What Makes a Monster

♱Thirty-Seven♱

Third Person P.O.V.

Soran can't remember the last time he had a good night's rest. Often nights are loud; louder than many would believe. The chirping of crickets are as boisterous as an orchestra and wind blowing through trees as powerful as a typhoon. As a child Soran struggled to tune out the constant noise. As an adult, he learned to cope.

However, when the world is silent, his thoughts slither in.

A constant stream of thoughts keep Soran awake most nights. And most nights such thoughts are anger inducing. Had he been born human, he would have died in his thirties simply from the rage that always boiled at the rim of a great cauldron (then again, it is unlikely he'd have the same anger as he does now).

But this evening, for the first time in a long time, it is not anger or frustration that keeps Soran awake. It is something else entirely.

A feeling of butterflies in his stomach, electric at his fingertips, a loss of breath and the constant need to toss and turn because every part of the bed feels too warm. Then he realized it isn't the bed but himself that is searing hot so he kicks off the blankets. Even the cold air can't cool his skin that simmers with a constant flush.

Soran's breath is deep, followed with a long sigh that shutters behind his lips. He sits up, staring at his open palm. His fingers flex, recalling the sensation of Wallie's warm hand encasing his. Warm. Unbelievably warm. As much as Soran tries to tell himself it's because he's cold as ice, he cannot deny the truth.

Wallie. It all has to do with Wallie; his soft touch, kind words, sapphire eyes and pink cheeks, all of it is warm and keeping Soran awake. Awake and yearning for the simplicity that others have; how that moment likely would have been so much more if he were someone different. Where would it have gone? Where would they have gone?

Soran can only assume the answers for a relationship such as that, such as the one he's yearning for, is one he has never known and will never know.

But still, every time Soran closes his eyes he sees Wallie then wishes to actually see him.

When Soran glances beside him, he imagines Wallie laying there. His curled white hair brushes over long eyelashes, chest rising slowly with every breath passing through parted lips. Soran reaches out like he honestly thinks he can touch him, only for the image to fade when his hand presses against the silk sheets.

The sense of longing is not foreign to Soran, only something he tries desperately to forget or ignore. Hoping to see someone. Longing to be with them. Missing them. Yes, Soran knows those feelings well; so well that he pierces his bottom lip from how hard he suddenly bit. The taste of blood fills his mouth followed by him wiping it away with the back of his hand.

"Don't be a fool," Soran whispers, slapping his own chest like he expects it to stop the fluttering of his heart. His nails press crescent shapes into his skin. There's a pain never seen but always there, a deep wound that will never heal, but Soran's heart wishes to forget. It wishes to pretend like such pain never happened.

"Please, don't be a fool."

But being a fool is exactly what Soran's heart wants for it only quickens at the mere thought of Wallie. The thought of seeing him again tomorrow, wishing desperately to speak with him, to feel his hand and—

Soran jumps out of bed because the only way to stop the emotions bubbling within is to give a harsh reminder as to why they can never be. Even ignoring the absolute obvious; Wallie is human and thus they could never be, there are far more pressing reasons.

There are secrets, so much so that Soran himself likely cannot voice them all. Audacities committed by his own hands, ones that he regrets and ones that he still relishes in even when knowing they were wrong. Then there was pain, painful secrets that were locked away, both metaphorically and physically.