#2022 and i am still self-projecting on zelos wilder apparently

[kohakhearts]

request: zelos/lloyd + #9: things you said when i was crying.

wc: 1 195

If there is one thing Zelos prides himself on, it is this:

He has not cried since he was a child, not really.

Oh, here and there, some tears, but never anything anyone, least of all himself, could consider crying. He’s just not like that. He takes in sad stories with sympathetic frowns and titters, depending on who’s telling them—the prettiest of girls warrant soft, pitying touches on the shoulder, or maybe even kisses on the cheek—and he looks back on his own past with impassive regret. Even in his worst moment, he’s never had anything to cry over. Not since his mother died. Certainly not since Seles was put under house arrest.

But that’s the issue now. Seles. His horrible, darling sister. Admittedly, seeing her during his travels with Lloyd and Colette and everyone else was harder than he had expected it to be, but that’s in the past, now, and he doesn’t want to think about it, or the circumstances that brought them to the abbey in the first place. After all, it won’t be long until that place is far behind them; Zelos has made sure of that.

He doesn’t really know if Seles will be appreciative of everything, for all she says she is now. The reality is that house arrest in the middle of scenic nowhere is probably far preferable to living with him, in Meltokio. But what other choice is there? She can’t live alone, and, according to her, she doesn’t want to, either.

It gnaws at him. What exactly “it” is, he can’t say so definitively, which is what makes it so awful.

She’ll be here tomorrow, but, today, it is just Zelos—and Lloyd, who insisted on being around for him, for some ridiculous reason or another. Zelos doesn’t know just yet whether or not he’s grateful for the company; right now, at this very moment, he’s leaning towards not.

“Would you stop wringing your hands already?” Lloyd tells him, exasperated. “I thought you told me nothing was wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong.” With some effort, he pulls his hands apart and tightly crosses his arms over his chest. He glances back at Lloyd with a raised eyebrow, though Lloyd does not seem impressed by his solution to the incessant—apparently annoying—hand-wringing. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”

Scowling, Zelos turns away from him again.

“I thought you would be excited.”

“What, I don’t seem excited to you?” Zelos snorts. “It’s not really that simple, Lloyd.”

“Yeah, but why not?”

“You wouldn’t get it. Just trust me when I say it’s not.”

“Yeah, well.” Lloyd pauses. And then: “I think you’re just guilty, but what’s there to be guilty over?”

It feels like a blade through his chest. His hands fall to his sides and he lets out a trembling breath, trying—and failing—to get a hold of himself. He should not be surprised by this point that Lloyd can read him so well, but, for some stupid reason, he is.

“Zelos?”

“It’s not that simple,” he says again, hoarsely. “You don’t get it. You can’t.”

For a moment, there is no sound, and then he hears Lloyd stand and cross the room. Just as soon, there is a strong, warm hand on his shoulder, but he steadfastly does not turn around even as the touch pokes and prods at the chest wound already inflicted by his words.

“But I can try,” Lloyd says. “You just have to talk to me.”

Zelos blinks furiously, but it does little to steel his resolve. To his horror, the vague stinging in his eyes—which has been there all day, maybe even longer—becomes all at once unbearable, and then he is crying, and unsure how to make it stop, if he even wants to.

Apparently, Lloyd was not expecting this, either. His grip tightens. “What’s wrong?”

Zelos opens his mouth to respond, but snaps it shut again when all that threatens to escape is a childish sob. He does not know what’s wrong, not in so many words, but he thinks it is Lloyd’s fault, and not just for being here now.

“Can I do something?”

Zelos shakes his head. He takes a few seconds to catch his breath, and then lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes (a mostly pointless endeavour) before turning and facing Lloyd.

Lloyd seems to hesitate for a moment, and then he asks, “…Are you sure?”

Zelos turns his gaze to the ceiling, so he won’t have to see Lloyd’s reaction as he chokes out, “You could—leave.”

“What?!”

A couple gulping breaths, before he manages, “I never felt guilty like this before I met you.”

“What do you—?”

“Never felt much of…anything ‘til I met you,” Zelos mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. His chest heaves, but his tears seem to have mostly subsided. For now, at least. “That was kinda the whole point.”

“But…” Lloyd pauses, as if struggling for the words. A testament to the truth of his words, Zelos still cannot bear to look at him, for fear of what he might see if he does.

Finally, Lloyd’s hand drops from his shoulder, and instead seizes his wrist. He draws Zelos’s hand up and holds it between both of his own.

“Not feeling things doesn’t make them go away,” he says firmly. “It just makes them harder to deal with once you finally do have to feel them.”

Zelos takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and, at last, opens his eyes. Drops his head.

Lloyd isn’t angry, or even anything like it. Not at Zelos, anyway. The look in his eyes now reminds Zelos a bit of how he had been after they had discovered Colette’s toxicosis—a determination born of love. Commitment. He is here now not to make Zelos confront his guilt, but to be there when he inevitably has to.

“And the only way to make them better,” Lloyd goes on, “is to feel them. And talk about them. I think Seles will understand that. Don’t you?”

Zelos’s fingers twitch in his hold. Suddenly, he almost wants to laugh. He brings his free hand up and wipes at his face again, to more success this time.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” he mutters.

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles, lightly; it is not an entirely mirthful sound, which hurts his chest a bit. “That’s what makes it so annoying when you’re right about something.”

A beat passes, where Lloyd just stares at him, and then he laughs too. He says, “Yeah, okay. Come sit down, then.”

This time, Zelos lets him lead him back to the table. He is not wringing his hands when he sits, not even after Lloyd lets go of him. Though Lloyd doesn’t push him to talk—just sits there, constant and steady and himself—he knows that this is far from the end of this conversation. Just the beginning of it, really.

But the ache in his chest is different, now. He finds, despite everything, he is not dreading the rest of it quite so much as he was.