Chapter Text
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
It was… well it was never supposed to be like this.
Their relationship wasn’t supposed to be summed up in fleeting glances and the occasional brush of hands when they didn’t know the other was there. Their relationship wasn’t supposed to be something that made his hand twitch every time he thought about it, reaching for something he was too far away from.
Their relationship wasn’t supposed to disappear.
They promised each other that their relationship wouldn’t disappear.
But he guesses it was some cruel trick of the universe that happy endings would always be ripped from them suddenly. And quickly, and harshly.
And cruelly.
They were self-destructive, would always be self-destructive. And there were times when that option of a sweet release felt like it would be leagues better than the cold, heavy chains pulling him further into the water that stubbornly wouldn’t let him drown, no matter how deep he got.
That sweet release would spare him from the endless torment that swirled and pulsed every time he met her eyes over a hoard of people only for her to avert her eyes to something that must’ve been more interesting than him. Something less painful, if he was even painful for her. Truth be told, he didn’t know.
He wanted to believe that he left an impression on her. A sick, twisted part of him hoped that it hurt her, that is was agonizing for her as much as it was him, but the smile that seemed too convincing to be a mask deterred that thought as quickly as a wave pulling back from the shore.
Hate for her festered like a sore every time he saw that smile; every time she looked somewhat happy when he was left stranded on a desolate plain with nothing and nobody except the mere memory of that smile directed at him. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to embrace that hate. He couldn’t bring himself to pull her outside from the safe confines of her family and shout and plead and beg and yell just to get her to look at him longer than a fraction of a second in order to force her to understand the torture that he felt. The torture she didn’t seem to feel.
His hands tightened around the grip of the weapon, thumb absent-mindedly rotating the cylinder, the clicking that accompanies it a constant sound in his brain. Almost calming.
The chair was hard beneath him, the ship rocking with the light waves and the sun was streaming in and dappling his profile like it used to do to hers. It was a lovely day, a beautiful day in fact, and he couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to die on a day like today, a day that reminded him so much of the others.
He gave the cylinder one last flick, letting it spin for a second or two before stopping it and clicking it back into place.
The wooden arm under his elbow was slightly softer than he remembered it being, a bit more comfortable. Maybe it’s because over time he had dug a small divot, maybe it’s because he’s been in this position too many times before.
He rested it against his temple. These weapons were certainly convenient, perhaps a bit loud for his taste, but they did have a certain class, much more so than a water-bloated body with the bites of small fish. The volume might help in his favor. Maybe she would finally hear him, though right now she wasn’t keen on listening.
When he swallowed it was thick, maybe with nerves, he didn’t know, maybe with peace. Whatever it was, he hoped it would be his last.
He shut his eyes softly, images of her playing behind his eyes, images of them. He could hear their laughs, could see their smiles, for once directed at him, and he smiled back with his eyes burning under the lids.
Warm air with the smell of the sea filled his lungs, the metal a cold bite against his temple, the trigger light under his finger.
His body was calm, his mind was clear, his heart was broken, and the weapon was obedient.
Click.
Until it wasn’t.
He growled in frustration, throwing the gun across the room with a bang softer than the previous it and cursed the Gods for his rotten luck. If he knew that his mantra of being a survivor would continuously throw itself back at him, he would’ve bragged about being a dead man.
One day his stupid gamble would play out in his favor, but the world just seems to have a funny sense of humor; pulling death away at the one time he truly wanted it. The time he needed it despite whatever torment would wait for him in the house of Hades. It would feel better than this.
With a frustrated growl he knocked the bottom or liquor off his desk, dropping his face into his hand at the glass shattered just like his soul, rum trickling into the floorboards that should’ve been stained with his blood.
He would try again. Maybe in a week. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in the next hour. Whenever the next time he felt the crushing weight of his demons on his shoulders like the sky Atlas was forced to hold for eternity.
Maybe in the next minute.
Maybe in the next second.