Shades
A/N: Another DC oneshot coming up. WARNING: Darkfic. Mildly upsetting for both sets of 'shippers, but the ShinRan bit is, hopefully, faithful to the painful melodrama in the show.
Here's to hoping Gosho-sensei finishes DC before he kicks the bucket, or we do…
XxXxXxX
Ran
"You deserve better."
The crushing sense of bereavement that now gags your tongue and impounds your heart is heralded by that one succinct line, uttered in a rasping, world-weary tone of voice. For a moment, you simply flounder in a deadly cocktail of highly concentrated emotions, and then you reach your arm out to him, a gesture checked halfway by its very own futility.
He twists away from your grasp, but his face is no longer hewn from solid rock, the agony seeming to have won the battle with apathy for possession of his features, now gripping them and contorting them in ways you could not have believed possible. A few more beads of blood trickle down his forehead, rewarding him for his exertions, to join those of their sisters already soiling his white shirt.
Your own face, wan, frozen in an expression of meek supplication, is a waxwork about to melt; a mass of taut flesh about to tear, perhaps only held together by a thin strand of tissue. You dread the coming of the convulsions, the breaking of the dam, when even the tiny pinpricks of moisture glazing your eyes would give way to destructive floods.
"Shinichi…"
Each syllable that you draw out leaves a deep gouge in your heart, and the oft-repeated name can only pass into the realm of the inaudible. He looks up, however, and you can suddenly discern all his personal demons as they flit in and out of his face, like a series of images being played before you, without sound or colour.
Except for the colour grey.
Grey, like the sultry winter sky witnessing your undoing.
Grey, like the uniform of the prestigious preparatory college you have laboured so hard to join him at.
Grey, like that solitary strand of hair you discreetly tuck away, the product of endless nights spent at your window, awaiting his return.
Grey, like your existence from hereon.
Just as grey…
… and just as doomed
XxXxXxX
Shinichi
She patiently waits for you in the sub-zero clime, oblivious to the gentle teasing of the white flecks, and clad only in the tattered remains of her labcoat, her bare feet crunching over the snow as she takes her first step. Your heart leaps out for this image of the innocent, long-suffering waif with the dirt-crusted face, but almost instantly hardens as eyes burning with an almost demonic intelligence clash with your own tortured ones, the smouldering look of accusation greeting you silently across the empty distance.
"You certainly took your time."
The woman who has opted to remain a child berates you thus, but the mocking edge in her voice fails to scorch you. You make your way over in a daze, and she reaches up, grasping your massive hand in her own doll-like one.
"You are cold, Edogawa-kun."
You ignore her ministrations, instead snarling out a few sarcastic choice words on the shortcomings of human existence.
She shakes her head at your uncharacteristic bitterness, dabbing at the dried blood that cakes her forehead.
"This is my body, this is my blood," She solemnly intones, and the words ring hollow in your ears instead of provoking the desired eerie effect of the original reference.
"This is who I am. And this-"
You reluctantly take the proferred glasses, noting the cracked left lens, the flecks of blood.
"-is who you are, Edogawa-kun,"
You angrily shove them above your nose, where they perch, as comfortably as they have ever done.
"-so you see, nothing has changed, really."
It may only be the filthy lenses, but whiteness suddenly envelopes your vision.
White…
White like the vast landscape of snowed-in land.
White like the dress she wore during the Teitan High play.
White like the column of pale mist you now exhale that vanishes as abruptly as your illusions of an ideal first love.
White like your poor, burdened, naïve heart.
Just as white…
… and just as empty
XxXxXxX
Haibara
"Away," you offer in a clipped tone in response to his raspy but altogether apathetic query as to where you are both headed. You are all too aware of your role as the driving force behind his most recent unprecedented impulse, and you allow yourself a small, self-satisfied smile as you reflect on the circumstances that have caused your fates to thus intertwine. That Kudo-kun- no, Edogawa-kun- has been inadvertantly caught in the destructive path of Hurricane Haibara, to be instantly swallowed by it, like so many others before him, is readily apparent; certainly, no –one could envy him- or you, for that matter, the poor hand of cards fate has dealt; the telling difference, you convince yourself, is that he is your only victim to date who has not gone down kicking and screaming.
As though subconciously determined to prove to you otherwise, he pauses, then looks back. You trap his wandering eyes with your own, and your grip on his hand tightens as his eyes momentarily flash with a sentiment you cannot discern, a sentiment you are eternally excluded from.
That is when you begin to see red.
Red, like your death flower that almost bloomed, once, in a similar setting, only to be withered away by his presence.
Red, like the fresh bouquets of roses he ritualistically sends her, his old flame.
Red, like the searing passion for him that constantly flares up in your eyes, two flames in a skull that compel him against his will, and binds him to yours.
Red, like the luscious, trembling lips you hunger to know, that you sigh into in your deepest, darkest dreams.
Red, like the matador's rag waved at you; the Ran Mouris of this world provoking the raging beast within you.
Red, like the vanquished arteries of the human body as they leak their precious load of blood.
Just as red…
… and inside, as ever, just as dead.
FINIS