A Note Before Beginning;

Hello there. This isn't my first fan fiction, and probably won't be my last. I've taken a relatable liking to these characters, however, and have decided to attempt a little something involving them. I hope that I'll be able to convey their emotions and thoughts to you accurately and simplistically, and that most of all, you enjoy my interpretation of their inner battles and relationships as much as I do.

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. All of these characters belong to their respective creators of DRRR!.

This story contains malexmale relationships.

Irony.

Cruel, cruel irony. That's the only way it could be described, right? Ice that melted, cold as the bittersweet snow of winter; and fell as droplets onto porcelain flesh, freezing it to the core. But is a heart that's already gone affected by frostbite? He didn't think so. Time and time again came the change of the season, and it seemed he was stuck in an ever-winding meltdown. Just when the sun would reach its peak over the horizon, and hope seemed in his grasp – it would disappear again, leaving him behind to rot in the dead ended sorrow that was this endless road.

And so, there he lay in that pile of frozen snow. Ice crunched at his fingertips, blood-painted nails staining purity with spectral tints. "What is left for me here?" He would ask; hues of sanguine narrowing on the shivering of his own digits.

Nothing.

Always, that nameless voice would answer. And the black-clad male would follow this voice, as far as oblivion, if he had to. 'Why, that's insane!' one might exclaim. But for a man with no hope, and no other sounds to hear but the chilling nothingness of solstice, even the chimes of insanity begin to become reassuring. Questions would be asked, and answers would come – answers of his own subconscious, answers to questions he already knew. Questions such as, 'Where is everyone?'

They've left you.

"But why?"

There's nothing to keep them here.

"It's not easy. . . This is never easy."

Just as before, salt would begin to melt the ice, the taint of liquid sorrow slowly beginning to erode the solidity. "If I could just find the right chance."

And then, the voices would stop. Once again, he would be left for dead; to wallow in his own regrets, and self-loathing. Par to usual, he was alone.

Guilt.

You're a monster.

"Ahh, shut up." Annoyed, for the umpteenth time that day, a certain man found himself walking the streets of the city in thoughts better left to the dreaming state of mind. But being rather introverted since a young age, this young human was always digging into his own subconscious. And why not, what could he possibly find that he didn't already know – possibly like what he'd just heard. At some point, it had become annoying. Perhaps it was the melting snow that reminded him. Tints of white would seep into the obsidian fabric he wore, and would slowly wet the threads until they began to annoy him. "Damn. I guess I'll be changing when I get home. Again."

Winter was never his favorite. It was too cold, and he much preferred the warmth that summer provided. Plus, everything good that could happen, tended to happen in Summer. Perhaps that was because that's when all of the kids got out of school, and it gave the parents an opportunity to show their children things they normally wouldn't be able to. But there he went again; lost in his own thoughts. And suddenly, he was faced with a realization.

"Did I have work today?"

He didn't remember being called in. Oh, well; it was a little late, now. Ever the aloof one, he was. That is, until a fight between a couple of gang-involved teens caught his attention.

Now, contrary to popular belief, he hated violence. Well, okay. He found professional fighters, such as karate experts, entertaining to watch. But there was artistic ability in that; finesse! Finesse he didn't possess and artistic ability that he could never achieve. That a monster could never achieve. "Tch. ."

As if winter didn't grate on his nerves already; now there were children fighting. He tried to turn his back, tried lighting a cigarette and taking a deep puff. It worked. . . For about five minutes, until one of the children started begging the other to stop. "AGGH!"

Weight. Extreme weight. Something snapped, and suddenly the children had scattered. In their place was shattered pavement, the concrete having bust under the pressure of a large, drink-filled vending machine, its lights now flickering as the power cord had broken in all of the commotion. By the time he'd come to, he was heaving, and was vaguely aware that he had not a single clue what had happened – apart from the fact that he had obviously blown a fuse. Again. Every time he got mad, he became some sort of superhuman. No. . . He didn't deserve to call himself a human. But he calmed steadily, noticing that the children had run off, and didn't seem to have any intentions of coming back. ". . . Mm."

He would've been find knowing that, if he hadn't looked up. There it was – that harsh, unforgiving flake that ever-so-eloquently fell upon his nose. He was vaguely aware of a deafening silence; he was alone.

Treachery.

"Ahaha! This season is my favorite of all!"

Excited, a well-known trouble maker roamed the city, without a care in the world. It was as if the weight of current affairs didn't matter to this man, and if they didn't, he never voiced it. Skipping along, he would turn corners, and inspect people, if only for his own amusement – especially when they looked back at him, wondering just what in the world he was doing.

"I'm showing you my love, of course," He would respond to their curious glances; as if he knew exactly what they were thinking, and they were expecting him to speak up about it.

This man, if it can be said, was quite peculiar in his own right. He was a bit narcissistic, and a little over the top. He claimed to love all of humanity equally – as if he were some sort of superior being, and yet, he never failed to get a kick out of the looks on a human's features when they were faced with torment. He would describe it as a masterpiece; and recall each detail in an almost terrifying manner, and it was then that one would realize he could easily be a profiler for the FBI. Sadly, this man had no respect or honor with the law. In fact, he was an unruly citizen, one that would go right around every moral any other man had, and would swipe the city up into one big mess. Before you knew it, you were a part of his grand master plan, and there was no way out but to go through.

It was for this reason that he wasn't exactly liked by the humans he so-determinedly claimed to love. In fact, he was little short of a manipulator, one who would do anything to further his own goals. Now, most criminals have a reason for their goals. A motive, if you will. Alas, this man had nothing of that sort in mind. In fact, if he did anything, it was for his own entertainment.

Your modus operandi isn't exactly admirable.

Stopping in his tracks, the male would squint. He would look about for a short while, as if expecting the owner of that voice to slide through every crack in the wall they could, then just materialize. Boots crunching in the slush, he would turn for a few moments, before releasing a loud uproar of laughter. "Oh, you! Keep complimenting me like that, and you might get somewhere!"

He would wait for a response, but when none came, he found himself a little more than uneasy. It wasn't until he gave up, making his way back to his office, that he would find that voice familiar. ". . ."

He would debate this, as he sat at his desk, his swivel chair leaning back to accommodate the man's weight. Not that he weighed much more than a feather. Gazing towards his computer, he would stare at the screen; he'd yet to open a thing. So what if his way of doing things wasn't the best? It always got him where he wanted to be. And besides, he never second guessed himself. Just because he was alone. . That didn't matter.

Hopeless.

Brutality at its finest. That was the only way to describe this world. For a man like this, one who would trip over his own feet and fall down the stairs; one who would cry hopelessly over a scene from a manga that wasn't real. Down to the very last straw, this man was hopeless. Despite this, he still tried his best to be strong, and in many other's eyes – those who paid him even a passing glance, that is – that made him stronger than anyone.

But he would never think so. And why should he? There was nothing to like about him, no good traits that held him chained to the Earth, like everyone else he knew. The only thing that really kept him here was a photograph; a photograph from so long ago, that it was bent and deteriorating. Now some may ask, 'why not just take another photo?' Oh, if it were only that simple for this young man.

Sad as a soul that he may be, he actually didn't like the winter. He found it brought nothing but grief for his memories, the shackles on his heart only dragging him down ever further each day. He wanted to let go of his past – he did. But it wasn't so simple. It was on days like this, when the snowflakes dribbled across his window, and melted to liquid in seconds; when they froze the glass shut, and he was left to stare at that photograph from so long ago, his forehead leaning against the solid surface. "Why can't it be Spring?"

His jaw would clench, teeth grinding down, and he found he would cry. He knew he was weak for doing it, and he knew It would never stop; an endless cycle of torment. And he would cling to that letter that came with that photo for all it was worth; red ink staining his fingers, like it did every year. 'Good bye', it would read, and that last sentence would always shatter his being, his head leaning back as salt crashed into carpet.

Truly, he was a mess.

Sadly, this young male's story doesn't get better. In fact, it gets steadily worse – but such is the life for someone as hopeless as he. "But I can get better!" He would say, sniffing back his tears, and swallowing down what remained of his sadness. "I can prove myself, that way, when I see him again, he'll be proud!"

But that's not you.

And he knew it. No matter how many times he tried to say, 'I can change!'; no matter how often he tried to shout, 'I can prove myself, I can get better!' – it never came. And his shame to know that had no boundaries. Every day, he would set out to find this man. He would search the city, search the outskirts – any sign he could find of the male from the photograph, the one he knew had chosen the cool breeze of Autumn over the harsh biting winds of Winter.

"I won't give up!" He would shout as loud as he could, his promise to himself being the only thing to keep him from breaking down once more.

"I will never give up."