A/N: This is not it, Anna, it's the other one.
Summary: Eiri will take him to the grave. Is this qualified enough to be a Christmas fic? (There's snow!)
Devil's Advocate
The winter cold was bitter and its wrath was strong.
As if with one lick of the wind, it could have flown away to the skies torn from the ground where it stood; it was a decaying thing. Time did nothing but add creases, vines and plants to every nook and cranny.
It wasn't a house to Yuki, but more of a dilapidated shack.
Cobwebs sprouted a many, contributed by a great number of spiders that came and go through the years. To him, they were like hanging tapestries on the wall, the only design to this dying place- in a weird, twisted way, making it look pretty.
And here in this place where he called his asylum, Yuki hugged himself, trying to keep his warmth. There was only a table eaten by termites but somehow standing still all this time. He leaned on it, first breaking off the edge that fell to the ground. However, when he tried a second time, he found it was still sturdy enough to hold his weight.
Yuki wanted to know why he couldn't just stay clear for once in his life. The gun has somehow found its way to his hands and that red hue washed the floor of this dying ground. The cancer stick, very vital to anchoring his sanity, was on his mouth. He was supposed to steer clear from his dangerous habit, Shuichi did his very best to keep him from this thing that might one day kill the writer.
But when a corpse is lying as it should be in front of you with a hole on its head, cool should be kept and the mind should be calmed.
Only the taste of nicotine could do that.
All he had on was what he always wore, the white shirt on his back. The same white shirt he had for years, the one that looked like all the white shirts he has in his clothes. The identical white tops all taken from the same store.
The material was thick enough to cover his body. The fabric was thin enough to let most of the cold get to him.
He contemplated to himself, wondering what on earth he is going to do now.
It wasn't a surprise that he didn't list 'going to the police and confessing' part of his future plans.
The rickety door was inviting a cold draft.
The writer felt like an idiot for leaving it be, but he was stationed by that table's edge and any movement was only made by his hand that took the cigarette stick out and back to his mouth.
The gun's cold steel self was lying on the floor very useless without the bullets it used to have.
Beside it was the carcass of a man that Yuki had clearly forgotten why he killed.
As he took away his hand from his face, he noticed the stains on his once white cigarette stick. His fingertips were engraved on its thin frame.
The dead body beside his feet did not stir.
He kicked it. Before the living daylight out of this corpse was run over by the blonde's bullet the 'thing' was screaming and writhing in pain. Now when Yuki make any sort of contact- by contact, slamming his foot to the carcass' chest- no response would be given.
The novelist blew smoke from his mouth; they made him think of a dancing silhouette as he played audience to the three second show. Like the person on the floor, the smoke died too.
The writer took out his cell phone and contemplated.
Yuki Eiri could lie to the world but he could never lie to Shuichi Shindou.
Before he could make a conscious decision, his phone was already pressed to his ear.
"Shuichi, I need you to listen carefully…"
(SPACE HERE)
The pink haired boy found himself pushing away slapping tree branches and kicking away snow that was on his path. He stumbled somewhere but managed to stand up even at the hard wind that was trying to push him down.
He was uncertain at why he was being told to go to the woods. But like a good dog, he followed his master.
He thought loudly, talking to the trees, about why his lover would be here of all places. The pink haired lover had a nagging feeling in his chest that an event of terrible origin has wormed its way to Yuki right now.
This was the cue that took his heart- and legs- to greater speed.
In his heart, when he received the writer's phone call to meet him here- of all places- he couldn't help but hear a sort of desperation inside the man's tone.
Yuki told him to find the shack in the middle of the woods.
His head whipped left and right as he stopped again in the middle, his pink hair running flashes in the air. There was the hooting of an owl in the other end that sent shivers down his spine. There was the snow that kept falling on his face.
The little boy ran again, his bag clinging on to his back his shoes marking each and every snow he stepped on.
"When did they fall?" he asked the snow, droplet of his own began to fall from his eyes. His form was bowing to a tree as his breath made a white appearance in the air. A hand on the bark of wood, while the other clutching his heaving chest.
"Yuki…'
And before he knew it, a covered hand found its way to his mouth. His scream was muffled as adrenalines started to run around his body, surprised at this sudden attack from behind. His hands clawed at the arm all the way panicking.
For a while he struggled, his eyes going wide until his captor said, "Stop being stupid, brat"
The voice was familiar, "Yuki…?" he found himself repeating his lover's name.
"Who else?"
And with that, Shuichi pounced on his man his arms wrapped tightly around his neck his face buried on his chest. His heart beat ran a mile and his worries lifting away.
They fell, they landed with Shuichi on top and Yuki on the bottom.
No reason could be provided as he found the tears just going down and down from his eyes.
Yuki couldn't let a rude word fall from his tongue, his throat was hoarse for one reason and he couldn't find it in himself to destroy this moment.
He forgot to wear a coat. All he had was the shirt on his back, the one stained with blood of a fresh victim.
They lie on the floor, the snow falling like heaven sent manna on their bodies. Shuichi was Yuki's warmth; the thing he needs the most right now. His arms wove themselves around his pop star as he held on tight to the little child who still cried on his chest.
His chest was wet, but that didn't really matter to him at all.
The boy could feel the smudge on his face as he lifted his head. The dropping of his tears has woken the blood alive on the white shirt of his lover, smudging his face with the red mixture. He lifted himself up a bit, but Yuki's arms were too strong and they held on to him tight, no moment of letting go no chance of him getting away.
As he looked at the tiny blood stains on Shuichi's innocent face, he let a hand go to that tainted cheek of his lover.
With that Shuichi began to sit up, straddling Yuki's hips this way.
The boy held to that fragile hand, the one caressing his face. His tears pouring freely from this emotion called love, "No matter what… No matter what, Yuki, I'll keep you safe from whatever harm. I'll make sure no one will hurt you…
"I'll even wash the blood off your hands" he whispered, as he realized to himself what Yuki has done. There was no need to witness the corpse. There was no need to look at the gun. There was no importance to the blood that tainted him and his lover's skin.
"I'll wash the blood off your hands, Yuki; I'll never let them get you"
The blond writer rose a bit from the snow, bits clinging to his hair others dangling by the back of his shirt. His face never changing its emotion, as he tried his best to lean closer to the other's face.
His lips were colder than Shuichi's; he had been in the wintry for a very long while. From the boy's cheek, his hand traveled to the other's neck and his elbow was hooked behind the singer's neck. The blond pulled the younger one to the ground.
Yuki will one day take Shuichi to the grave.
The dead kept sleeping.
The snow kept falling.
And falling
And falling