Don't own anything.

Don't kill me for making a new songfic instead of updating my other ones.

"Hurricane" by The Hush Sound.

We didn't need an alarm clock. It seemed that his internal clock could be mentally set for any time, and it never failed. Unless we both had the day off. Tweeting birds sounded in the oak tree by the window, urging for me to wake up. A light drizzle was flinging itself against the pane, and yet they still sung. But today, like they did for the past two years, seemed to sing solemnly. I brought it up once last year, and I recieved silence as a response.

Send out the morning birds
To sing of the damage
Now that the calm's returned
I know I can't manage

I wanted them all to just shut up. It was only today that I put aside my hatred for animal cruelty and beg for someone, anyone, to just wring their little necks. Muzzle them, shoot them, do something to just make them stop.

But they don't. They have every right to sing; but I just wish they didn't. The drizzle became a regular rain, pit-patting against the pane now. Wether the birds had stopped singing now or not, it didn't matter. Their hymns were now rattling inside my head, waiting for tomorrow to disperse.

And the wall clock only read seven.

You're standing in my doorway
Though he's asleep in my bed
The steady murmur
Always in my head

I cock my head a best as I could towards the doorway, trying not to move. He feels the sheets shift anyway, and pulls me closer to him. His breathing became harmonious with my own. I could see the faint outline of him in the door way. Though he was missing one important feature that always brought tears to my eyes.

His mouth.

Was he smiling upon me as he stood there? Is there anger? Anger at me, or anger at the one beside me? Is he weeping now? That I had moved on?

He holds me tighter and buries his face in the crook of my neck. I can smell his scent, and it lulls my eyes to close.

I loved him, but;

I opened my eyes once more, and the doorway was empty once more.

Was this a sin to love them both at the same time? To let my needs feast on the one who he used to call "Best Friend". I know its selfish, but he is gone from this world. Poof. No more. I had seen his lifeless body under all the soggy pieces of wood with my own eyes. Blood was everywhere, gushing from him and me.

I stared down at my hand. The scar was still there.

You're the finest thing that I've done
The hurricane I'll never outrun
I could wait around for the dust to still
But I don't believe that it ever will

He reached around and clasped my hand in his and brought it to his hair. So silky, like his. The spikes bent to my touch. People always had to remind me that the scar isn't there anymore. It dissapeared. But I see it, it's always there. Splinters are always sticking out of it, and there's always the smallest drop of blood on it. Its the memory of the storm that will never fade.

He hugged me tighter, pushing one tear out. He knows I shake whenever I see the scar. I see the cabin too, the wood strewn about as if it was built from Lincoln Logs. They also have to remind me that I couldn't save him. When I pulled up the debris off his body I couldn't save him. When I rode with him in the ambulance I couldn't save him. When the machine gave a low, steady beep I could not save him. I was shaking then too, and he held me.

And since the roof fell in
I'll lean on what matters
Caught in the slightest wind
Everything else unravels

He places a gentle kiss on my collar bone, and I give a shudder. A love bite should still be there, its a sensitive spot for me. I look back to the doorway and he's there.

Again no facial expression, not even in his eyes.

You're standing in my doorway
Seven cities ago
The days are racing
But you come back too slow

The rain became intense and thundered roared outside. I squeaked, my shudder being caught by his strong arms. So familiar, yet different. The split often made me dizzy. I couldn't be in his arms if I tried.

I don't own a shovel or the stamina to dig six feet.

You're the finest thing that I've done
The hurricane I'll never outrun
I could wait around for the dust to still
But I don't believe that it ever will

He runs my hand through my own hair, but all it does is remind me to take a shower. He drapes a leg over my side.

You're the finest thing that I've done
The hurricane I'll never outrun
I could wait around for the dust to still
But I don't believe that it ever will

"Anzu..." he mumbles against my neck.

"Hn?"

"Go to sleep."

But I don't believe that it ever will

"Yes, Atem."