Perjury

BY : Rali
Category: Final Fantasy X > General
Dragon prints: 736
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy X, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.



DISCLAIMER: FFX nor any of its characters belong, in any shape or form, to me. It's all Squaresoft, baby. Though, if they're of a mind to sell Tidus for a couple of Peach Girl mangas, they know where to look...

WARNING: This story is yaoi/slash/shounen ai/boyxboy/homosexual in nature. Though it doesn't go much beyond lime, if you have something against that sort of thing, FLEE! I won't be responsible for emotional/mental trauma. I'm not quite sure how you'd be physically traumatized by this story, but I'm not responsible for that, either. Also, rather a dark fanfic.

NOTA BENE: On a side note, this one-shot has no moral or academically redeeming qualities whatsoever. It's just me having fun. >D

 

 

 

Perjury

 

 

There was pain.

He’d half-expected it, but the pain still
managed to come as a surprise. A subtle, angry, draining kind of pain, the kind
that crept into his brain through cracks and seams that he’d never known
existed and wrapped itself around his mind like a mantle of thorns, crawled
along the insides of his skull like spiders along the walls.

And despair bubbled in the back of his
mouth, at the roof of his throat.

It was as if no world had ever existed, nor
ever would. There was the ground, this hard surface that he was lying on, and
the dirt that stained his skin. He hated dirt. Dirt was the one thing he
couldn’t stand. It drove him to irritability. Now, he was caked in it. His long
hair, always kept meticulously clean, was in clumps and hanging in his face,
clinging to his neck. His clothes, though he could not see them, were rank, and
absolutely disgusting to the senses. He refused to think about them.

It was hard, though, not to think of
anything at all when he was just lying on his back in the middle of some
enormous nothingness. That was what he was doing, on his back in a ditch
somewhere, the filth and grime everywhere, and nothing to look at in the
lightlessness. Everything stank. Everything was black. And this everything
was in his mouth.

He spat. He worked whatever saliva he
could into his mouth and raised himself up just enough to cough to one side.
The taste of pain and despair and filth did not leave his mouth.

He couldn’t remember how long he had been
lying there, in the blackness. It was cold, stone-cold. But he was dead, and
things like temperature weren’t supposed to bother him. Dead, and in the kind
of death that the Powers-That-Be had decreed a villain deserve. After all, he had
been the villain, hadn’t he? The thought brought a bitter, bleak smile to
his lips, a slight movement of flesh that he could hardly feel. He raised a
hand to wipe that smile from his face and smeared some indistinguishable muck
all over his face.

Yes, anger—he had always had anger. Anger
enough to kill his father. Anger enough to want to share his peace, his death,
with the whole world. Anger enough to force marriage unto himself, to a girl he
bitterly hated. Anger enough to…

There, there was that memory.

The world was one-dimensional. No matter
which way he turned, he was always in the same, uncomfortable position. He
supposed comfort was not to be tolerated. So he remained still, staring up into
nothing—for the dead did not want for sleep—and contemplated that
memory.

 

There was no such thing as time, just like there
was no such thing as day, or sleep. If this was damnation, someone was doing a
very good job of it.

And there was no such thing as ‘getting
used to it,’ not there. The stink and the filth remained just that—stink and
filth. The rough, invisible ground drove hard edges into his skin. And the
darkness, the eternal night, left him with little to do but reflect.

He felt, most of the time, simply blank.
He had failed. That was that. Spira was still, apparently, whole somewhere, as
far as he knew. His hopes of a final death for the world that had hated and
mistreated him so badly were, themselves, gone to a final death—unlike himself.

Anger, that which he had had so much of,
and spent so much time concealing beneath his carefully arranged face, was only
a ghost of what it had been. Despair had settled in his bones, and it weighted
him down. He supposed, vaguely, that, if he had really wanted to, he could have
dragged himself to his feet, struggled through this place of nothing, and
wrenched his way back into the realities of the living. It was possible. He had
done it before, and he could do it again. The dead could walk with the living,
it was feasible enough. Allt wat was needed was the will.

There, for only the second time in his
life, he found himself lacking in something.

So, he merely laid still, thinking and
thinking and thinking. What was there left? the despair asked. He had no
answer, save that one thing, that memory, that memory.

And even that memory was pain.

Not his pain, no, though he had plenty of
that, now. Someone else had been hurting. He had caused that hurting. He had
had pleasure from it. That was the memory. That was his thread from this…to
everything.

 

Prison walls. A coldness. Anger, his and someone
else’s. A conversation, in which he proposed something that he had known could
have only one answer. A helplessness that made him lick his lips. And
then—surrender.

That memory, the one he could still taste, smell, feel, and hear, even
after a lifetime in the nothing, in despair. That memory, the one that
still made him sweat and harden, just at the thought, the one justification for
his whole existence. That memory, the one that reminded him just how
furiously and how desperately he had hated the insipid, stuttering, wisp of a
girl, that damnably righteous, gallingly good girl. ‘Hate’ was too weak
a word. To look at her was to want to break open her ribs and rip the
still-beating heart from her split flesh with his own, two hands.

He had never felt anything so intensely.
He had only hated two other people with such a force, such violence. One had
been his father—and he had killed his father. The other had already been
dead—and he had hated that one for exactly the same reason as he’d hatede gie girl.

Hate wasn’t the only thing he evoked from
that memory.

 

That was what he could expect, then, a perpetual
balance, a thin, terribly narrow line, walking between complete, unworldly
insanity and nothing; a decision between remembering and oblivion. There it
was, in the dark, in the black, on his back in a gully, his dignity and
elegance and cunning and anger, all reduced to this.

He still had that memory. He still
had that one, the face he would never forget. Not even nothing could
take that away. Even so, it still served as a form of torture—to remember, to
see, feel, hear, taste, and touch so vividly, and to know that it would never
be real again.

There, then, was his pain.

 

He didn’t regret it. Not any of the doing—and especially
not that memory.

He was half-insane, not stupid.

Everything he had done, he had done.
There was no changing that. And he didn’t believe in regretting things
co
couldn’t change. Even the marriage to that girl, the one he would have gladly
soiled his own hands to strangle into silence, he didn’t regret. It had been
useful, in the end.

No, he regretted nothing.

But…if there was something he wanted

Yes. Something he wanted to do, just once
more, if he had to trade what was left of his sanity to do it…

To touch the sun. That was what he would
want. To touch the sun, to touch that hair, that face, that body…to pull it to
him, to press it beneath him, to find in it that place…to feel that,
just once more.

To return to the closest thing he had
ever known to love.

That. That had not been pain.

 

That was what he remembered. And that was what kept
him there, in his retribution, in his very own corner of the Farplane, that
reserved for those who had no right to be happy.

 

LIGHT.

 

He blinked.

Ah, Yevon. Was that light? Could he still
remember what light was?

He closed his eyes.

 

It didn’t go away.

The light burned on his face. He wondered
what he would see if he were to open his eyes. It would not be pretty. He could
hardly stand to smell himself, or be in his own body. How much worse would it
be with light?

But, then—then! Then there was someone
standing beside him.

He knew exactly who it was.

Bile rose in his mouth. He wondered what
he was feeling—anger? humiliation? desperation? intense, crushing longing?

“Seymour,” said a voice, and he decided
it was anger he was feeling.

As gracefully as if rising from his own
bed, in his own bedchamber, he sat up, and deigned to look.

His mouth went dry.

There he stood, as if this were
all just a picturesque day at the beach. And, Yevon, but he was
as beautiful as he remembered, and more. Like sunlight, all dark gold wherever
there was skin to be seen, and a brilliance of gold gold as wild a mop as
ever on his head. So much the boy, so little the man, but so much of both.
Naďve beauty, the likes of which made others stop to stare at the loveliness
contained in his oblivious body. It was a crime for such to go untouched.

And his pretty face, distorted an
expression of pain and confusion.

“Tidus,” he said, his voice as smooth and
unperturbed as ever. “Son of Jecht.”

Tidus said nothing.

“Come to gloat?” he spat, and grew angry
at the fact that he was angry.

Nothing.

He let a slow, appreciative, suggestive
smile cross his lips. “I am surprised your faithful Man-in-Red let you come
here.”

At that, Tidus flushed a slow red. “Don’t
you talk about him like that!”

There was pain. “Did you then come
to watch my suffering? To take pleasure from it?” He laughed shortly. “Or is it
perhaps vengeance?”

He lifted an arm, gestured about him at
the darkness. “Look your fill, then. This, Tidus, is my lot.”

“I didn’t,” Tidus started to protest, and
fell feebly silent. A look of distress was working its way onto his features.

“I’ll not have your pity,” he
snarled, suddenly, and was gratified to see Tidus jump.

There was anger here, somewhere, whether
it was coming from one or the other or both. He didn’t care. All he knew was
that he had been here for so long, that he had nothing to look forward to but
being there for even longer, and that Tidus was here, now. Tidus,
beautiful Tidus, who had obviously won, who had taken everything from him, more
than he had ever taken from Tidus…

Or was that a lie?

Tidus opened his mouth to speak, and he moved.

It was ridiculously simple. Before Tidus
could draw breath, he had that golden boy sprawled on the part of the black
that was the ground, one hand at that small neck, the other at a wrist. His own
body was interposed between splayed knees.

And the situation was different.

 

Tidus’s breathing was thunder in the silence. The
slight frame was stiff and trembling beneath his larger one. The wrist in his
right hand tensed and relaxed over and over, and he could feel the convulsive
swallowing of Tidus’s unusually delicate throat beneath his left.

He smiled, and was rewarded by a shiver.

“Do you remember, Tidus?” he asked
quietly. Painfully wide, exquisite blue eyes stared up at him, a mixture of
anger, hate, fear, and something he couldn’t recognize.

A sharp, indrawn breath answered his
question.

“I remember, Tidus,” he whispered. His
voice seemed strained to his own ears. His body remembered just as well as his
mind did, and the insistent hardness between his hips pushed against Tidus’s
thigh. “I remember you so well.”

He leaned down and set his mouth to
Tidus’s.

It was vaguely repulsive. His hair hung
in clumps about his face and into Tidus’s. He knew his breath was probably much
worse than his body odor. Still, he kissed that full mouth.

And Tidus screamed into his throat.

 

For a moment, neither one moved. The scream faded
away, swallowed wholeheartedly by craving jaws, and there was only a slight
touching of flesh, lip-to-lip. Tidus’s eyes were glazed and terror-filled, his
breathing hard and gulping, gasps of air. His entire body had gone limp, his
breath hot against Seymour’s mouth.

Seymour smiled against that breathing.
“You remember.”

A groan and the boy fell back against the
ground, eyes closing. His free hand had found its way to Seymour’s sleeve, had
clutched there as a frightened child would his mother’s skirt. It relaxed into the
filthy folds of the sleeve, touched against Seymour’s arm.

Taking his hand from Tidus’s throat, he
slid it down to where a buckle gleamed dully just below the breastbone, and
deftly, casually undid it. “Why are you here, Son of Jecht?”

For a moment, there was no answer. The
boy merely laid there beneath him, as if exhausted of some inner strength. Only
when the second buckle gave way beneath sure fingers did he shudder and
breathe, “To see you.”

Flipping both straps up and over slender,
muscular shoulders, one hand brushed the cloth of the white-and-yellow jacket
aside, exposing skin to cold air. “To what end, Son of Jecht?”

There was no immediate answer. The anger
he had felt so sharply had receded, and his own body was nervous with hunger,
aching with need. The nothing all around him was, abruptly, stifling, and all
the light in the world seemed to come from only this one, golden creature.
Dirt, despair, rage, insanity, oblivion, everything could be gone, just for
that while. Damnation was driven far, cast from the light of this perfect,
beautiful boy.

He didn’t care whyus hus had come. He
didn’t care if it wasn’t real. He didn’t care if he’d really gone insane. No,
no longer—what was happening was happening, and if this was all the beauty he
could have left in his existence, then so be it. Sanity was small enough a
price to pay.

He reached down to tear away the clothes
and rags between them.

“I should hate you.”

He stopped, hand coming to a startled
rest on one, narrow hip, and looked up.

Blue eyes, as perfect as blue eyes could
ever be, were looking at him calmly, without anything in them but certainty.

“I should hate you. For what you did to
us. For what you did to Yuna. For—” here, his voice broke “—what you did to me.”

A bitter thing rose up as laughter. “I
regret none of it,” Seymour answered, smiling again. “Above all, what I did to you.”

Anger broke in that gaze, just for a
heartbeat. “Fuck you, Seymour! Why do you have to make this so hard?!”

Quiet again, but the grip on his hand
tightened, and Seymour felt something new open up inside of him.

“And what was I supposed to do,” Tidus
whispered, a whisper that carried like the roar of lightening in the silence,
“with my master gone away?”

Seymour smiled.

And the black nothing parted before them
as the ocean before the land.



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