Disclaimer: I own nothing, as usual.
And he heard bells.
There were bells that day; you could hear them more distinctly through the steady tattoo of rainfall. They had been growing louder, like a constant and irrepressible ache that pulsed with your blood. Cries of a young boy were intermingled within them, and all the while, the tolling of the bells grew louder in your ears.
But you're climbing these white marble steps now, slowly, with your back curved and eyes on the ascending stairs. One step, and then another. You don't have to look around you to know that you are alone.
When you push the door open at the top, the rain inundates your senses--the sound is like tiny drums, infinite in number and echoing; the sight is the color of grey, screaming and streaming down in linear paths; the smell--it is like a strange place, and of a realization that you have lost.
The tolling of the bells grows louder, and you take one step into the rain, and then another. It is cold, you know, but you feel nothing but the steadily aching pulse that rides beneath your pale skin. As you look into the sky, you can see the bells now, their languid motion as they swing, and as you gaze upwards, you feel like a young boy. You cannot help but wonder—the church, could it be a wedding? Or--?
"Ryuuzaki-san?"
You hear him, and yet, you don't. The bells...the bells grow stronger every moment. It is the mixture of everything at once--the hurried, shattered rain, and the deep, sorrowful toll of endings and of loss. Why will it not leave you? There is no answer; only, your head aches, and with it, your soul.
When you return inside, the noise subsides, and a single note remains: the solemn tolling of a bell.
But you are not alone now--for he sits there, feet in front of you, reaching across his legs awkwardly, drying himself, and then his hair. His shoes lie wet, discarded off to the side. As you watch him, you cannot help but see how his hair is plastered against his skin, and for a moment, the bells pause in their relentless moans.
Before he can protest, you are crouched there, on the lower stairs, and you hold his feet in your hands. He starts when you touch them, and for a moment, you cannot tell whose warmth is flowing into the others, diminishing the cold, and whose is being warmed. For these moments, there is silence, and all you know, is that within this warmth, somehow, you are not alone.
Two lingering drops of water fall from your hair, slowly, and splash on his ankle. They lie there for a moment--clear, nearly invisible blemishes against his pale, cool skin.
"You're still wet," he says, and with his white towel, brushes it against your hair.
"I'm sorry," you say. You hesitate, and then press his feet in your hands, rolling out the tension. Your eyes are still focused on his feet when you say softly, "I'm sad."
He moves, making a sound, and you stop to look up at him. His eyes are strange, and for the first time since you have met him, he does not know what you mean. Or perhaps he knows--but does not understand.
And yet, it was within his eyes, you had hoped for serenity. But as he stares at you, you know that such a peace is something you will never find. You are alone again, and drowning within those eyes.
And the bells resume their toll.