His Other Half (KiriBaku)

Seven Years

       It's been seven years. Seven years, and Prince Katsuki still remembers. Seven years, and he still can't forget the day he lost his other half.

        It was July, which is why the prince hates July, and a beautiful, sunny, cloudless day, such is why the prince hated beautiful, sunny, cloudless days. He had loved them, and Katsuki couldn't bear anything that he had loved. Not anymore.

        The price shook his head, sighing into the empty courtyard. He once thought that maybe, after a certain amount of time, he'd forget. Move on, even. But here he was, standing in the courtyard on a beautiful, sunny, cloudless July afternoon, seven years after the fact, thinking about him. He hated the courtyard--it was the last place he had ever been whole.

        Soul mates didn't exist, of course, a fairy tale for children's books, but Price Katsuki felt as though he'd lost his. A part of him that he'd never be able to get back. He'd lost his heart when he lost him, and he'd never get it back.

        The prince growled suddenly, pushing of the path and twisting back inside the castle. He didn't want his good-for-nothing heart back. Not without him.

        The crown felt too heavy on his head today, as it often did. The weight did little except remind him once again that there had one been a person who had promised to share that weight with him, help him with the burden of feeding and defending an entire nation of hapless fools. He loved his people, he truly did, but if one more person named their child after him, he was going to lose it.

        Thinking of his people helped calm his aching heart, and Katsuki looked out one of the humongous glass windows towards the amphitheater. If today brought one good thing, it was that his mother had been sensible enough to cancel the day's festivities and let him grieve properly. He couldn't bear dealing with the suitors, not today.

        The hallways were quiet as he walked, a welcome change from the usual bustle of the palace. The staff were always cautious to avoid the prince on this day, as he tended to be quicker to anger than usual. They never spoke the thought on their minds: that he was not angry at them, but at himself.

        He'd been sixteen when he'd lost his other half, and the servants said that he'd been a happy boy. Drunk off love and addicted to smiles, the help that remembered said he'd always been laughing. Their hearts broke with his on the day his laughter stopped.

        It had been harmless. Childish, even, as most things they did together were. A silly game played with the squire children and the apprentices. Running and chasing, foolish nonsense, and it was the young prince's turn to be the one to catch them. The others kept their distance, just in case, but they knew that Katsuki only ever had one target when they played.

        Him.

        The ring banded to Katsuki's finger seemed to burn as his eyes began to sting. If he had been faster, if he had been smarter, if he had simply kept the boy in his sights, he wouldn't hurt like this. He wouldn't have watched the boy he loved be swallowed by the dark mist that had suddenly appeared in the courtyard as he turned the corner, wouldn't have seen the smile he loved so much be soured by fear, and he wouldn't have heard the desperate scream that followed him in his dreams. Seven years, and the nightmares remained as vivid as ever, reminding him of what he'd lost. Reminding him of how he'd failed.

        The prince gently rubbed the ring with the thumb on the same hand, once again admiring the memorized pattern of intricate lines of carve-braided silver studded with smooth, polished citrines. The gesture imperceptible to most members of the court, and one he had fallen into often, usually whenever the subject of him finding a spouse came up in their proceedings. If the court realized how much he still clung to the past, they'd probably deem him an unfit ruler, too encumbered by trivial affairs of pesky emotions.