I totally just wanted to show off this irrelevant icon.
She doesn’t remember.
She sits there on his bed, wearing his t-shirt, holding the plushie, slowly gnawing away at the pizza, and she doesn’t remember. She simply tells him that the shirt is comfortable and leaves yet again a slice of pizza for him.
He brings her to the Black Knights’ base, to that abandoned warehouse where they made their contract, to the rooftop where they rebound their contract, and she doesn’t remember. She only tugs at his sleeve and asks him to explain the modern wonders of the world to her.
He tells himself it takes time. Time and patience. She will remember eventually. She should remember eventually.
But in the meantime, it’s sickening.
Hearing her voice being abused with all the wrong inflections and tones.
Following her eyes that are sparkling in all the wrong ways for all the wrong reasons.
Watching her body move with all the wrong steps and gestures.
He can barely stand it. Why can’t she speak properly, why can’t she smile properly, why can’t she stand properly?
Because she’s not C.C., of course. She won’t be for hundreds of years. Even if she has her voice and her face and her body, she isn’t C.C. because she doesn’t have her memories.
And that’s what he loves. He loves her in all of her tainted glory, her hands covered in blood and her memories in the evil of man. Even if it means he doesn’t love her for herself, even if that’s not who she really is. Because to him, only that is his accomplices, a word that means so much more to the two of them than the rest of the world. Because to him, only that is C.C.
Without memories, the girl that kneels before him is just an empty shell of a woman, clay waiting to be molded by the torture of eternity.
Without memories, C.C. is dead.
Her wish, he supposes bitterly, has been fulfilled.
She sits there on his bed, wearing his t-shirt, holding the plushie, slowly gnawing away at the pizza, and she doesn’t remember. She simply tells him that the shirt is comfortable and leaves yet again a slice of pizza for him.
He brings her to the Black Knights’ base, to that abandoned warehouse where they made their contract, to the rooftop where they rebound their contract, and she doesn’t remember. She only tugs at his sleeve and asks him to explain the modern wonders of the world to her.
He tells himself it takes time. Time and patience. She will remember eventually. She should remember eventually.
But in the meantime, it’s sickening.
Hearing her voice being abused with all the wrong inflections and tones.
Following her eyes that are sparkling in all the wrong ways for all the wrong reasons.
Watching her body move with all the wrong steps and gestures.
He can barely stand it. Why can’t she speak properly, why can’t she smile properly, why can’t she stand properly?
Because she’s not C.C., of course. She won’t be for hundreds of years. Even if she has her voice and her face and her body, she isn’t C.C. because she doesn’t have her memories.
And that’s what he loves. He loves her in all of her tainted glory, her hands covered in blood and her memories in the evil of man. Even if it means he doesn’t love her for herself, even if that’s not who she really is. Because to him, only that is his accomplices, a word that means so much more to the two of them than the rest of the world. Because to him, only that is C.C.
Without memories, the girl that kneels before him is just an empty shell of a woman, clay waiting to be molded by the torture of eternity.
Without memories, C.C. is dead.
Her wish, he supposes bitterly, has been fulfilled.