Why did I feel like writing this? No idea! Whee! This is just a mess of words, Hakkai-centric, rather obvious to pick up on if you know his backstory.

Warnings: Um. ANGST! Spoilerage. And 58. I can't help myself. Enjoy. I'm such a weirdo.

...

There is nothing like the look of someone who knows he is going to die. It's different on everyone, diverse as snow crystals but never so mathematically precise. There are often wide eyes or slack jaws. There is often anger or frustration. There is fear. There is relief.

Sometimes, oddly and sweetly enough, there is expectation. Lightness enough to laugh. And it is this that frustrates, angers, frightens the living. What is it that this individual might have to await him that he should be so jubilant in death? Why is it restricted only to him?

He laughs, perverse and pained and thrilled. There is no joy in him. And his guts spill out into the mud, cleared of life fluid by the unfeeling rain.

Watching, frustrated and frightened, the living world is thrust on into the future, not afforded the luxury of being stationary in time. There is always and only this moment, the moment where pain's only purpose is to remind of how obstinately alive you have always, always been. There is always and only this moment, where it ebbs just enough out of mercy or exhaustion to allow you to slip into the bliss of the arms of oblivion. Funny how these arms are strong and warm, pulsing so with the life he meant to leave behind.

Bad habits are hard to break.

The purpose of a living system, at the basest level, is to continue living. What anomaly is this, then, that insinuates the flinch? To avoid an attack on the sensitive, breakable face, the head turns to the side, pulls backward. And exposes pulsing veins in the undefended column of the throat. Is it better to die than live blind?

He has one eye left to him, one perfect eye. He has a new life for himself, a new perfect name. But the bad eye sits with the old life, always in his face and always on his mind. Half-dead and half-blind, he stumbles only all the time. The mundane reaches out with open arms, unquestioning and pulsing so with the life he is unable to leave behind.

Housework is cleaning, dusting, clearing away the dirt. Housework is cooking, creating, caring. Housework is picking up the broken pieces when something is shattered. Any and all hazards can be taken away. Any and everything can be made spotless, should one scrub hard enough.

So he works, making his parameters meet impossible standards for lack of anything else to occupy his hands. He cares for someone, feeding him better than he's ever been fed and doing his laundry. Knowing his voice and where he keeps the spare key. Reminding him when the trash needs to be taken out. And the days blur into a mess of domesticity.

One of the most detrimental things about having one imperfect eye is the lack of depth perception. One can never quite tell just about how far he is about to fall. Or how close comfort might be. He can't tell until it touches him, and by then he is in too deep to scramble out.

So is it any surprise that he flinches away, turning breakable, vulnerable features toward the sky? There is too much life around him, too much of the mundane others take for granted, so deep around him. His heart, so small, fights furiously back. It pounds an irregular, spastic cadence against the insides of his ribs. His pulse is met by one only slightly calmer.

He flinches away, fingers twitching and head turning to protect his eyes. The attack finds his throat but the warmth spilling forth is not his blood. His blood is too tired for this, so the heat will have to be enough. The pain reminds him that he is alive. This is the only familiarity left, all others lost in memories. They are the visions left to his sightless eye. Blindness frightens him worse than death.

Arms tighten around him, around the frantic beating in his chest and the animal twitching of his limbs. He wills the pain to the surface, focusing on the ache. Focusing on the comfort of it. Focusing on feeling irrevocably alive.

There is a hot mouth on his neck. His head lolls back, eyes shut fast and only feeling. Red hairs lay gashes over his skin, bleeding for him. Rejoicing in him. He feels this, and it only hurts. It hurts because he can't feel much of anything else anymore. And the pain starts, curling at the corners, not to matter. There is so much life around him, pulsing in the arms holding him up. There is so much he does not need pain to remind him.

There is nothing like the look of someone who knows he is going to die. Very few can look into that face and see anything beyond anguish. Under his laughter was absolutely nothing. Nothingness and raw potential. He has been adulterated. For better or for worse.

He flinches away, fingers curling against warm skin and head turning to protect his eyes. His good eye, his bad eye. If such terms can be applied. He aches for missing someone. For all of his memories and the needle-sharp present burning a fresh path into his mind. He hasn't missed anyone in a lifetime. The buzzing skin over his is worming its way into his heart. He has something to miss again. And he is appalled at his own will to live.

He flinches, bares his throat and hides his eyes. He feels afraid to die. He wonders how long it will last this time.