Schlaf, Kindlein, Schlaf

Gilbert had always considered him to be a friend, if not one of his closest. The constant teasing, the foul language, the crass demeanor he equipped and strapped on tightly when preparing himself for a conversation; it was all a result of that one part of his brain-of his heart-that told him they were close. That the younger man felt the same way towards him.

But it was only when he was down on his knees, crimson regret pouring from his uniform, pale skin paler and scarlet eyes bloodshot, did he realize that he was wrong. That behind those gemstone eyes was not denial and never had been denial, but in fact pure hatred. Oh, if only he had known; if only he could have taken all of the not-so-subtle hints hurled bitterly at him. And now he'd never have the chance to let realization finally dawn.

Oneshot.