Blind Hindsight
Disclaimer: Kyou Kara Maou is the property of creator Tomo Takabayashi and licensor Geneon Entertainment, Inc.
Warnings: This fanfiction contains elements that might not be appropriate for all readers, such as incest themes. If you don't like that or this fic is not appropriate for you, please don't read it.
Credit to spkathrine (aka Split Persona) for the Title, Summary, and Prompt.
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It was Gwendal's policy to arrange things neatly in his mind, particularly memories of the past. It kept things clear and uncomplicated, exactly as he preferred. That, he told himself, was the difference between nostalgia and reflection. Nostalgia was a wistful, longing emotion, one that pined for a sepia-toned past where everything was easier – it was a weakness. Reflection was cleaner; no distortions, no regret.
He only knew those two ways to think of the past, and he had never considered any other.
But what, then, was he to do with these thoughts that he carried, memories that flowed freely though his mind, unyielding and cumbersome? For a long time, Gwendal had tried to push them away, unsuccessfully; it was impossible, he found, to simplify something that was anything but. When it came to Wolfram, everything was entangled in a convoluted mass. He tried to tell himself that it was most decidedly not nostalgia, but in those moments between wake and sleep, he knew that it was too palpable to be a mere reflection.
When his distraction became so consuming that it began to effect his duties, Gwendal begrudgingly considered his situation. Nostalgia, reflection... neither truly fit. It was flashes of images and sensations, small pieces of the whole that stood out to him now, and Gwendal could not decide whether the years had played tricks on his mind. The scent of a burning candle – familiar, common – yet in his memory, it was clinging to his skin, hot and heady and so real that it couldn't be simply imagined. The brush of soft blond hair against his chin could have been one of many memories from long ago, and yet it sent a slight shiver down his body in a way that told Gwendal that the mood had been far from innocent when it was formed. The taste of his youngest brother's sweat, dancing on his tongue and dragging a moan from deep in his throat...
Could memories that vivid truly exist?
The intensity of those images only sharpened the contrast with the rest of Gwendal's memories, which were so clouded and unfocused that nothing made sense. The first time Wolfram came to him; only a child, perplexed and curious, it would have been clumsy, graceless - but in his memory, he only felt gratitude.
"Brother,"
Wolfram gasped, his breathless voice singing in Gwendal's ears. He
thrust upwards against Gwendal's body - Wolfram felt so small, so
fragile, and yet he was perfect beneath Gwendal, writhing and moaning
and wanting whatever Gwendal would give him. "I - I don't..."
Gwendal issued a silencing hush against his brother's chest.
He was so
Years later, when Yuuri left, Wolfram's touch felt new again - they hadn't touched since the engagement, but in Gwendal's memory they had never been apart. Wolfram thought differently, Gwendal knew, as Wolfram looked at him with typical stubborn determination; resolve to move forward. It was relief and pain all at once. Gwendal was rarely impulsive, but as long as the misery in Wolfram's eyes was buried under his heat, desperation won out over judgment.
Gwendal
felt a jolt move through his arms as Wolfram's back hit the wall
hard. Wolfram sneered against Gwendal's ear; he was always unhappy
with being pushed against the wall or onto the bed, but never so much
that he argued. At least, not before. "I don't need
anyone." Wolfram's voice was raspy, insistent. He closed his
teeth on the skin of Gwendal's neck, his lips and tongue moving hard
against Gwendal as the rough kisses moved across his collarbone, and
down... Gwendal could only press his forehead against the wall
as Wolfram tore at the fastenings on his jacket, not knowing whether
Wolfram took his silence for agreement.
After that, there was only a long period of haze. When he tried to remember, Gwendal felt like he was floating, unable to say whether he was devoid of weakness or brimming with it. And then the thought that followed unfailingly, demanding acknowledgment: images distinct enough to be reality, and feelings so potent that they were certainly false.
Wolfram pulled
Gwendal closer, his fingers digging into Gwendal's shoulders. Hot
breath against his neck made Gwendal picture his brother's face:
flushed, tensed and glowing with perspiration. He had never actually
looked. "Slow," Wolfram whispered, his voice soft
and low. "Slower." Gwendal paused fleetingly,
telling himself that he should consider what that meant, but not
truly caring. He would reduce the flame to embers and let it smolder
all night, if Wolfram wanted it. The thought made him groan as a wave
of lust shot through him. Gwendal began to move again, long and slow,
trying to focus on the smell of Wolfram's hair and the feel of his
heartbeat, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the world, its
constraints, and its comforts.
That was the last time, the final memory. When Wolfram had changed from a desire into a need, Gwendal had put a stop to it. If he had only known, then, that stopping would make his mind so thick with these nameless, maddening phantasms, he mightn't have.
It was odd that the only place Gwendal felt alive were within these nonsensical, unwanted memories. They were all that remained of a time he had forgotten, or wanted to forget.
End
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Thanks to Parsnipchan for the amazing Beta job.
Comments and concrit are very much appreciated.