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How the hell was he supposed to just go on living without the man who had been the sun, no, the entire world to him for almost thirty years? How the hell was he supposed to just be okay with losing the one man who had given him everything in the world? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to live without him. He couldn’t live without him.
The man’s hand covered his face as the tears filled his eyes. He didn’t bother to stop them.
They’d gotten past the fact that men weren’t supposed to cry.
They did.
He had plenty of times since Roger had said goodbye and he’d chosen his death. He’d been angry, upset, pissed, but he had chosen his death and Rayleigh knew him better than anyone else had in the world. He knew him in and out. He wouldn’t let the sickness take him. No, he wanted to choose his way out. He’d caused a ruckus, hadn’t he?
The Great Pirate era.
The King of Pirates.
Gol D. Roger.
He’d just been Roger to him.
He’d just been the man Rayleigh had attuned to the sun and he’d been his moon.
A tragic love story that had been repeated time and time again and the moon never caught the sun.
The moon would never catch the sun.
He’d never hold him again.
He’d never hear him laugh again.
He’d never see him smile again.
He’d never wake up to him again.
The anger hit then, anger at the world, at Roger for being so okay with this, at himself for just accepting it but he knew, gods, he knew they were always meant for tragedy.
Men like them never got happy endings.
They were pirates after all.
“You’re a bastard, Roger.” Rayleigh croaked as he squeezed the bottle of rum, causing it to break, shattering against the wood of the bar. The alcohol dripped down his hands and the glass cut his skin but he didn’t notice and he didn’t care.
He didn’t feel a damn thing anymore.
He didn’t want to.
“Gods damn you, Roger.”
The tears flowed down the Dark King’s cheeks as memories of the laughing Gol D. Roger filled his mind and he let himself cry once more. He just wanted him back but he knew he’d never come back.
He couldn’t.
“Come home.” He muttered as he rested his head on the bar, right in the middle of the puddle of rum, not caring abut the stickiness nor caring about any of it.
“Just come back, you bastard. Just come back.”