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kris had never celebrated valentine’s day before. kris hadn’t had time for love.
until he met nick, anyway. then he’d kind of had to make room for it.
kris’ father had his own ideas about love and valentine’s day. he’d never asked kris what he thought, simply held him close, kissing away any protests, in a way nick would learn to do through clumsy stumbling and kris’ hisses of what he liked.
maybe if he’d had a chance to sit around eating chocolate, kris would’ve come out of his childhood with some idea of what love was. instead he sat, staring at the date on the calendar, waiting for the kids to draw him from his thoughts. thoughts of men much too old, much too pretentious, and the feel of tearing armani between his fists as nick set him aflame.
probably, he needed to get laid. most likely. it had been a long time. not since the day before sydney tower fell, with nick frowning in concern, and kris urging him, harder, hurt me, please, before it’s too late.
kris loved the bruises nick left upon him. black and blue roses against the snow of his skin, the wine-red of the angry wounds they both made on him the thorns. every time they fucked, nick left kris tangled in wild roses, struggling to breathe as the flames grew higher.
it wasn’t something he was supposed to miss, three minutes after the fact, forget three years after.
would nick even care about valentine’s day?
at the forefront of his mind, the first things to spew from his mouth in streams of vile swears, kris knew everything about nick. he understood exactly why he’d done what he’d done; controlling the pretty little child using the foundations daddy laid. an easy target to manipulate and toy with as a test of his magic, toying with the one thing kris had held to be true: he loved rose, and rose loved him. and then just for fun, killing her.
deep inside, where the roses had rooted to his soul, holding him and never letting go, kris could barely stand to admit: he didn’t know why. he’d loved nick. he’d given him everything he asked. no matter what nick did, kris forgave him. was nick testing the limitation of kris’ love? was he seeing how deep these roses tangled, seeing if he could strangle kris’ soul by pulling them until the roots laid bare and kris’ heart was in his hand?
perhaps that is what nick would do; tie kris down, as he promised that last time, kissing him with sweet fire as he ripped the heart quite literally from kris’ chest.
maybe when nick finally held kris’ heart in his hand he would stop seeing threats in the shadow of a father kris had never loved back.
it had been three years. three years of turning the fire from within to the outside. three years of his heart beating, yet never feeling. three years since he had last stared into those pale blue eyes, like mystic water, and felt quenched.
kris knew nick was not coming back for him. he knew, nick was waiting for kris to give in. to follow the tug of roses on his soul, thirsting for what nick’s eyes held, and walk willing back to the hellfire of nick’s embrace.
kris knew he would go. deep down, in the tangled mess he refused to see, he knew; nick already held his heart. nick would always hold it, command it, master it.
and kris would always love him.
yet he felt the guilt; the guilt of green eyes, just as his own, wide and staring in death. the guilt of red stained hair, ashen blonde, just as his own, in a pool of blood, just as his own.
so kris looked away. so kris pretended not to see the truth. so kris stared at the calendar, pretending he didn’t want every horrible thing nick would do to burn him.