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He heard the shot. He heard the quipping sound of the respawn failing. He heard everything. And he did nothing.
Eyes snapped open on the cold, winter night, and the owner sat up with a small noise. Fingers brushed a handle of a drawer, and he quickly pulled out a knife, looking around with the obvious fear in his eyes. His heart raced with the whispers of adrenaline, making his blue orbs dance around the room in fear. Nobody. Nobody was there. Just him and the wall clock.
Kayden relaxed, letting the knife fold back into his hand and fall into the drawer. He sat back down in his seat, looking at the state of his desk. The papers he was writing on were strewn across the floor and the desk, their contents smeared with the tears of the wet ink. His gloves sat in a heap on the floor, jacket laying next to it in an obvious mess. He looked at the clock, and his eyes widened.
He grabbed a pen, dipping it in the ink vile and starting to write. The penmanship could only be described as godly. With smooth, unbroken lines and the beautiful swirls of the cursive English, it littered the papers with the whispers of the past. He was almost done. He needed to be done. Running a hand over his unshaven face, he continued to write.
Those calm, brown eyes that were always hidden by the orange glasses, neat brown hair always tucked under that hat. The one that Kayden would steal and laugh. The one that belonged to his amour. The long legs that would chase his own into the twilight, laughing and catching the lightning bugs that littered the desert sky.
The rough fingers that were always too hot or too cold, always grasping onto something and anything. His rifle when he was in one of the endless battles in the battlefield, or the back of Kayden's jacket when he was frightened- a sweet rarity that Kayden had never been able to hold on to. The fingers that would gently travel over his jawline and help cup his face when they went in for a kiss. The fingers that would intertwine with his own.
The smile that would convey the emotions that hid deep inside him. The twitch on the corner of his mouth when he watched the Team do their normal bickers, the slow turning scowl when he was angry at himself or the world. The mouth that would stay silent on the nights when there was a particularly nasty fight. The mouth that would sing the beautiful songs in the showers to the deaf ears of his comrades.
The pen scraped on it's side, ripping the page. Kayden's eyes widened. "Non. mon amour, non!" He felt tears wade up into his eyes, and he threw down the pen with a large thump. The tip broke off, spreading ink onto the pages. The memories of his lover. The memories of the beautiful Toby that would always haunt his mind. Kayden backed up, tears spilling over his cheeks.
He took a deep breath, clenching his hands into fists. Each paper was picked up one by one, gently stacked into a pile. Taking out his small, pinstriped handkerchief (a gift from the lovely Medic), he dabbed at the spilled ink, watching with solemn eyes as the ink blurred the writing.
Setting the papers aside, he pulled up a new one. He wrote a small sentence, adding it to the last of the stack. He neatly paper clipped them together in sections of five pages each, setting them on the middle of the desk. Righting the wrong, he tucked in the chair and kicked the dirty shirts into a pile. Adding his own clothing into the pile, he walked to his bathroom.
Washing and changing into his newest Italian suit, he froze at the knock on the door. Kayden opened it, looking down at the visitor with the quiet smugness that he had always possessed. He stepped out of his room, closing his door quietly. The Scout backed up a pace, worry flickering deep in his heart.
"You don't haveta go today, ya know. Miss Pauling said you can-" The Spy narrowed his eyes. "I do not care what Miss Pauling said. The match is starting soon." He walked past the Scout, shaking his head to the Demoman as he held out a drink to help Kayden cope. Kayden didn't drink- he didn't want some liquid poison to help fuel the night terrors.
He walked to the gate, rushing forward as the match began. He would not die. He would live on for his love. He would be the last standing grace for the stand against the evils of the world. He would never die, only getting respawned again and again. He had wished it had been so easy just to drink his life away, like Demo had done after his sister had died. He had wished he could have just bashed his head in and forgot everything. To start again. The last page branished a quote, one that would dig into his mind and shift his thoughts like his trusty knife.
'No, nothing’s easy. That’s why I write to remember and drink to forget'
That was his eternal reward.