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You feel like you're going insane again.
Thoughts of trying to do things to become god clash with your need to succeed as they grapple with your inadequacy. You can barely get out of bed in the morning.
What gives you the right to exist?
What gives you the right to have an impact on someone else's life when you're just going to hurt them again?
You play fallen god with your own mind again and again, acting like you know what drives you, pretending to know who the fuck you are.
Like you have a right to exist.
Like you don't constantly grapple with the urge to kill yourself or someone else.
Like you don't think about life as a game and you're the god who made it, when in actuality you're the player, a mere mortal playing a game designed for you to lose.
There is no winning for you, the player.
Life is a game you're meant to lose. Nobody wins it; you're destined to lose, a fate most of your kind has accepted.
Except you.
You, with your drive to reach the aimless and utterly pointless to win the game of life.
You, with your deadly desire to win.
You suppose that's how you got here, with no real sense of self to grapple with. No, you lost that when you decided your drive to win was all that matters.
Now you're left to pick up the pieces.
The boy in your arms sleeps peacefully, or as peacefully as a head filled with enough trauma to fill several lifetimes can possibly rest. You wrap your arms around him tighter, attempting to drag yourself out of the bottomless pit that your mind has tripped and stumbled into again. His warmth is a comfort; his warmth is enough.
Worthy of a god.
Worthy of a fallen god.
You don't deserve his warmth.
His warmth is enough to redirect your insufferable stupor. You may not deserve it, but you're striving to be worthy.
You may not be god but you hold something much more precious than that could ever be.
Why is it so scary? Why must your love for this perfect boy scare you so?
Because you gave up playing god for him and you must now deal with the consequences of your Playing God.
You shift slightly, angling your head for a better look at his face. You brush your thumb over the rough scars on the edge of his mouth. Disfiguring, he calls them… you disagree. Sure, they won't heal; perhaps the skin will never look the way it used to, but you know damn well they don't define him as much as he lets them.
A marker of his triumphs and fails, most because of you. Proof he's alive…
Proof he's survived things you could never understand.
Proof of his mortality.
You adore them.
You adore him.
He shifts, and you freeze. The deep sienna waves fall back over Dismas's face; a slight noise from the back of his throat. You still your breathing, cautious of any and all potential outburst at having his scars touched. Instead of anger like you expected, his head nestles further into you wordlessly.
Tentatively, you pet the back of his head.
A quiet, but clear sound emerges from him: a chittering purr, a common ability of trolls, but a rare noise from your beloved beloathed. He slumbers on, and you remember to breathe.
You're not supposed to love him; you're meant to hate him.
Your Ancestors were bitter rivals; your lusii despise each other and were once natural rivals.
How many years did you spend trying to build this rivalry?
Was it all for nothing?
Or did it never really mean anything in the first place?
He makes another sound as you hold him tighter. You press a kiss to the space between his horns and whisper your shameful? proud? confession:
"I love you, Dissy."
Words that'd could get you shunned and shamed by your whole society.
"Love you too," he mumbles, his voice drenched in the effects of sleep, seemingly trying to bury himself in your cool arms. Your eyes widen, scared yet ecstatic.
He loves you.
Your kismesis loves you.
...It's a wonderful, beautifully terrifying thought.
Maybe one day you'll be able to tell him. Maybe it won't go horribly, maybe he won't leave you to rot like you deserve-
Maybe, maybe, maybe-
Hopeful thoughts swirl around your think cavity, each one more detached and less rooted in reality than the last. It's an overwhelming spiral that catches you off guard; you don't even notice when you fall horns first back into the bad thoughts.
You don't notice when you start shaking.
You don't notice when you start crying.
You don't notice when he sits you up.
You don't notice when warm arms embrace you.
You don’t even register the question of concern he asks.
The sound of your beloved's voice brings you out of your mind for just long enough to chastely kiss him in a way that's flush only to you. Dismas asks you something again, but you don't answer. You simply bury your face in his shoulder and sob.
You want him to throw you away, to leave you- you know you deserve it, that you don't deserve someone who's worthy of a god.
You're no god; you're not even a fallen god.
You are scum who doesn't deserve love, let alone from the one you love the most.
Not after the years of hurt you caused him.
Yet he hasn't moved; You are still enveloped in his warmth. He's still trying to comfort you by whispering kindness you don't deserve to hear and stroking the tight coils of your hair the way you love. You hold him a little tighter.
If becoming god means one day you'd have to say goodbye to this troll- this wonderful, amazing troll- then you'd gladly die one day knowing you'll never have to spend too long without him.
Because even if you don't deserve his beauty, his warmth, his love and hate, you crave it like a drug…
You're scared to death of losing it.
You're scared to death of losing him.
And that's a thought worse than hell.