A/N: I'm really sorry for not updating DYSRM for a really long time, but Word isn't opening on my computer, so that's half a chapter gone. ;.; Also, like I said the last time I have major exams coming up, so I don't have the time to sit down and write/edit a proper chapter. In the meantime, have this little drabble thing that I wrote a while back. 3
Ivan Braginsky stands by the bus stop, holding a sunflower in his hands. The other children laugh, they point and they snicker, but the little Russian boy has grown used to it by now. Their taunts are nothing more but the empty howling of the winter wind.
The bus stop is usually empty, since Ivan lives a little further away from school than everybody else. He doesn't mind the isolation, but it's the silence that gets him. However, today, he finds that somebody else has taken his spot by the sign. It is a little Chinese boy in a bright red shirt that looks too big for him. His hair is longer than most boy's and is kept back in a ponytail, 'Like a girl,' Ivan thinks; the ponytail fascinates him. The snow crunches beneath his boots, and the boy looks up, a little startled. His eyes do not hold fear, and neither do they contain the simple cruelty of the other children. They are merely curious- a little hesitant, but curious, nonetheless. "Hello," Ivan is the first to break the silence. "Who are you?"
"You can call me Yao," The boy replies, though he does not elaborate. That, however, is enough for the Russian. "And you can call me Ivan. Will you be my friend?" After a moment's hesitation, Yao nods. From that day on, Ivan has had no need to fear the silence. Slowly, Yao seeps into his life, filling the empty white world with his wonderful red, and chasing away the silence with his words. They become the best of friends, and many months pass happily.
"Why do you play with him?" The words freeze Ivan, who is just around the corner of the school's playground. He doesn't see the speaker, but he recognizes the voice without hesitation. It's one of the other children from the bus stop, and out of instinct, he shrinks back. It's not hard to guess who the boy is talking to, because only Yao is nice enough to be around him all the time. Ivan holds his breath, waiting for a reply. He can't help but feel anxious, even though he knows that he should have more faith in his friend after all this time.
"Why don't you play with him?" The words bring him relief, and Ivan smiles from behind the bushes. He will not lose his friend.
"Fine, suit yourself. Go hang out with the retard if you want." As soon as his footsteps fade away, Ivan shyly slides out from behind the hedge and surprises Yao with a tight hug. "Aiya, what's this for?" The little boy asks, unaware that their conversation was not as private as he thought it to be, but Ivan can't seem to find the right words to explain. Shaking his head, the boy only tightens his grip, burying his face into those slender little shoulders. The back of his throat burns. "Ivan, this isn't funny!" Yao scolds, pulling back, but when he sees the thin film of moisture in those violet eyes, his expression softens. "Why are you crying? Did someone hurt you again? Who is it? Tell me!"
Ivan can't help but think that Yao is cute when he's fierce, but he can't tell him that. He can't tell him anything. The smile on his face is twitching and slipping, and he suddenly has a great urge to let loose the building pressure in his chest. But he cannot. Finally, Ivan chokes out a feeble, "A-are you my friend, Yao?" The Chinese sighs, but it is a gentle one. Yao reaches forward yet again, his hand hidden by the too long sleeve and ruffles his hair.
"Of course I am, don't be silly." The boy responds fiercely, almost as if challenging anyone to question the truth of that statement. He has to tip toe to reach the top of Ivan's head, but neither of the children seem to notice as they stand face to face in the slowly falling snow. "Don't you dare forget that Ivan Braginsky, okay?" The Russian nods mutely, but it doesn't seem to be enough for Yao. He presses on intensely, "No matter what anyone says, or what happens, I'll always be your friend. Always."
The next day, the lonely sign at the bus stop is surrounded by a clean carpet of snow. There is white, white, white, but there is no red.
The bus ride is long, but it seems no more than a passing second to the little boy who sits alone, whose thoughts are turned far away. At his stop, Ivan picks up his sunflower and gets off, crossing the road to pass through a pair of iron gates. From there Ivan walks and walks, past little hills and slopes until he reaches his destination. The boy bends down and puts the sunflower in the jar of water, though the liquid inside has long been frozen over. Ivan wants to say something, but he is suddenly struck with the same silence that afflicted him a few months ago in the playground.
What does one say to a grave? What can Ivan say to a boy who spent his last few months filling his world with colour and sound? Especially when it should have been the other way around?
The wind howls. "Hello Yao. I didn't see you in school today." Ivan whispers, "I saved a seat for you on the bus, but you didn't come. It's okay, though, because when you get better, you'll come back. Then I'll even let you sit by the window, even though it's my spot. I just.. I just want to see you again. So come back soon, Yao, I miss you. I'll be waiting, okay?"
But there is no reply, only silence.