody except you got to decide any of that. So until you obtained a better thing to describe the endless pain of being without the person you loved most, you'd stick with that.

That look you'd been giving Oz had probably dissolved by now. You were too caught up in your own thoughts to know. You were too caught up in his beautiful green eyes—something you did quite often and that you constantly hated yourself for.

But you hated yourself for most things involving Oz, really. You hated yourself for not being there for him for ten years—although for him, it was only two days. You hated yourself for not being the servant he deserved. You hated yourself for being petty and jealous over Alice, who seemed to alight something in Oz that you never could. You hated yourself for loving him.

Oz was, at best, your obsession. It had been brought to your attention time and time again by Break and Sharon and others of the like. If there was anything above obsession, then that was a better word to describe how you felt about Oz.

So going back to Oz's question—no, you'd never had a girlfriend. How could you? You had never known how to handle women, and you had never wanted anyone but him. When you were met with the sultry stares of the women you were forced to meet, they didn't affect you—besides the violent disgust you felt building within your stomach. You just thought of Oz and how much you wanted him—how much you still wanted him, after all this time.

What really bothered you about Oz asking this, despite the uncomfortable subject matter, was that Oz seemed to think this would be a fun way to torment you. And oh, he was tormenting you, but in far different and darker ways than he thought. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't understand how much your heart threatened to stop with every beat. He didn't get why this wasn't funny at all.

But although Oz was destroying you and had been since the day you fell for him, you're getting lost in him again. You're suffering yet another death in which you die willingly, gazing at your only love, of whom doesn't have a clue what's going on. It doesn't matter, though. You'll love Oz Vessalius until the day you die and onward. You'd never dare not to.

You know you're just a depressive, lovestruck idiot. You're well aware. You've been told countless times, but it means nothing. You love Oz—every word he speaks, and every gorgeous move he makes. They could call you crazy. They could say you were only hurting yourself. They'd probably be right, after all.

And then the strangest thing happens. You break out into the warmest, brightest smile, and you have no idea where it comes from as you give Oz his answer: "No."

Oz frowns, either dissatisfied with the truth or thinking it's a lie. It's not a lie, but you're not going to bother telling him that. If you did, then you'd probably start rambling. One thing would lead to another, and soon enough Oz would be gaping at you because, oops, you just confessed your love for him without knowing.

But you did think about telling him. You'd thought about it countless times before. Oz would reject you without a doubt, because it seemed that Alice had already sealed his fate for him in this respect. What was worse: having someone reject your love, or having someone not know you love them at all?

This was the eternal struggle. You didn't do anything, though, except pull Oz into a fierce embrace. Oz lets out a little gasp against you, unsure of what to do because he hadn't expected this, but he doesn't move away, and that makes you happy. You don't know if Alice is here or not. You haven't been paying attention. You don't care.

After a few moments you feel Oz's arms wrap around you too, slowly, hesitantly. And it occurs to you that maybe he's just as nervous as you are. Definitely not for the same reasons—most likely because he doesn't know what's happening or what it means—but still, in some twisted logic, it comforts you.

He might never be yours, but for this moment, he is.