Title: White Shroud
Prompt: Day One—Song Lyrics or Colour (White)
Character/Pairing: Zeki!
A/N: I have done as much of zeki!week in an evening. Why did this week have to land on the same week as my con? *cries*
Summary: His hand lies on hers, its grip weak, and she starts to realize that his death might not be next year or the year after, but today
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"Yuki." His voice groans and grumbles like an old machine. The rusty cogs that make up his body slowly stir as he turns his head to face her.
His hair is now more white than silver and she catches herself staring at it more than once. It's a strange sight, one that she cannot entirely get used to. The wrinkles are easier, the small signs of age that she got to know over the past two hundred years.
"Yes?" Her hand runs through his hair, still oddly soft, and she chuckles lightly. It's strange what stays the same. "How are you feeling?"
"Sick?" His eyes cloud over and she waits for the episode to finish. "We need…we need to get to school."
That far back? She can barely remember those childhood days of hers, of Sayori and Kaname and the web of lies and love that had spun then. "It's Sunday," she answers, trying to remember how she acted back then. Cheerful? Overly so, and stubborn as a mule.
Zero would say that latter part hasn't changed.
"I see…" He withdraws into himself and she remembers just how he used to be—sullen, stoic, and a little mean.
That latter part hasn't changed either.
"Our duties?" A hand reaches out for her, shaking. As she holds it, he notices how long her hair is, how thin his hand is. He starts to pull his hand away but she tightens her grip. "What…what happened?"
"Nothing, love." His eyes widen and she withholds a smile. "You're just a little sick."
"Oh…" He closes his eyes and starts to doze off. An hour later, she follows suit and only wakes up when she hears him call out to her again.
His eyes aren't clouded this time, just tired, and she relaxes under his gaze. "How are you?"
"I'm…" Zero pauses, catching the worry in her eyes. "I did it again."
"Yes."
"I couldn't run away from it forever." He sighs softly. "I'll have to leave you soon."
"Not for too long," she replies, stroking his cheek gently. He sinks into her touch, his face changing to match the contours of her hand. It unnerves her, slightly, how malleable he's become. As though thinking, as though living was too much effort.
It's a feeling she will never experience and she feels a twinge of jealousy for her friends who had come and gone. The formula that had allowed them to age together instead of apart.
"You are…" he coughs, a harsh thing, and she thinks she can catch his life escaping with each wheeze he gives after. "You are happy."
A statement, not a question. So like him and she almost pinches him in annoyance.
Instead, she rests her forehead on his with a smile. "Very."
"That's…good."
"And you?"
"More than…I should…be." His hand lies on hers, its grip weak, and she starts to realize that his death might not be next year or the year after, but today. Tomorrow. This week, this month—his hand slips off entirely and she almost shakes his shoulders before she notices he's just fallen asleep.
"Not yet," she murmurs into his hair. "Stay a little longer."
She just needs a little time before she is ready to say goodbye.