Canon: Remove if not applicable.He is a prince, once.
He is a teacher, once.
He is a history buff, once.
He is a history buff, twice.
He loved a man he couldn’t have, once.
He loved a man he never wants to lose, once.
He loses two legs and an arm, once.
He sits up in bed, so many times.
He remembers, so many times.
It’s always sudden, it’s always painful.
The bed is almost always empty of another person’s warmth.
When there is, it’s almost always the wrong warmth.
When he wakes up and clutches to his arm, curls over his bent legs, the pain isn’t real, but it feels like it.
When there is someone there, he eventually lets go of himself, slips close to the other person, asks them to fuck him.
Sometimes they oblige, sometimes they don’t.
It’s always the wrong person.
There is never the sight that he wants to see, never a mane of red hair, never intelligent eyes, never a big muscular body.
At least not the right muscular body.
He longs, he craves, he wants, he wants so badly that his soul aches, his soul cries out.
It’s never the right person, and he convinces himself to make due.