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A wisp of orange hair amongst the leached blonde, a slither of blue within the dulled grey, a broken smile with too many teeth... A snarl masquerading as a kindly grin.
It’s a hint, fragmented pieces of the man he used to be.
That man: Lysandre.
He remains under the rubble, L crawled out in his stead,
Wearing the face of a dead man. Piloting the body of someone he doesn’t remember.
L awoke with scars, he awoke with sullen lines and dark bags under his eyes...
In the end, he would just have to claim them as his own.
In reflections, L thinks he sees that man instead. Two deep and soul—less—ful blue eyes blink back, a face with more fullness... Alive—dead, but still a sunken, hollow expression. The matching glimmer of loss slipping through, yet what they have both lost is different.
He’s told Lysandre lost his mind. His way in life, his will to live. Descended into the dark, alone.
But if it’s true, L lost the memory of it. He feels little of those things. For he has Zygarde.
He tries to smile when he sees him,
He never gets one in return.
Some days, L glimpses Lysandre in every darkened corner, feels him leaning over his shoulder late at night, he smiles when L is recognised as him – regardless of if the reaction is a kindly one.
He mutters false platitudes at times... Whispers insults in the midday breeze... All in L’s own haunting voice.
His eye is always staring, always bleeding, always twitching. His mouth open as if he should be screaming... But only provides choking rasps.
Why do you torment me?
L asks...
Why do I see you?
Just what are you?
He pleads, and never receives a single answer.