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Char watches Garma sleep.
There’s something steady about it; like a ticking clock, counting down every single breath this perfect martyr takes until it’s his time to fall. Char tilts his head a little where he kneels next to Garma’s bed, reaching out to ever-so-gently feel the rise and fall of his chest. Pads of fingers meet the subtle bumps of a ribcage, bone-to-bone connection kept apart by flesh and hesitation.
He’s perfect like this; silent and beautiful, like an effigy of everything his birth stands for. A pillar in the place of a man, etched with every thought Char has formed in hatred against him. When Garma is still, like this, Char can almost start to forget he’s human. A precious little doll, porcelain-skinned and delicate. As if he could press his fingernails into Garma’s forearm until cracks splinter across all he sees, shattering out into nothingness one piece at a time. No soul within to fret over, no Zabi blood, no mess.
It’s the fact that he is human, however, that complicates matters. Char loves him as he hates him; desires as he despises him. To see the sheer innocence that Garma had the liberty of growing within makes Char feel like his guts are writhing—is it anger? Or jealousy? Does he even care to find out? It’s far too late for him to ever return to any semblance of purity. Not until he’s doused himself in muck and blood and bile will he be able to rise again, his revenge satisfied in the light of sun, moon, star, wherever in space he may be.
But for now, he’s still fresh. He’s still learning. He can watch Garma’s face twitch in his sleep, and brush his hair out of his eyes with all the gentleness of a lover. The allowance of youth lets him have these precious things while they last, this microcosm of a life in the universe where Char and Garma get to overlap. In the same breath he feels how easy it would be to grab another pillow and smother the life out of him. Maybe even his bare hands instead—though the thought of his hands against Garma’s mouth makes his heart race. Awful, awful, awful. With the way Garma acts, he’d probably rather have it that way, too—the way he’ll wrap his arm around Char’s waist or shoulder, the way he’ll listen in close enough that Char can smell his skin and hair… Wouldn’t he want something that personal? Wouldn’t he want his only friend in the world to leave the last marks on his body? He’d wear Garma’s desperate scratches with pride, too. He’d walk around with the proof of Garma’s existence scarred into his skin. At least that way he’d know this was all real.
Char’s already granted too many indulgences, too often, but he wants more. Garma’s life belongs to Char. Even in his grave, he should rest with skin only Char has touched and lips that only Char has shared. He would lay Garma’s body in his coffin himself if there was nobody else around to see it. Staking his claim on his life and death all the same. He makes the bed, Garma lies in it. Maybe, in another life, it could be both of them. The worst part is how little he hates the idea.
So he tidies the bed a little now. Quite literally—he carefully pulls Garma’s blanket up to cover him better, and gently moves the thin arm that’s gotten close to hanging over the edge. Char’s hand doesn’t shake when he brushes Garma’s bangs out of his face again (funny, that part where he always touches, it’s oily enough that Garma will be showering in the morning—) but his teeth clench regardless, as if there’s tension that needs to go somewhere, and he refuses to let it make its way to Garma. He forcibly relaxes his jaw, and as reward he lets himself lay his head on the edge of Garma’s pillow. He’s all splayed out anyways, his head nowhere near the middle. Char can count his eyelashes like this, and can smell his hair products that have no doubt seeped into the pillow cover permanently by now. If he really holds himself still, Char can even feel pin-pricks of warmth on his cheeks, radiating off of Garma’s skin. If he were a degree less sane, he’d just crawl into bed next to him. But he doesn’t, because despite this unplanned soft spot, he is still too careful for such an indulgence. He won’t ruin this all for a boy.