Deny that it's Denial
Summary: char can’t believe it, refuses to believe it, does everything within his power to push it from his mind. Garma Zabi is weak, pathetic, baselessly arrogant, and worst of all, Garma Zabi is undeniably cute.
There’s some kind of suffocating knowledge that makes itself known behind the carefully constructed facade he’d made for himself- not something that shows on his face, or in his body language, but something that makes itself known in his mind where it is impossible to cast out. The feeling worms its way into whatever feelings and emotions he has left in him to feel. It aches, nearly hurts, this constant feeling, this dull sensation that is so preposterously obvious to him that his mind goes in circles trying to think of something else, some other reason, some other way out. Anything to make it stop.
There’s a fondness there, dull and unsharpened and cast out of the light, locked away in the darkest corner of his mind where he never allows it to breathe. An overwhelming fondness for the nervous little smile, the dark eyes, the trembling fingers. It should be disgusting- and it is disgusting. These adorable little signs of a pampered life and an undeniable inferiority. How weak. How pathetic. How utterly unbecoming of someone who sits atop a throne of lies and deception and countless bodies piled up in the name of the bloodline Zabi.
It was just like a Zabi heir to be so detestable; so stuck up and spoiled and smug. When Garma gets an answer right in class -no matter how simple- he sits back with the assurance that he is exceptional. When he outpaces even the slowest of their classmates on the track, Garma beams as if he’s the fastest man alive. Truly, Garma is a spoiled prince who has no clue how underwhelming his accomplishments are. The only thing of note Garma has even done was be born a Zabi.
Garma Zabi is sitting at his desk, scribbling down notes diligently as Char reads aloud from a leather bound textbook. It’s casual, familiar, friendly- if you could call it that when something so evil runs rampant in his mind. Char’s fingers burn on the pages with the desire to touch Garma’s hair and brush back the strands that have fallen into his face. He grips the pages of the book tighter, and tighter still until his knuckles turn white. What is wrong with him?
Where had this fondness come from? When had he become so soft towards garma? Everything was so simple when he’d met garma; revenge had been the only thing on his mind, so straightforward and simple. He hadn't even noticed this change in himself, so small and subtle overtime that it had snuck up on him.
It’s disgusting, that’s what it is. And Garma doesn’t even notice, doesn't even consider that something might be off, that something might be wrong. Char is wound so tight that he could burst a blood vessel and garma is none the wiser; so content in his routine of comfort and closeness. Sitting here in their shared dorm, studying, talking idly about things that never really mattered.
Char closes the book in his hand, standing up from his bed to cross the room and stand over him. Garma smiles up at him, sighing out a little breath of relief at the break from the studying. Garma isn’t a bad student, not really, but he certainly doesn’t excel as Char does without even trying, and the relief that washes over garma now is proof of that. Garma is less than him. It’s the only thing Char can take comfort in right now, when his hands nearly twitch with the desire to reach out and touch Garma.
Char has thought of nothing but wiping out the Zabi family- nothing but painting the walls with their blood and burning their home to the ground, grinding their family name to dust and rubble. The thought is all that keeps him warm at night, all that keeps him pressing endlessly forward. That’s what he wants to think of- nothing else. Nothing else. He can’t afford to think of things like-
Garma is cute when he smiles. He’s cute all the time- and Char wants to believe it’s in the kicked-puppy way, in the helpless-and-useless kind of way. But that’s only half true. Because the truth is Garma is cute in a way that makes Char want him- and that thought alone is so miserable and horrible he can’t believe he’d thought it. That garma- for all of his childish fits, and his pathetic nerves, and his arrogant predisposition that the world is at his disposal- is cute, attractive even.
It’s absurd that the first thing char notices when he stands next to garma now is the way Garma’s eyes light up at the sight of him, not quite blushing at the closeness between them, but Char is certain he would if he came any closer. Garma was pathetic like that. And worse, is that Char likes it; and not in a satisfied, high-and-mighty sort of way. In the sort of way that made him want to push garma’s bangs away from his face so he could see him better in the lamplight. In the way that made Char kind of like flustering garma, not just to see him stutter and stammer, though those things remained appealing in their own right.
Garma’s voice breaks through the quiet of the room, “Are you alright, Char? You seem out of it." His voice is only a bit worried, mostly casual and calm, if a little bit tired. It was late, the sun had set hours ago, and if they weren’t in bed soon, they’d be unable to get enough rest before class tomorrow.
Char almost laughs. “Do I? You’re the one who could barely keep pen to paper, half asleep." Garma had been taking notes, but his note taking had noticeably slowed, and had become slightly less thorough as weariness began to take hold. For once, Char doesn’t blame him for that. Garma takes offense to that slightly, Char can tell that he wants to insist that he’s not tired, that he could study for hours more, but the yawn that rears its head in that moment says otherwise. He relents, admitting that it was a bit late. Cute; insufferably cute.
It’s laughable to say that he has settled into a comfortable routine with Garma Zabi. That they take turns using the bathroom to wash up before bed, that they have specified drawers in the bedside table for each of their things, that when Garma turns off the light the sounds of his steps on the wooden floor before he curls up in bed are familiar as well. In fact, Char is now certain he would notice if those footsteps weren’t to be there. He’s certain he would notice if Garma was gone.
“Goodnight, Char.” Garma calls out sleepily, only half expecting an answer. Char had laughed the first time Garma had turned in with such a childish sentiment. It seemed like the kind of thing his mother would have made sure to say, or Artesia. Coming from Garma it had felt suffocatingly affectionate. He had hated it at the time. It had taken him a short while to get used to saying it back. He used to be convinced he only said it back to be polite.
“Goodnight, Garma.” He knows he won’t be able to sleep, but he doesn’t want to intrude on Garma's sleep. Garma is the frail type, and if he misses his sleep it’ll affect him the whole day. Char fares a lot better, He’s had to.
And now, with the troubling thoughts racing in his head, sleep has become hard to come by once again. It’d been almost a week since char had noticed the way garma had snuck up on him. Had he done this on purpose? Sly and stealthy in his attempt to weasel his way into CHar’s mind? But of course not; Garma was neither so clever nor so sneaky. This must just be Garma then, the natural charm their classmates said he had. Char hadn’t believed it. Garma was pathetic. Garma was weak. Garma was a crybaby and he was a coward and he was going to die as soon as he saw real combat, and Char was going to make sure of that.
For now though, all he could do was lay awake with this horrible aching feeling that he was in too deep, that he was drowning, and that there was nothing he could do. It’s pitiful, that even he could be affected by such trivial things as a sweet voice and a soft laugh and the way Garma is so obnoxiously -attractively- sweet towards him. It makes him sick to think about it. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.
He’s in love with Garma Zabi.
