Disclaimer; I don't own Red vs Blue.
Done for the RvBRC Christmas challenge. Not at all what I had planned to write, but I wrote it anyway.

Merry Christmas

Ash fills the sky.

York lies on his back, staring at it. It falls on him gently, easily stirred at the lightest breath, and he watches it for a moment, entranced. But then the interest fades and he returns his gaze to the sky. The ash bites his skin as it rests on his exposed face and neck, and he supposes it should hurt. In a way it does hurt. But it is a numb, distant hurt, and it feels as if it is happening to someone else. As if he no longer controls the dead flesh it seems his body has become.

A distant lightning strike draws his eyes for a brief moment, but then it is gone and he is once more left to stare at the blackened, ash filled sky. He should feel grief. Anger. Hate. Pain. Everything he's ever known, everyone he's ever loved, is gone. They've been wiped from existence as if they were nothing more than ants. But he doesn't feel pain. He doesn't feel angry, and there is no hate left in his being.

There is no anything left in his being. He's nothing more than an empty shell, waiting for death to come. Praying for it to come. He's so tired. So very, very tired. He doesn't know how he can find the energy to keep breathing. Doesn't understand why he's still alive. His home is in shambles around him. His family is gone.

But still he lives.

The ash covers him now, and he watches as it dances above his mouth, kept afloat by his breath. It looks like black snow, hanging suspended above him like executioners. He knows that if he holds his breath, even for a moment, it will fall and consume him.m But he can't. His body, as broken and beaten as it is, refuses to give up.

With all the effort in his body, he turns his head. From here he can see the smoldering remains of his home. The turkey that his mother had roasted for their Christmas dinner was, somehow, untouched, and it lay like a beacon, a lighthouse to a sinking ship. But it isn't what he is looking for, so he allows his eyes to rest on it only for a moment before he moves on. Through the ash he can make out the smoking remains of the tree, a single strip of bright green wrapping paper fluttering helplessly beneath it before it, too, burns and crumples into ash. An odd choking sensation grips him as he allows his gaze to wander over scorched remains; a foot here, poking out from the ash, and a child's surprised expression, frozen forever into eyes that no longer see and a mouth that no longer moves.

But still he sees nothing of what he wants.

Finally, he catches the cold eyes of the person he wants to see. The green is dull, no longer alive with the intelligence and curiosity that had danced within them during life. Once pale skin has turned a sickly gray, like old wax that has been left to sit for far too long. One frozen hand is stretched out toward him, as if its owner had hoped to die knowing he was still alive.

Tears slipped down the side of York's face as he stares at the mangled remains of his best friend, sliding down his useless left eye and into the ash beneath him. Weakly, he forces his arm to move, makes his fingers stretch until they rest upon those of the corpse beside him. The twisted remains of a smile break across his lips as he hears voices shouting in the darkness, and the sound of frantic feet moving at a snail's pace. He ignores them. They don't matter. Nothing matters anymore. Everything he'd ever wanted no longer exists.

A silent sob ripsits way out of his chest, and he chokes as ash slips down his throat. But he has to speak. Has to tell someone, to make this nightmare complete-

"Marry Christmas, D," he whispers, and then his eyes slide shut, and he waits for death to come.