A/N: This is probably the most depressing fanfic I've ever written...I blame it on the fact that I was listening to Wish and Sadness from Tales of the Abyss when I wrote it.

Auto-correct is a bitch sometimes.

Also, thanks, SquallAce, for pointing out an error.

His son was torn, he knew that much.

He would watch from afar as the formerly closed space between the three grew increasingly larger. Where hands once carelessly brushed, fingers grasped at empty space. The chasm grew, that much more every day, and by the end of the year their eyes scarcely met. They never talked, now, except on missions when Kid would yell, "Liz, Patty!" and his weapons responded, "Right!" That was the only time they physically touched, too, when the twin pistols took on their true forms, and then it was all over, they returned wordlessly to their human forms, one at a time, and helped the other store the souls safely in their magazines. They wouldn't even allow Kid to help with that.

His son was hurt, he knew that, too.

Golden eyes were filled with pain. He wouldn't show it, though. His stride remained proud and brisk, his posture perfect, not a break in the rhythm of his footsteps. His voice was always calm, even. He never missed a beat, never missed a comeback. His breaths were always perfectly timed, too. Nobody could have guessed that he was fighting back tears, constantly assaulted by a torrent of emotions, drowning in a sea of sorrows.

Lord Death knew. He knew, but he couldn't help.

Things would get better, he had whispered one night, when Kid had entered his room in tears. It would all be okay, he had insisted as he held his son's broken, sobbing form. Time would heal all, he had assured, as he fixed Kid's messy, lopsided clothes and gently patted his trembling shoulders. Things happened for a reason, he told himself as weeks without sleep took their toll on Kid, and every night he cried in his father's arms until he finally passed out.

Things didn't get better.

Time didn't heal all. It reopened old wounds, filled them with dirt and grime and slowly infected them. It ripped and sliced and punched and kicked. Fall passed, then winter, and his son's pain was obvious. He barely ate, only enough to just get by. His clothes hung lamely on his thin, scrawny frame. His eyes were always shadowed and red, and only half-open, half-focused, as though it pained him to open them. He shied away from light, he narrowed his eyes and stared off into the distance. He was rarely in class, either. His days were spent in the library, going through stacks of books at a time, and as weeks passed, it was a wonder that he hadn't read every book in the school. His eyesight was poor. He squinted at text, now, and held books at a distance.

Liz and Patty grew slowly impatient. Just like the gap between once touching fingers, their anger grew. Kid's struggles insulted them. They were right there, right in front of him, and he hadn't said a word. For three years, he hadn't made a move. It wasn't like he had anyone else to run to. He was straight, after all, and by now the only girls left, the only girls who hadn't been snatched away by those stupid, brick-headed boys, were the Thompsons, Crona, if Crona was even a girl, because as Patty pointed out, it was hard to tell, and Pot of Thunder. Thunder, clearly, was too young, and Crona, if Crona was even a girl, was too timid. There was no reason, the twin pistols mutually agreed, why he had sat by and done nothing, while there were two beautiful girls at his side, slowly wilting, slowly dying inwardly, and slowly losing their inner beauty.

He couldn't choose.

Liz and Patty were his partners, his equals. Nothing more, nothing less. This way, there was balance. He thought of both girls fondly, didn't respect one more than the other. If he regarded one as superior, the balance would be crushed, and so would his heart. A heart, kokoro, was a horrid thing to crush. Even more so than perfection, it was delicate, like a rose, or a glass sculpture. A heart. A soul. A spirit. It was a magnificent specimen. Like a swallowtail butterfly's wings, or a peacock feather. Such beauty was not to be destroyed.

But some things just could not be avoided.

Lord Death was there when the growing tension had finally snapped. It was a dark, stormy night, fit for heartbreak and sorrow. Liz had been the one to confront Kid. Anger had flashed in her clear, usually relaxed blue eyes. The past few weeks, the ones leading up to the incident, had been uncomfortable and lonely for Kid, as his father saw it. Every time he approached one of the pistols, the answer was always the same. "I'm seeing Crona today. Sorry, Kid," from Patty, and "I'm busy, Kid. Whatever you wanted can wait 'til tomorrow," from Liz.

"Honestly, Kid!" her voice was filled with hurt. "It's been three years! I don't understand you at all. Neither does Patty."

"What are you going on about, Elizabeth?" Kid said at last, folding his arms across his chest and meeting her forlorn glare evenly.

"You know what I'm talking about!" Liz was close to tears now. "Kid, open your eyes! We're right here! We were alone until we met you. And now...we're alone again."

"You aren't alone, Liz." Kid allowed his tone to soften. "I'm right here."

"And so am I, Kid!" Liz shouted. "So is Patty...we've been here. Waiting. But you never noticed."

"Of course I noticed the two of you, I-"

"Then why haven't you so much as kissed either of us?" tears streamed down Liz's face. "You had two beautiful girls by your side, and you never once even glanced their way. Why, Kid? I hate you!"

"Because...because I couldn't choose!" Kid blurted out. "I love you, and I love Patty...I couldn't pick...please, Liz."

"You idiot..." Liz whispered. Without warning, she slapped her meister across the right cheek, then, with an apologetic whimper, the left, so that at least his pain would be symmetrical. "You didn't have to choose...we both loved you...but there's nothing left now!"

"Liz, I...I'm sorry." Kid offered lamely, glaring at the ground, fighting back tears.

"I'm going for a walk, Kid." Liz whispered, turning and walking out. The door slammed loudly behind her.

Those were the last words Liz ever said to him.

Kid stood over the kitchen sink, leaning heavily on the counter top as though he didn't trust his own legs not to give out under him. His tears fell freely, now, his nose running like that of an ill child. The shinigami gritted his teeth in annoyance. The tears on the left side of his face seemed to fall half as quickly as the ones on the right, but the tears on the right fell randomly whilst those on the left followed a specific pattern. His stomach churned, sending sharp pains up his gut. He wanted to vomit, but there was nothing for his stomach to void itself of. He choked and sobbed for a minute, then straightened up.

His eyes fell on the knife drawer.

Such a magnificent knife. Shiny and completely spotless. If it pierced his skin, he wondered, would it hurt? No, he decided. It wouldn't. He was already in pain. Nothing could hurt him any more than he had already hurt himself. The tears fell, now, in perfect rhythm. Quickly, non-stop, down both sides of his face.

"Dammit, why!?" he screamed, shutting his yellow eyes...

He was right. It didn't hurt. A single, clean slash on his belly. It was a beautiful wound. It bled furiously, perfectly, lapping away at his pale skin, like red paint on snow...

The knife hit the floor. It was no longer shiny, Kid noted with his final breath. It was stained, impure. It was a scourge on all knives.

It, like he, was no longer spotless.