Disclaimer: Squaresoft owns all; leave me alone.

Warning: dark, some naughty language, violence, possible future slash (this chapter is slash-free, and I'll include it in the warning if any ever appears)

Rating: R

Notes: Not sure where i'm going with this; may be rough as i'm just writing off the top of my head; comments & criticism greatly appreciated. This is not a love story. Get over it.

The Nature of Our Misery

By Creole

Chapter Two: On a Good Day

Bickson awoke with a start, the sweat pouring off his body from the summer heat. He couldn't sleep. He felt so tense... Blitzball season would start soon. Things would only get worse. Yevon, his head hurt.

He rose from his pallet, kneading the sore spot on his forehead as he stumbled towards the bathroom. Where were his clothes...? There they were, draped over the porcelain throne. He distractedly grabbed his jersey, sniffing it as he rummaged through the medicine cabinet. It smelled well enough, and he has a migraine that he was sure would split his skull wide open. He pulled it on over his head. It smelled worse than he had thought. It was... damn. It was his day to do laundry. He wasn't sure he was up to it, but he'd do it anyway. For the team. It was a responsibility that couldn't be neglected.

He was sure that his head would explode. Graav was responsible for this. Him and his damned throwing arm. Bickson ripped off his sweatband. Still, so much pressure... even his ponytail threatened to rip out a portion of his skull. He paused disentangling his hair from his hairband long enough to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. Ladies' man, indeed. His eyes, streaked with red veins; his hair, greasy and tangled; his face tired and sagging, with undereye circles that belonged to an old woman. He needed to shower. But he felt how he looked, so it could wait. They didn't need to go out today, did they? He downed a double-dose of pain-relievers and decided that today was going to be one of those days.

On the bright side, the splitting pain shooting through his skull made it nearly impossible to brood. It looked like he wasn't going to be a martyr today. He seated himself heavily on the toilet lid, hissing as his tailbone came into sudden, painful contact with the edge. Fucking boxers didn't protect anything.

That's about when he noticed that his uniform shirt didn't fit properly. It was just a touch too wide in the shoulders... probably Graav's. Fuck. Well, he could go stuff himself. If he found Bickson's uniform, more power to him. And he hoped the fit choked him.

He managed to find his way to the door in the dark, stumbling clumsily down the stairs on his way to the kitchen. He needed a break from the game, time to compose himself. Time for the pain-relievers to kick in. Of course, Raudy was already in the kitchen. Sitting primly, fully clothed and drinking coffee while he read yesterday's paper. Anyone who actually enjoyed early morning should be shot. How the hell did he drag himself out of bed at- he blearily looked at the clock- four in the morning? Night. Whatever.

He dragged himself past him, wrenching open the cabinet in search of a mug. Coffee would help him; at this point he was up on willpower alone. He found a mug and turned determinedly to grasp the coffeepot, slowly pouring a cup of the sludge. Trying to ignore the fact that he still wasn't entirely comfortable around Raudy.

Raudy watched all of this with amusement, asking, "I thought you didn't drink coffee. Doesn't it make your hands shaky?"

Bickson shot him a glare, forgetting the earlier awkwardness. He stared Raudy in the eyes while deliberately taking a large gulp of coffee and making a satisfied noise. Fucker thought he knew best, did he? Bickson set his full glare upon him, all the wretchedness of that morning focused in his attack as he shot back, "We don't have practice today."

Raudy snorted. "But we do have P.R. at the cafe in a few hours."

Well, damn. He managed to choke down the rest of the coffee and started to trudge back up the stairs, intent on a shower as a prelude to the day's miseries.

Raudy called to him, "You do know that it's your turn to do laundry, right?"

Bickson could feel his teeth grinding together. As soon as his migraine faded, he would stop feeling so angry. Right? He just had to make it to the shower first.

Balgerda peered out of her bedroom, apparently roused by the noise. She stared at him as he passed, taking in his sorry state.

"Looks like someone is on his period today," she noted. The death-glare she recieved failed to faze her, and she followed him down the hallway. He stopped at his doorway, wearily turning to her.

"Look, I think I might drop dead very, very soon and I would not only like for you to leave me to die in peace, I would like to know why you are following me. I know what a glorious specimen I am this morning, and that my sex appeal is near-irresistible right now, but I don't think that you're following in order to jump my bones. What do you want?"

Balgerda looked at him as if she had never seen him before. "You do know that we have Public Relations today, right?"

He sent her a look that promised punishment during practice, turning towards his room again.

"And why are you wearing Graav's uniform?"

He slammed the door behind him, loud enough to wake the rest of the team. They could take it. The anger, slow and dull, pulsed through him.

He stumbled on air, leaning against the wall for support as he clumsily yanked the jersey off over his head. He heatedly flung it to the floor, stepped out of his boxers, and trekked on to the bathroom. That medicine must finally be taking effect; the tremors in his head had stopped. But the mind-pain returned.

He turned the shower knob, stepping under the cold spray. It was a rude awakening, so cold it almost hurt. He had forgotten how much he hated water. He viciously scrubbed at his skin with the bristle brush, scouring his flesh. He would cleanse himself. The water, so cold... it was like Spira. Everyone so cold. The dead... so cold. Sin. His job; Sin. Blitzball and Sin. Blitzball or Sin. He would cleanse himself of sin; he would cleanse himself of Sin. He would help them forget. He would make himself forget. He would hold himself, Spira, together. He continued scrubbing, stopping only when his shivers were violent and his skin was red. He turned off the shower, stepping out and toweling himself dry.

He took great care in dressing, wandering around in his towel until he found his own slightly smelly uniform, retying his hair and drawing his sweatband across his forehead once more. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked sane. He looked like himself again. The crowds would see nothing wrong. But... he looked into his own eyes, quickly turning away. When had those dark pits replaced his eyes? They looked haunted, angry. Like those of Crusaders back from battle. Certainly not like the charming captain of the Luca Goers. But he had it under control. That wasn't him, really. He was... himself. He was a flaming asshole, and a smooth-talking player. And he enjoyed it. He knew he was a bastard, but... he looked at himself in the mirror again, finding himself unable to look into his own eyes. Why? He knew that wasn't really him; he would know better than anyone. He still had good left in him, he knew it. The darkness he found was a figment, something his mind created. But it disquieted him.

Eyes show a person's character, or so his father had taught him. If someone can't look you in the eyes, they are untrustworthy and vile.

...So what did it mean if he couldn't meet his own eyes?

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Talk: This was at first a bit lighter, and was very dialogue-based. It really changed dramatically from the first chapter, and I'm not sure I liked it- hence, the angst towards the end. I keep meaning to give the story more action, to more thoroughly explain things... alas. I'm not sure I'm very good at this, but I'm not counting on this to make a living (thankfully). So no problem, right? I tried to give a vague sense of Raudy's personality here. Originally it was Doram, but I wanted awkwardness and tension between Bickson and the early-bird, so I made it Raudy. Ends up, I didn't really use it anyway. What a waste. In case you were wondering, if there is ever going to be slash in this (it's about 50-50), it isn't going to be Bickson/Raudy. And if this goes slash, don't expect it to be mushy or healthy. Or graphic. ...No one reads this anyway. The end.