Die bunny, die! Why won't you DIE????
Title: Revellations
Fandom: Weiß Kreuz Glühen/ Kyou Kara Maou
Warnings: yaoi, ANGST, hurts like a kick in the gut
Characters/couples: Mamoru (Omi)/ Yuuri
Rating: PG
Notes: I have nothing to say to this ;_; This was supposed to be happy! Damned bunny. Of course you perverted it!
Revellations
When the doorbell rings that night, he doesn't quite know what to expect.
He hasn't heard from Mamoru since Hoshi was admitted to the hospital, has been wondering if he's finally grown tired of him, but there he is, face dimy lit by the single bulb beside the door. What of his face isn't obscureed by shadows is unearthly pale underneath his shock of dark hair.
“I know it's unfair....” His voice is defeated, and where Mamoru's tone at least keeps the pretense of Omi's cheerfullness and good nature, this one is totally barren, so completely devoid of life that Yuuri is unsure whether he can attribute it to either of them. Eyes that are usually unafraid to meet anyone's are still turned towards the doormat. With a nod of the head, he guestures towards the short corridor behind Yuuri. “Can I ....?”
A request?
For a moment, he's so baffled he can merely stand in the doorway as if he had been turned to stone. He's not used to Mamoru asking honestly like that. Usually Mamoru will demand or manipulate him in such away that he almost believes it was his idea to give him whatever he wants.
“Yuuri, please....” he says in the quietest of murmurs.
He doesn't know why, but suddenly he's moving, letting Mamoru into the house, leading him into the small living room. For some reason, Mamoru not only looks out of place here as he usually does in his expensive clothes and shoes, but lost, as if the room has suddenly turned into one of those vast hotel suites he seems to like.
And still Yuuri hasn't made a sound. Not that he could think of anything to say, even if he found the voice to. Mamoru is a complete blank to him. He knows nothing of his life. Personal details are a taboo, always have been since this whole affair began. It's odd how Yuuri could name Omi's favourite movies, knows his favourite chocolate flavour (something as obscure as dark chocolate with strawberry and pepper center), knows how Omi has this weird habit of blowing on ice-cream if it's still too cold to eat. But, Yuuri finds, he doesn't have the slightest idea of what could shake Mamoru like this.
“I...” Mamoru starts, standing in the middle of the room, eyes moving uneasily from one furniture item to the other, as if Yuuri's personal belongings make him nervous. “I didn't know who else to go to.”
First a request, now an appology? some cynical part of Yuuri's brain comments. His body merely nods.
“No one's supposed to know.” Gaze cast to the floor again, Mamoru hangs his shoulders. Never before has he seemed so small. Powerless, that's probably the last quality Yuuri would have considered to describe Takatori Mamoru. Whatever he does, he is always in control - until now. “There's noone I can talk to,” he adds.
Rooted to his place near the door, Yuuri is still immobile, reduced to the role of an observer of this strange spectacle. A dog barks somewhere in the distance and the cats shift lazily in their corner of the couch, the scratching of their claws unnaturally loud in the silence.
“Aya-kun....” Mamoru's voice is toneless. “I couldn't protect him.”
Only now does Yuuri notice the way his hands are clenched into fists at his side.
“No matter what I do....” His hands tremble and his voice is ready to betray him by falling silent mid-sentence, but he clears his throat. “It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what I do. A kid with a knife, that's all it takes.”
Mamoru isn't crying, a bitter laugh is all he can muster. It takes a skilled observer to even spot the shudder in his shoulders.
“Everything ... it's no use. Plans, decisions... they don't matter. If I make the wrong ones people die. And if I make the right ones they die anyway.”
It starts small: The trembles running down Mamoru's spine spread until they shake his entire body, breaths coming in strangled sobs, and then his knees give way, until he collapses onto the living room floor.
Mamoru breaks down, finally crying tears that have been withheld for years.
It takes Yuuri whole minutes - a miniature eternity - to move. What he hopes to accomplish he's not sure, but he wraps his arms around Mamoru's trembling body, gingerly at first as if he's forgotten how to do it or afraid Mamoru's skin is about to scald him on contact. But when the other clings to his shirt, so complete in his desperation, Yuuri tightens his grasp.
***
Mamoru is asleep in his bed, wearing one of Yuuri's old pyjamas. They fit him a lot better than in the past. Since then, Yuuri has become a lot thinner, so they almost have the same clothes size, merely the sleeves are so long that his hands almost disappear and give him a lost, almost childlike appearance.
Rolled onto his side, one hand resting open beside his face, with unkempt hair falling into his eyes Mamoru looks vulerable in a way Yuuri would never have expected to see him again.
He has his back turned on the still half full mug of tea on the bedside table, from which whisps of see-through steam are lazily curling towards the ceiling and Yuuri spends a few moments watching the whirls of air and heat, because quite honestly it's easier than looking upon the seemingly innocent face he hasn't seen in years.
The last time he witnessed the sight, Mamoru was still Omi, but the same sad expression already played around his mouth, even in his sleep. No matter how much they tried to deny it, the unasked questions when Omi left in the middle of the night, often returning only after the sun began to rise weighed heavily on their relationship. They both knew things were coming to an end, even if neither had the courage to admit it. And one morning Omi left for good.
Taking a deep breath that does nothing to take away the dull ache in his throat, Yuuri finally moves to the wardrobe.
A pair of pyjamas for himself are easily picked. Yuuri hates the damn things, they're uncomfortable and scratchy and far too warm, all reasons why they usually spend their time banned to the very back of the shelf, worn only when he goes on camping trips with the kids or when he's forgotten to do his laundry again.
Now they seem strangely fitting. The green stripes clash horribly with the powder blue material of Mamoru's current sleepware.
He casts a furtive glance to the form of Mamoru buried deep under the sheets, before he shrugs out of his sweater and leaves it over the back of an old chair, quickly pulling on the pyjama-top without even opening the buttons. Only when he repeats the procedure with his jeans and pyjama pants, does a bitter snort of realization escape him. There's no inch of him that Omi hasn't seen, hasn't kissed, no stretch of skin that Mamoru hasn't claimed. It's a little late for modesty.
Yuuri has no intention of spending the night in his own bed, the thought of hearing Mamoru's breathing so nearby ... no, that scenario has replayed itsself in his dreams too many times for him to voluntarily repeat it. So he shakes his head and extends a hand to grasp the alarmclock on the nightstand.
However he stops in mid-move as the slightest move from the figure on the bed draws his attention.
Mamoru shivers in his sleep, even if it's a mild evening, summer not quite there yet, but already promising long sunny days. And yet Mamoru shudders despite the covers draped over him.
Almost involuntarily Yuuri returns the closet, retrieving an old blanket from the top shelf. Time hasn't been kind to it; the cats' claws have torn deeply into the cheap material and Yuuri's clumbsy attemps at mending it are only too obvious, while food stains and moth holes do nothing to make it any more presentable.
And still, it holds fond memories of curling up underneath it infront of the TV, of cuddling close when the bed seemed just too far away.
Stepping beside the bedwith a melancholic smile, Yuuri carefully spreads the blanket over the other's man's sleeping form.
Just then Mamoru draws a deep breath, a single tear slipping from the corner of his eye. It clings to his eyelashes, quivering, before the tiny droplet rolls over the bridge of his nose with perfect slowness; a brief silver glitter before it drops onto the pillow with a tiny wet stain as it's sole proof of existance. No others follow it.
Mamoru's voice is barely more than a whimper, slurry, desolate and endlessly sad.
“I'm so sorry, Yuuri.”
It's not so much his name that jerks him out of his daze, has him all but fleeing the room it's that tone he can't take right now, that has his throat so painfully tight.
Moments after the door has shut, Mamoru's lips part again, but his words remain unheard.
“I love you.”
Fandom: Weiß Kreuz Glühen/ Kyou Kara Maou
Warnings: yaoi, ANGST, hurts like a kick in the gut
Characters/couples: Mamoru (Omi)/ Yuuri
Rating: PG
Notes: I have nothing to say to this ;_; This was supposed to be happy! Damned bunny. Of course you perverted it!
Revellations
When the doorbell rings that night, he doesn't quite know what to expect.
He hasn't heard from Mamoru since Hoshi was admitted to the hospital, has been wondering if he's finally grown tired of him, but there he is, face dimy lit by the single bulb beside the door. What of his face isn't obscureed by shadows is unearthly pale underneath his shock of dark hair.
“I know it's unfair....” His voice is defeated, and where Mamoru's tone at least keeps the pretense of Omi's cheerfullness and good nature, this one is totally barren, so completely devoid of life that Yuuri is unsure whether he can attribute it to either of them. Eyes that are usually unafraid to meet anyone's are still turned towards the doormat. With a nod of the head, he guestures towards the short corridor behind Yuuri. “Can I ....?”
A request?
For a moment, he's so baffled he can merely stand in the doorway as if he had been turned to stone. He's not used to Mamoru asking honestly like that. Usually Mamoru will demand or manipulate him in such away that he almost believes it was his idea to give him whatever he wants.
“Yuuri, please....” he says in the quietest of murmurs.
He doesn't know why, but suddenly he's moving, letting Mamoru into the house, leading him into the small living room. For some reason, Mamoru not only looks out of place here as he usually does in his expensive clothes and shoes, but lost, as if the room has suddenly turned into one of those vast hotel suites he seems to like.
And still Yuuri hasn't made a sound. Not that he could think of anything to say, even if he found the voice to. Mamoru is a complete blank to him. He knows nothing of his life. Personal details are a taboo, always have been since this whole affair began. It's odd how Yuuri could name Omi's favourite movies, knows his favourite chocolate flavour (something as obscure as dark chocolate with strawberry and pepper center), knows how Omi has this weird habit of blowing on ice-cream if it's still too cold to eat. But, Yuuri finds, he doesn't have the slightest idea of what could shake Mamoru like this.
“I...” Mamoru starts, standing in the middle of the room, eyes moving uneasily from one furniture item to the other, as if Yuuri's personal belongings make him nervous. “I didn't know who else to go to.”
First a request, now an appology? some cynical part of Yuuri's brain comments. His body merely nods.
“No one's supposed to know.” Gaze cast to the floor again, Mamoru hangs his shoulders. Never before has he seemed so small. Powerless, that's probably the last quality Yuuri would have considered to describe Takatori Mamoru. Whatever he does, he is always in control - until now. “There's noone I can talk to,” he adds.
Rooted to his place near the door, Yuuri is still immobile, reduced to the role of an observer of this strange spectacle. A dog barks somewhere in the distance and the cats shift lazily in their corner of the couch, the scratching of their claws unnaturally loud in the silence.
“Aya-kun....” Mamoru's voice is toneless. “I couldn't protect him.”
Only now does Yuuri notice the way his hands are clenched into fists at his side.
“No matter what I do....” His hands tremble and his voice is ready to betray him by falling silent mid-sentence, but he clears his throat. “It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what I do. A kid with a knife, that's all it takes.”
Mamoru isn't crying, a bitter laugh is all he can muster. It takes a skilled observer to even spot the shudder in his shoulders.
“Everything ... it's no use. Plans, decisions... they don't matter. If I make the wrong ones people die. And if I make the right ones they die anyway.”
It starts small: The trembles running down Mamoru's spine spread until they shake his entire body, breaths coming in strangled sobs, and then his knees give way, until he collapses onto the living room floor.
Mamoru breaks down, finally crying tears that have been withheld for years.
It takes Yuuri whole minutes - a miniature eternity - to move. What he hopes to accomplish he's not sure, but he wraps his arms around Mamoru's trembling body, gingerly at first as if he's forgotten how to do it or afraid Mamoru's skin is about to scald him on contact. But when the other clings to his shirt, so complete in his desperation, Yuuri tightens his grasp.
***
Mamoru is asleep in his bed, wearing one of Yuuri's old pyjamas. They fit him a lot better than in the past. Since then, Yuuri has become a lot thinner, so they almost have the same clothes size, merely the sleeves are so long that his hands almost disappear and give him a lost, almost childlike appearance.
Rolled onto his side, one hand resting open beside his face, with unkempt hair falling into his eyes Mamoru looks vulerable in a way Yuuri would never have expected to see him again.
He has his back turned on the still half full mug of tea on the bedside table, from which whisps of see-through steam are lazily curling towards the ceiling and Yuuri spends a few moments watching the whirls of air and heat, because quite honestly it's easier than looking upon the seemingly innocent face he hasn't seen in years.
The last time he witnessed the sight, Mamoru was still Omi, but the same sad expression already played around his mouth, even in his sleep. No matter how much they tried to deny it, the unasked questions when Omi left in the middle of the night, often returning only after the sun began to rise weighed heavily on their relationship. They both knew things were coming to an end, even if neither had the courage to admit it. And one morning Omi left for good.
Taking a deep breath that does nothing to take away the dull ache in his throat, Yuuri finally moves to the wardrobe.
A pair of pyjamas for himself are easily picked. Yuuri hates the damn things, they're uncomfortable and scratchy and far too warm, all reasons why they usually spend their time banned to the very back of the shelf, worn only when he goes on camping trips with the kids or when he's forgotten to do his laundry again.
Now they seem strangely fitting. The green stripes clash horribly with the powder blue material of Mamoru's current sleepware.
He casts a furtive glance to the form of Mamoru buried deep under the sheets, before he shrugs out of his sweater and leaves it over the back of an old chair, quickly pulling on the pyjama-top without even opening the buttons. Only when he repeats the procedure with his jeans and pyjama pants, does a bitter snort of realization escape him. There's no inch of him that Omi hasn't seen, hasn't kissed, no stretch of skin that Mamoru hasn't claimed. It's a little late for modesty.
Yuuri has no intention of spending the night in his own bed, the thought of hearing Mamoru's breathing so nearby ... no, that scenario has replayed itsself in his dreams too many times for him to voluntarily repeat it. So he shakes his head and extends a hand to grasp the alarmclock on the nightstand.
However he stops in mid-move as the slightest move from the figure on the bed draws his attention.
Mamoru shivers in his sleep, even if it's a mild evening, summer not quite there yet, but already promising long sunny days. And yet Mamoru shudders despite the covers draped over him.
Almost involuntarily Yuuri returns the closet, retrieving an old blanket from the top shelf. Time hasn't been kind to it; the cats' claws have torn deeply into the cheap material and Yuuri's clumbsy attemps at mending it are only too obvious, while food stains and moth holes do nothing to make it any more presentable.
And still, it holds fond memories of curling up underneath it infront of the TV, of cuddling close when the bed seemed just too far away.
Stepping beside the bedwith a melancholic smile, Yuuri carefully spreads the blanket over the other's man's sleeping form.
Just then Mamoru draws a deep breath, a single tear slipping from the corner of his eye. It clings to his eyelashes, quivering, before the tiny droplet rolls over the bridge of his nose with perfect slowness; a brief silver glitter before it drops onto the pillow with a tiny wet stain as it's sole proof of existance. No others follow it.
Mamoru's voice is barely more than a whimper, slurry, desolate and endlessly sad.
“I'm so sorry, Yuuri.”
It's not so much his name that jerks him out of his daze, has him all but fleeing the room it's that tone he can't take right now, that has his throat so painfully tight.
Moments after the door has shut, Mamoru's lips part again, but his words remain unheard.
“I love you.”