A/N: I know I said December...but I couldn't help myself and I had to start this. That said, there might still be a while before I post the first chapter, because I don't have a complete picture of where I want this story to go yet, but I've known for some time that the prologue would look like this.

This is the sequel to my story If I Break, which is posted over on Areli White-wings' account. I'd recommend you read it first (Just so you aren't confused about certain things) But I read things without reading their predecessors all the time, so I think you'll still be able to grasp what's going on.

Also-I had bad writers block before writing this, so this chapter was somewhat of a...cleanse? I was trying to feel through some of Gil's emotions to get myself back on track. I'm pleased with the way it turned out, I think.

If you've read If I Break, (and you know how choppy my writing began to get toward the end as I started rushing through things) I would appreciate if you'd compare it to this and give me your thoughts on whether or not I've improved.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to its original creators

I reach but I feel only air at night

Not you, not love, just nothing

I run to you,

Call out your name,

I see you there, farther away.

—Farther Away, Evanescence―

Thin snowflakes fell gently past the window, soft and slow. The rest of the world was still, bathed in frigid grey beneath late afternoon clouds. Gilbert watched the snow silently, his breath fogging lightly against the window. A faint warmth from the fireplace touched his back, and he leaned closer to the pane, pressing his cheek to the cool glass.

The Nightray grounds were empty, a peaceful quiet falling over Gilbert as he gazed out into the darkening air. Snow was dusted over slim tree branches like old trinkets forgotten in an attic. Gil longed to fling himself into the darkness, to feel the bite of the air against his skin, to run as far as he could, and to never return to the Nightray house. His heart ached for the lavish gardens of the Vessalius manor.

The only sounds in the darkened room were the crackling of the logs in the fireplace and the quiet snip of his brother's scissors as he tormented some unfortunate doll. Vincent had been quiet for most of the afternoon, seeming to sense Gilbert's melancholy, and the raven had been allowed to watch the night fall in peace.

Gil sighed quietly, leaning his forehead against the window and looking out at the snowflakes from beneath his eyelashes. The mahogany wood of the sill was smooth and chilled against his fingertips. He rubbed a hand along it absently, brushing his fingers together to rid them of the collected dust. Small particles floated up and his gaze trailed to the side, watching them rise, swirling gently as his breath stirred the air.

Gil inhaled instinctively, the musky scent nearly choking him with sudden sorrow. Green eyes flashed into his mind, so bright compared to the ashen wasteland around him. He must've made a noise, for the soft sound of the scissors paused.

"Don't think." Vincent's voice was smooth, but there was a strange edge beneath it. It was almost as though Vincent knew.

Turning slightly, Gilbert eyed his brother. The blond had resumed his cutting, seemingly focused on his task once more. It was as if he hadn't spoken. Gil began to turn back to the window, but his eyes caught a flash of viridian. He stiffened, forehead creasing as he took a closer look at the plush in his brother's arms.

It was a little black rabbit with soft, red eyes and a deep green bow around its neck. It was already torn in various places, the tip of one ear dangling precariously. Vincent was curled on the floor, stuffing scattered all around him like snow in the firelight. His expression was serene, his scissors poised at the little toy's throat.

Gil's blood froze in his veins.

"Vince, don't—" He lunged forward, one hand outstretched to stop his brother, but he stumbled over another tattered doll. There was a thick snip, and the rabbit's head lolled to one side, an instant pop of white stuffing frothing at its seam. Sudden nausea rose in Gil's throat, his stomach churning with unsettled horror. Vincent stared up at him innocently, his brows drawing together perplexedly. There was something triumphant behind his brother's gaze as Gil swooped forward and scooped the plush into his arms, grabbing as much of the stuffing as he could hold. He dashed from the room, swallowing down the bile in his throat as he felt Vincent's eyes on his back.

Gilbert slammed his door behind him, locking it with quivering fingers. He set the small rabbit on his bed as gently as he could, arranging its head on the pillow in a way that seemed comfortable. Hurrying to his wardrobe, he rummaged through a few old shirts, finally pulling out a tarnished sewing needle and thin spool of thread.

Closing the large doors, he paused, brow furrowing. What was he doing? This was ridiculous! What would Vincent think of him now, after such an outburst? And for what? Just a stupid rabbit doll? Just because it had reminded him of—

He caught sight of the stuffing on his bed, his heart crawling into his throat.

He didn't have a choice.

Gilbert lit a candle, placing it on his nightstand as he leaned over the bed to gaze at the little plush. Glassy red eyes stared up at him, almost alive in the flickering light. If he hadn't known better, he would almost have thought there to be something incredibly sad about the rabbit's face.

"I'll always want you by my side, Gil…"

His vision blurred, and Gilbert had to steady himself against the edge of the bed. Wiping the tears from his face, Gil took a deep breath and lifted the ragged body from the sheets. The rabbit's fur was velvety soft, a deep shade of ebony that made the red of its eyes stand out like tiny stars in a midnight sky.

Soft, dark fur….

Gil's fingers were trembling so badly he almost dropped the needle. Taking another slow breath, he sat on the edge of the bed, holding the doll to the light so he could see where Vincent had cut it. There was a slash at the base of one arm, small, just a bit of stuffing peeking out. The tip of one ear had nearly been severed, but thankfully hung on—even after Gilbert's frantic dash through the halls—and there was a long, deep tear through the rabbit's chest. From one shoulder to the opposite hip.

Gilbert's breath caught in his throat. The candle's flame danced wildly, sending odd shadows flickering across the walls.

It was just a coincidence.

It had to be, because this small toy wasn't Oz, it was just an insignificant doll that Gilbert had pitied. Right?

Swallowing down his unease, Gil inspected the rabbit's head. The green bow was shredded on one side, smooth silk torn and fraying where Vincent's scissors had cut it. He was surprised to find that the little black head had managed to remain attached to the rabbit's body, a few strings still clinging to both parts. He sighed softly, feeling somewhat relieved that he didn't have to reattach it completely. Gilbert had only sewn once before, when Oz had torn his favorite shirt, an old one that Oscar had given him. He'd refused to admit the significance to Mrs. Kate, and she'd insisted on throwing it out and buying him a new one, so Gil had discreetly taken one of her sewing kits and repaired the small tear himself. It had been slow, difficult work, and he'd pricked himself numerous times, but the gratefulness in Oz's eyes had been reward enough for his trouble.

Gil raised the needle again, carefully threading it and gently pressing as much stuffing as he could into the small toy's soft body with his other hand. The cotton was thick between his fingers, the slit body making him feel as though he were a surgeon replacing the organs in a dying patient. The thought made him shudder. He stared down into crimson eyes, glinting strangely in the half-light. They watched him mournfully.

Shaking his head, Gil pinched the edges of the cut in the rabbit's arm and pushed the needle into the soft fur. An odd chill crawled up his spine and he paused, nearly cringing, before pushing the needle back through and staring down at the stich he had made. The velvet was thick, and there was some part of him that almost worried he might hurt the little rabbit. His brows drew together in a somber scowl.

He was being ridiculous.

Gilbert breathed an apology anyway, steeling himself to plunge the needle in once more. It only took two stitches to close the cut. Gil moved to the little rabbit's torn ear. He found himself whispering quietly to the doll as he worked. Its glass eyes seemed to flicker with warmth each time he spoke, and Gilbert allowed himself to imagine the rabbit could hear him. Surprisingly, he found that the idea brought him some form of comfort. It was someone he could talk to in the cold Nightray manor. Someone who would listen, without thinking him foolish and weak.

Vincent was always very patient with him, the perfect model of a loving little brother, but Gil always felt a sort of odd energy about him. It was obvious there were things his brother was hiding from him.

He sighed quietly, unsure if he really wanted to know what those things might be.

The rabbit's ear had taken more time than its arm, but Gilbert had still finished stitching it fairly quickly. He paused, taking in the small body and bracing himself for the final tears. The rabbit watched him knowingly.

Gil lifted his needle once more, carefully holding the fabric together around the rabbit's torso and sliding the needle through the ebony velvet.

A sharp stab of regret shot through his chest, and he winced, his trembling fingers gripping the needle in a white-knuckled grip.

My best friend….

Oz's locket suddenly felt hot against his skin, a physical reminder of what he had failed to protect. Gil had given it to his master, yet the fact that he was the one who wore it weighed heavily upon his heart. A stone, crushing the breath from his body.

Gil's stitches were slow and unsteady, wavering with his resolve as the image of Oz's scar flashed before his eyes. The faint pink against his master's flawless skin; a grim reminder of Gilbert's failure. What had it been like, for the person who had made stitches like this in that perfect skin? Had Oz been awake? Had it hurt him?

"Does this hurt you, little rabbit?" The words were out of his mouth before Gil really had a chance to think them through, but he found his own despair mirrored in those little glass eyes. His vision blurred, but he blinked the tears away, ignoring the way his lips quivered. "I'm so sorry." The rabbit seemed to understand the apology was meant for someone else.

He was relieved when he finally reached the doll's throat. There appeared to be enough thread that he would be able to finish, and Gilbert prayed this assumption was correct. It felt...wrong to leave the little rabbit in any state of disrepair, but he loathed the thought of asking one of the maids—or worse, Vanessa—for a bit of extra thread. He would never be able to explain his desire to fix this rabbit. He wasn't even completely sure of the reason himself.

He finished the stitches around the rabbit's throat carefully, making sure every bit of stuffing was gently tucked away inside the little body. The only thread he'd been able to find was of a deep crimson, and Gil shuddered at the way it streaked diagonally across the toy's chest. It was far too similar to the blood that had oozed across Oz's shirt when Lottie Baskerville had slashed him. The thought made his throat close.

There was a quiet knock at the door, and Gil was immensely grateful that he'd remembered to lock it. He tied the tattered ribbon around the rabbit's neck with trembling fingers, hiding the messy stitches as best he could.

"Big brother?" Vincent's voice was faint. "Are you going to let me in?"

Gil didn't answer, sliding into bed and tucking the small plush in beside him. The little glass eyes stared up at him questioningly, warm crimson gleaming in the candlelight like rubies. He pulled the blankets up around them, rolling over to blow out the candle and cradling the little doll to his chest.

Vincent could sleep in the sitting room tonight.

There was a quiet sigh from behind the door, and Gil waited until he heard the soft sound of bare feet padding away down the hall before he let out the breath he'd been holding. He curled onto his side, burying his face in the velvety fur.

"I'm sorry…" he mumbled thickly, breathing in the weathered scent of the old toy. It smelled like dust—like Oz. "I-I'm so sorry," His eyes watered, slow tears crawling down his cheeks and tickling his skin. A low whine slipped from between his parted lips.

Gil moaned, digging his fingers into the plush body and pressing his lips to the dark fur. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I...I'm so sorry!" He kissed the rabbit's forehead, its nose, its ears. His throat burned from holding back desperate cries. "I'm so sorry for everything that happened, I'm so-rry, I—" His breath hitched and he choked back a sob. "I'm sorry…"

"...I'm sorry…."