Work Text:
Maybe it was just the season, but today the day felt colder, more still, more monotonous. Maybe it's your tattered clothes that have holes that give direct access to the skin. They tend to say that winter makes everything sadder, don't they? Maybe that was it. Maybe it was just the season. The cold in his hands hurt, the cold in his knees that burned, that barely held up.
An emptiness in the stomach, an empty mind for an instant. And then, a bubbling of emotions flood his entire being. Anger, sadness, passion, revolt. All at once. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you mince words? Why wasn't you clearer?" - So, so many whys. "I would have done something, I would have spent more time with you. I offered you everything you needed, why didn't you come to me?" - It was stupid, he knew the answer. The letter was clear. "How am I going to bear losing you? In one month, you've already filled my life and Bobby's. He's gone, and now you are too?" - He had several friends, several companions who cared about him and were always there for him, but it was not the same.
He takes the flowers. Amaranths. Pink flowers that he always saw in front of his lover's house. Smells them and feels nauseous - Sweet, too sweet. - Remembers everything they've been through, and suddenly everything hurts more. Their relationship was delicate, it was nice, it was so sensitive, and now it was turning bittersweet, a beautiful and bitter end to such a lovely love.
He remembered the beginning, how ecstatic he had felt when the new members arrived on the island. He remembered when for out of nonsense they started with the nicknames. God. He would never hear his nickname again, not said in the same way, with the same affection, by the same person. Wouldn't hear that embarrassed laugh every time he said something stupid along with the nickname.
It seemed that the world hated him and it wasn't just a little bit, if there was a comedy show at the time, it would certainly be called "The Infortunate Life of Roier". He loved, and was betrayed. And then he loved again, this time a parental love and had his precious thing taken from him, even though he fought so hard, it was of no use. And after all, he loved, and was loved this time. But things couldn't work out for him, no way, he didn't deserve.
His face was burning, his hands were limp. He heard everything around him: the attempts at comfort, the side hugs, the pats on the back, but he couldn't react, he couldn't look into their faces and say thank you. Eventually they dropped him off at his castle and said goodbye. His weak hands tightly grip the flowers, the letter and the photo, looking for a crack of warmth that could, even for half a second, convey "home, family, comfort".
Maybe it was just the season, but tonight seemed colder, more still, more monotonous. Maybe it's your tattered clothes that have holes that give direct access to the skin. They tend to say that winter makes everything sadder, don't they? Maybe that was it. Maybe it was just the season.
Or maybe it was the wind that carried his sweetheart away.