A/N: This plotbunny came up and bit me in the ass and wouldn't give it back until I had written it, so I wrote it. Hope it makes some sense. Not sure how I feel about the ending. Seems ridiculously corny for my tastes...

Recommended listening: New Beginnings (no guitar) - Future World Music

Lies

Oneshot

There should be no tears during this escapade. There should be no sorrow, no sad feelings. There should be no guilt, no pain. There should be no embarrassment, no hesitation, no regrets. And there should be no lies.

But there are lies.

The entire situation is made up of a lie and that lie allows the crimson rivers to continue to flow. Rivers of blood continue to fall off the cliff of truth and fill the ever-deepening pit of lies festered by the human nature that each person harbors within them. Those sins in which man carries upon his shoulders continues to become heavier and the truth twists on their tongues, turning and forcing out all honestly, leaving nothing but that lie. The lie that created the situation. It was unexpected, but then again, things in life always seem to be, especially in their line of work.

'His shoulders are icy,' he thinks and moves up to embrace the other, only to think that his hands are not his hands and the warmth he projects is not his to begin with, much less his to share. The cold skin he touches silently and greedily takes the already-stolen warmth and leans into his hands that are not his hands. There is a raptured silence and he wonders just how it was possible to still feel the muscles rippling under his touch, but he soon realizes that his hands belong to him and only him. And the warmth was coming from within him that he knew he carried since the day he was born into his first name. He couldn't remember it, no matter how hard he tried, but it mattered little at this point. These were his hands and yes, this was his heat.

He figures that he's embracing the other too tightly and instinctively loosens it, not wanting discomfort to fall on those (still cold) shoulders. Then he settles for placing his head in the crook of the other's neck, keeping his arms around those shoulders and allowing his slow breaths to fan the strong, bare torso. He figures the other isn't going to protest soon and he closes his good eye against the skin.

"Oi." The sound is soft, slightly hushed, and another lie in his ears.

He shakes his head at the silent question and keeps his cheek against the strong collarbone of the other. He doesn't want to admit to that unasked question, to say that, yes, he feels sorrow and yes, he is guilty because he feels he is only a puppet on loose strings now, either ready to snap or prepared to move along with the Master of the play. He isn't quite sure anymore. But he knows he feels and feels emotions that are his, so perhaps he is ready to cast off the strings and deviate from the path he'd once chosen. It would mean no more forced lies, but was that selfish of him? He'd never been in the presence of such a weak light before, unsure of what to decide and unable of making a decision and setting it in stone.

He feels a hand on his head and leans into it, seeking the comfort that it unknowingly brings, feeling as it threads through his messy hair and settles just below his scalp. The fingers of that hand move gently against the back of his neck for a few long moments. In those moments, there is more articulated than any words could ever explain and he notices that there are no lies and he is hearing the whispers of hidden truths. Truths he'd never hear the other say and truths he wasn't sure existed, but the slow fingers moving methodically over the thin skin of his neck reassured him (somehow) that nothing being projected onto him bled the underlying deceit he was so accustomed to.

"Are you crying?" The question is terse and very much cold (unlike those shoulders now, which have become warm because of their close proximity), but the tone so used to being placed behind the false voice of apathy slips through and reaches his ears. And he almost smiles, because he knows that is one of the first few voiced truths he's heard that night.

He finds himself nodding, especially now that he is aware of the hot streams rushing down his cheeks and sliding over his smooth chest as they fall off the cliffs of his face. Some trace his jaw to his chin before falling off and he almost wonders if his tears are the lies he's spoken and acted upon in the past and present. He thinks that it might indeed be true. The hand in his hair moves away and for a moment, he almost asks for it back before he feels it fall on his tear-stained cheek. There are no spoken words now and the only sound in the room is his shuddering breaths as he tries to keep himself composed, but to no avail. It's hard, now that he realizes just how many lies he's spoken, lies he forced onto other people, and lies that he had lived on for the sake of his job.

Perhaps it is the truth he lives in now, which was why he felt tears being released and those tears are the lies that should fall off the cliff of truth, fall into the pit, relieving the owner of their troublesome burden and decomposing for eternity. No amount of apologies or trips to a church to repent would make the lies any more bearable or discard them from history. He would know.

But in those few minutes between them, calloused hands touching (stroking) his wet cheeks, moving instinctively to wipe (caress) the tears and cast them away, he knows he's grasped onto truth and that everything about that night was the truth and there were no false smiles, fake grins, and a facade of happiness because he wept and it was not in sorrow, but he felt it tearing at his chest and it was guilt and regret, he knew, and yet he was still so happy.

And when he realizes this, the tears begin to slow and he knows he's running out of lies and breaking long-lived habits. And he hears the other say, "what a fool you are" and he can't help but to agree with a slow nod and a muttered reply of, "I know."

And he knows the lie that created this situation was actually a truth and that nothing he'd say later would change it because it was now a part of hidden history, biased as it may be.

He took a deep breath.

And let it go.

Just for tonight, he would forget about it, but he would remember later on that there are still lies in the world and within him, but between him and Kanda... there were none.