Loathe

Hojo x Vincent

Hatred and loathing are two vastly different things, and Vincent surmises that few humans are truly aware of this fact. The race becomes more pitiful to him with each passing year, so boring, so detestable that he can barely stand the thought of them. He detests their ignorance, but he longs to be one of them again, to be free of the shackles of the knowledge force-fed to him through torture and suffering.

Hatred is transitory, as long-lived as the thought itself, and no human truly hates for long. So many people in the world seem absolutely resolved that hatred is the strongest, cruelest emotion in the infinity of the universe, always regurgitating the same nonsensical morals they will never truly understand. They say it, again and again, in a mantra that Vincent can no longer drown from his mind.

Hatred is evil, hatred is weakness, hatred is sick.

Simple, stupid people. They do not understand their own words. It's as if they're taking some old philosophy, chewing it until it is nothing near the purity of the reflection.

It's loathing, not hatred that these people should fear.

While all humans are victim to the humanity of emotions, most have some choice in hatred – apathy and hatred are two diverging roads, and one only needs to step forward with the slightest thought. It's a decision, an impulse perhaps, but still a fundamental decision.

Vincent does not have the luxury. He loathes, and loathing is not an impulse in any measure; it's an obsession. It's his life, his world, his every waking thought, like a putrid air that makes him nauseous, yet he cannot live without it. He cannot escape from such a feeling, nor would he ever be inclined to.

While hatred is a luxury, loathing ensnares him, an endless fixation with a single odium.

Loathing is sickness, a disease that spreads through Vincent's mind like a spider web, coating his every thought, his every feeling. It's so strong he can taste it, a reminiscence of sweat and chemicals on the back of his throat that makes him gag with disgust. It's the taste always coated onto the tongue nowadays, a taste of the true object of his loathing.

Hojo.

'My precious specimen,' coos Hojo, day after day. Those three words are torture, and Hojo knows it. He whispers those words time after time, a slick whisper against Vincent's ear that seems to grip at his insides, twisting him apart from the seams. Vincent wishes he could just stop listening, but loathing means obsession, and every fiber of his being is not only victim to that obsession, but victim to Hojo.

Hojo owns him because of it.

Vincent wonders if he will ever hear Hojo say it again. 'My precious specimen.'

Vincent doesn't believe it, and wishes he never had. Precious is something you cherish, but to Hojo, Vincent is as transitory as hatred. When Vincent is with him, he is Hojo's world, dominating his every thought, his every moment, but it is just a mimicry of obsession. No, Vincent is not worthy to be his obsession.

To Hojo's sick mind, Vincent is nothing but a mere game, a temporary entertainment that Hojo can do with as he wishes – that also means he can forget him. And he does.

At first, Hojo only forgot for a few days. With time, the few days became weeks, and months. Months Vincent spent loathing and obsessing over the man, growing angrier and angrier. And then Hojo would return, and Vincent would become even angrier.

Now, Vincent has been alone for years, and Hojo isn't coming back. No more hearing the man's slimy voice, no more seeing the old face and the greasy hair, no more loathing the glances he gives Vincent, no more detesting the fucking and torture. No more.

It's empty. The sleep is empty, endless, and Vincent just wants to wither away and forget he ever felt true loathing. He wants to forget he ever loved Lucrecia, because that tenuous strand of love makes him feel shame that he thinks of the object of his loathing more often than her – in all ways.

Hojo stole Lucrecia in every way he possibly could. He even stole Vincent's precious thoughts of her.

Vincent is certain that if Hojo ever cares to remember upon Vincent, he will do so and laugh.