Wind flutters at your feet, leaves long dead flying past you as you kneel down. Your hands gripped a little too tightly at the sides of the small bouquet of flowers you'd made, thin paper crunching as you smooth it out in an attempt to make it presentable again.
You give up with a sigh and resign yourself, solidify your features. There's no need to be nervous now.
You place the small bed of flowers down in front of his grave. Red roses, a few lilies. Nothing too extravagant. But thought went into every one you picked, and you'd spent more time doing just that than you'd like to admit; you were sure the workers at the store would have asked if you'd needed help if it wasn't for the scowl you'd put on your face.
You stare at it all for a moment. The white paper, loosely held together with tape, fluttered gently on the small bed of smoothed out soil in front of you. It looked as if it would fly away any moment, were it not for the flowers.
You dig the stems into the snow just in case, and you can't help but admire how the red and pale yellow stand out against the cold, lifeless ground.
Clearing your throat, to no one, you're sure, your voice wobbles as you begin to speak.
"Mikoto Suoh." It came out as a whisper, raspy and light.
Trying to muster up the courage, you let both knees rest against the ground, the cold fragments falling around you chilling you to the bone.
"The cold doesn't suit you." It never did. Neither in life, nor in death.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
Your head snaps up, and you turn around to see none other than Misaki, hateful eyes burning into you. His posture was stiff, ready to take on anyone that dared to get in his way.
But his eyes told a different story, held a different light. They were puffy and pink, like he'd already been crying before he'd even gotten here. His hands were in fists, left locked onto a bouquet that was all but the same as yours content wise, but about twice as large, and his right was lazily dragging his skateboard along.
"Well?" He barks, voice coarse with use unknown to you.
"Calm down," you say, looking away from him. "I'm just here to pay my respects."
"Respects?" His voice rises with incredulity. "Since when have you ever had any respect for Mikoto-san?"
"I suppose I don't," you mutter, standing.
"Then what gives you the right to be here, you fucking traitor?"
"He was buried in a public cemetery," you say.
"Shut the fuck up! You know what I mean!" He steps towards you, gripping your collared shirt- one you'd actually worn how you're supposed to- with his right hand, skateboard dropping to his feet.
He glares at you, words of hatred ready to slide past his lips in a moment's notice.
But you find you don't have the energy, today.
"Leg go of me," you sigh, your cold hand resting against Misaki's warm wrist.
"Give me one good reason not to beat you to a pulp right now, monkey."
"Mikoto-san wouldn't want us fighting in front of his resting place." His eyes widen, and slowly, his fingers detach themselves from your now-crumpled shirt.
He throws your hand off of him, looking past you and at the man in question's grave.
It takes him a while to speak again.
"Did..did you put these here?" He gestures to the flowers you left, flittering gently in the icy breeze.
"Does it really matter?"
The two of you stay silent for a while longer before you begin to leave. Misaki doesn't stop you; in fact, he's kneeled in front of his former king's grave, eyes glistening, you're sure.
As you leave, your courage does, too.
So much for sorry.