Today is a Thursday.
The twentieth, to be exact.
Let the world change.
It is a whisper of anguish, barely even, but it ghosts and skitters along his spine. Soulless, merciless.
He cannot stop himself from drowning, crumbling away in her eyes.
He can only feel, then, the soft press of her fingers to the sides of his arms, before they flutter oh so lightly to his cheeks, then his snow-white spikes.
When they bury themselves deep into his hair, something flits across his eyes. Surprise. Condescension.
You can't let go?
Her lips quirk up soundlessly, in a lucid smile, before she drags her eyes away, to where her fingers are buried.
She is no longer looking, but that makes him drown even faster.
He ceases to exist, he thinks.
" I'm glad I knew you, Gilbert. "
Lies, he thinks feverishly. All he needs are these cesspools of green, and words would just be another excuse, to deny the truth.
She's not looking at me.
Then, her touch fades away all together, as she pulls back, and without another word, nor a look, she just turns, skirts not even rustling.
After a hitched breath that hardly graces his ears, she breaks into a run.
He watches her, brown hair and all, skirts, boots, all in motion, swinging, rustling, moving. Further away from him.
Running far, far away, from him.
He watches, as the object of all his insane, inane affections, desires, advances, all squashed uneasily with its own desire for another (that wasn't him) into one, ran far way from him, and into the waiting, patient arms of said another.
Brown hair, maturity, prudishness, frigid, sophistication, penny-pinching. All that he isn't. That thought echoes in his already soon-to-be blank slate of a mind.
He wants to turn away, but he cannot.
He has to savor his last glimpse, he thinks.
He watches her embrace him, with all the love he has for her (no, he loves her more than she loves the man who is not him). The image of her pressing their lips together sears unforgivably into his mind, forget about that blank slate.
Not one more glance for him.
It is true. He ceases to exist.
Kiku could very well be mistaken for a statue, from the rain-glazed windows, looking in.
He is an absolute example of calm, many say.
That is not true, because they have never seen him in his insides, the black core, coated, slathered with many layers of falseness. He is so calm, and all too cool because he feels as rotten and shaken as how composed he is.
His thoughts are eating away at him, corroding him slowly. It is tarnishing his remnants. He is no longer full, but instead has a huge gap.
It needs to be filled.
Snippets of warnings, cautions and pleadings are darting around him.
He needs to be filled, to be healed, cured, but what has held him and his people (his being) through all the thousands of years, is simply, holding him back.
What is unravelling him has also kept him sane, respected.
He is here today because of his
His
His
His
He wonders what Yao (Yao, with the pale skin and hair like ivory, with four thousand years and those hurt, full, brimming eyes) would think of him now.
Yao.
When Heracles catches Kiku's lost, empty eyes at the ajar front door, from inside of the cozy kitchen, over spilling with the heady scent of incense mixed with rain, he doesn't say anything, but instead, holds his gaze for a few (minutes, hours, days) moments, then slinks back inside.
Kiku hasn't even thrown his raincoat over himself, and he's already out the door.
Time is of essence.
Only when he is at Yao's front door, knocking, does he realise the gravity of his actions.
He pulls back, stops, mid-knock. What does he say?
Warnings, warnings, warnings.
He has never felt so close to breaking, unravelling, crumbling.
What does he say?
He is far too reasonable, far too proud, he won't listen, and I'm a fool. I should have- I shouldn't have- I'm a fool.
A pair of light brown (so dark, so full) eyes stare into his own. He jerks away, uneasily with a start.
He hasn't even realized that the door has opened.
"...Kiku..?"
Yao says it so slowly, the syllables rolling off his tongue. It's as if he's tasting the sound of Kiku's name, Kiku himself, when in fact, Kiku knows that they haven't seen each other for so long.
Tongues have almost already forgotten names.
When Kiku has already done that favor for Yao, so many years and decades and many minds ago.
It will not do to think of the past.
Is Yao alone?
He is not.
"Jao..?" The words strike Kiku like a punch. He wants to 'unhear' it, erase that voice.
He, who took him away.
Kiku sees Ivan, ambling up behind Yao, tall and strapping, huge and magnificent.
He can almost see how Ivan clings to Yao every day, as Ivan's large, white hands land on Yao's small, slender shoulders, clothed in simple white cotton. (He is wearing a Hello Kitty shirt.) Rather protectively, he thinks, with a sort of dislike surging up. He can also see how much Yao loves Ivan. Small, slightly yellow hands silently inching back to grasp at the hem of Ivan's shirt. Their intimacy was almost a sin, because it reminded Kiku that if he did not rot, he could've been Ivan and Ivan would've been him.
"Honda..? Is that you..?" The thick accent is there, and it only reminds Kiku of what has already made Yao his.
"Kiku..?"
When Kiku opens his mouth to speak, he stammers a little, as usual, soft as always.
Yao frowns.
Kiku freezes in his tracks.
"Say something, Kiku. What's wrong? Why aren't you with Heracles?"
I can't, I can't
Behind Yao, Kiku senses Ivan rumbling uncomfortably. Ivan is Ivan. Has always been. He knows emotions, and people. When Kiku relaxes his muscles enough again, Ivan's face is emotionless, but also, a lost child frolics in his dark, violet orbs.
But, it is also cold.
Just once, he seems to be telling him. Just once, for he is mine for the rest of... everything, to the end.
"Kiku, say-"
Kiku sees the Russian step back, reluctantly, jerkily. And looks away stonily.
Before Yao (Yao, with the scar on his back, with the Russian, with the 'aru') can continue asking him these pointless, meaningless questions, Kiku leans forward once, just once, and Yao falls silent, when Kiku's lips are against his, and his hands are tangled in his hair, Yao's smell, Yao's eyes, his being, his culture, it is him, (and therefore is Yao). Kiku cries inside, shaking slightly, trembling even, when Yao doesn't resist, and instead, even pulls him closer into Yao himself (Yao, with the peonies, and pandas, and Kitty-chan), Yao, Yao.
Yao. He is kissing Yao, just like he has dreamed for millions of years, and every second, and every night, when he took these slow, lazy walks, and wished at the sky, for Yao, for Yao.
Thank you. Thank you.
Later, when Yao has pulled away, nothing but understanding, wistfulness (smarting?), on his beautiful face, Kiku knows that it is time to go.
He feels full once more.
Everything is happening too fast. All too fast for him.
He watches as the door slides close, and watches as Ivan reclaims his Yao. (Yao, who will never be and never was, his)
He turns, stiffly, to walk, the cold and wet road home.
Heracles was his true love, but Yao was Yao.
And he was his first.
Somewhere in the frost of the North, a hulk of a bespectacled man stands next to a petite, wispy frame of another.
They are shielded from the biting, snapping, needling cold, inside the hulk's tired little cottage.
They don't sit, because then, it would be all too intimate.
" I should go." The smaller one speaks up.
In reply, the hulk stiffens. " S' cold out's'de, Tino."
" Berwald. I don't need to stay here any longer."
Tino winces immediately after saying it, when he realises what his words may imply. " I mean, it was kind of you, but I need to get back and all-"
Berwald slams into Tino, wrapping his thick arms swathed with polyester and cotton for the winter around him. The impact causes Tino to freeze, it is too sudden. He can't breathe. Being too close to Berwald does devastating things to his mind.
It is merely a hug, but it says so much more.
Tino softens, and leans into the embrace. And when he feels the wet, hot trail pooling onto his neck, and the sudden moistness of the air around him, he says, " Or I guess I don't need to."
Berwald doesn't let go.
When Ludwig offers to make pasta for lunch, Feliciano gives him the biggest smile ever, and almost squeezes half the life out of him with an enthusiastic hug.
Ludwig thinks that it is too painful, to have only a few more hours of Feliciano, having Feliciano, loving him, and taking care of him. (Pasta obsession, lazy naps, stupid smiles and all)
It all ends tomorrow.
Pressing a quick, sweet and somewhat searing kiss to Feliciano's small, peaked forehead, (Feliciano tilts his head up for it, while laughing his silvery laugh) Ludwig swears quietly to himself that he will love and remember all and every bit of Feliciano, long after the world has gone black and only the cold remains.
When Antonio is quiet, Lovino feels that the world has ground to a halt and has lost something.
He spends too many days with his infuriating laughter and twiddly, cuddly babyish nicknames, to find it almost endearing.
So subtle are his everyday words, but when unspoken, the lack of presence is not subtle at all.
He finds the idiot (his idiot) in the kitchen, sitting at the rosewood table (Lovino still thinks it to be ugly), staring blankly, (not idly, like he always did) at the shaft of sunlight streaming into their spacious kitchen from the dusty window.
The cheerful colors, that the kitchen is painted in, suddenly feels too bright and overwhelming, choking even.
Or maybe it was just the silence of Antonio.
At these rare moments, Lovino would stand there and wonder what exactly Antonio was thinking of, while drinking the entire sight of him in. Dust specks spiraled aimlessly in the light, around Antonio. He looked too serious to be Lovino's Romano (with the hugs, warm touches and crazy grins).
"...Querido?"
Lovino starts, taken by surprise. He didn't expect Antonio to say anything after being silent for so long. " W-what?" He almost snaps the word out, but his tone falters a little, and it becomes a stammer.
Antonio shifts in his chair; the sunlight glints nicely off of his reddish-brown curls (Lovino would curl his fingers into them, when Antonio fell asleep in his lap) and faces Lovino. His face is surprisingly gentle, Lovino thinks, after seeing the face devoid of emotion.
" Come here, muy tomato." Antonio's arms are outstretched, to give him a hug, to welcome him into one.
But to Lovino, he suddenly feels as if Antonio is drowning somewhere, inside his mind, he is desperate to be saved.
For once, Lovino stays quiet, and doesn't snap back, doesn't make a sound, does not push, and instead, settles himself nicely into the crook of Antonio's lap, buries himself deep into his arms.
Antonio takes a deep, shuddering breath, not unlike the ones he used to give when Lovino was much younger (Lovino doesn't remember to be a good child) and rests his head on Lovino's neck. The warmth is somewhat comforting.
Lovino lets Antonio take in as much of him as he can.
" Querido... I wish I could have you longer. I wish tomorrow would never come."
Oh. Oh.
He was causing this silence, this loss, this change.
And tomorrow would be inevitable.
When Antoino starts stroking his forehead, choppily, but also softly, Lovino has to try so hard, not to break, and not to let the tears flow, because, because, Antonio loves him so much.
Arthur thought he saw Alfred's baby blue eyes smolder (fire smoulders), before he shut them tight and pressed his soft, wonderful lips to Arthur's.
Never, ever, ever let go.
Arms were locked even tighter, and even when sweat started trickling down into the nooks and crannies of their shirts and stuck them uncomfortably to their backs.
The friction between them, made the fact that they had each other, all for themselves, all together even more real and so blissfully and wonderfully aware. The denim of the jeans hurt, but it meant that they had each other.
Never, ever.
They would still be like this, even when tomorrow came and threatened to yank them apart. (And how their hearts would bleed)
Katyusha gapes, when she sees her unexpected visitor, and she wrings her hands nervously.
" Oh, it's-"
She is cut off when the thickly swaddled being, crashes into her assets, and squeezes her tight, honey blond hair spilling messily over the clothed shoulders, in rivers.
Natalya looks up, and Katyusha sees the broken, wet and red face that she has never seen for so many years already. She has almost forgotten it.
" Big brother is... Is still..." It comes out too sharp and choked, and it makes Katyusha's stomach curl oddly and her chest twist. " With... With him..."
Katyusha sighs, and brings her hands to rub Natalya's heavy, soft back, in its slow comforting circles. "...Do you still like borscht, Natalya?"
When her door is shut, the salty and thick scent of the dish, lingers in the frigid and frosty air from Katyusha's kitchen.
It is dinner time.
And the twentieth is almost.
Vash can't help, but open his eyes, halfway through Lili's giving-thanks, because her voice is shaking and he can hear suspicious and disturbing sniffles.
Only to find her eyes painfully bright and wet, as she gazes right at him, never wavering.
"... And I thank God for my brother, Vash, and I, I, never ever want the world to end... I don't want tomorrow to come... "
His knuckles are white, and it stings, as the grip on his gun, always by his side, grows tighter, and tighter, until all he feels is hard, cold metal, ever so familiar and fond to his touch.
"Papa?"
"Matthieu."
The normally affectionate Francis, acknowledges Matthew with a turn of his head, smiling wistfully at him. No hugs. No kisses.
Nothing.
"Papa, it's midnight soon, and you're still-"
Francis inclines his head, and with a somewhat sad lilt to his tone, jerks his thumb at the empty spot next to him in the recliner. "Come here and sit."
Matthew shifts in his spot until comfortable, and also noticing the lack of a certain... Something.
"Papa, where's that girl?"
A smile cracks across Francis' lips as he chuckles. "I told her to go home, mon Cherie. She is only human, after all. She has people to be with."
"A-aa."
"Wine, Mathieu?" A glass of wine hovers before him, swaying, at Francis' hand. "Nothing ever goes wrong with wine. And what better way to accompany the end?"
Matthew clicks his tongue and huffs fondly, for his papa and his never changing ways. "Wine and pleasures of the body are all you think of. "
His papa shakes his head, although he does let a dry laugh loose. "You forgot family, Mathieu."
"Arthur isn't here."
And Francis' head fills with all possible scenarios, of the hot-headed, thick-browed Brit. He lingers over the last, and all too predictable possibility. The blue-eyed, arrogant glutton with a love for his Angleterre that could compete against his own.
He imagines both of them entwined together, interlocked and lost in their own world where even he, loud and inescapable and too flamboyant to ignore, did not exist.
"... Yes, " He murmurs, with a voice that does not crack with pain, (but wishes to) "Le Angleterre is not here, with us, tonight."
So many years together... And not even with him at the end.
He shakes his head slightly, and turns to his little Canadian.
"Cheers, and here's to the end, mon petit Mathieu."
End.
Hi guys, this is saya-taroppyu here. I hope you enjoyed the fic! ^^
This was written for the twenty first of December, so that is why there is so much grief in it. It is suppose to portray how they spend their last day.
If you like it, do leave a review! ^^ Thank you for taking your time to read this.