Disclaimer: I do not own SNK nor its characters. OTHERWISE MARCO WOULDN'T HAVE DIED, DAMMIT! RAGE = 100


"And the end comes too soon, like dreaming of angels…and leaving without them."

xxx

Marco takes Jean's hand, and his senses are heightened. He can feel each cool blade of grass pressed against his figure, each ray of sunshine landing upon his face, each fiber of hair shifting in the breeze. There are no Titans here. There is no death, no sorrow, no heartbreak. The things here know no suffering or hardship. There is only euphoria. There is only Jean and Marco.

Jean takes a deep breath just as two birds soar across the sky. He watches them as they fly past the sun, momentarily eclipsing the scene-only it's never illuminated again. Nighttime has fallen, a starless sky overhead, the moon veiled behind gray clouds. Marco's warmth has abruptly perished, replaced by chilled fingers and a dispirited atmosphere. Jean's hand tightens into a death grip, his knuckles whitening as his bones begin to ache. His stomach coils into a knot, chest constricting as nausea consumes him. His own body is smothering him, suffocating him. There's no way out.

There's no escaping.

"Hey…Marco…"

Jean's voice wavers, his hand trembling in Marco's slack grip. It sounds pitiful and heartbreaking, even to his own ears. He forces himself to look, and comes face to face with a face that isn't Marco's. It can't possibly be Marco's. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, hazy under the film of death. A mouth that once smiled is contorted into a mask of lifelessness. The expression must feel outlandish to his friendly muscles. Half of his body is absent, ripped away from this cruel world by the dreadful hands of the Grim Reaper. Shreds of his flesh were strung as if they, too, were trying to vanish into the safety of the underworld.

xxx

"Marco!"

Nobody comes to console Jean anymore. They bury themselves deeper into their pillows, trying to forbid his wretched cries from reaching their eardrums; a futile attempt at escaping the pangs of despair that prick their hearts. Empathy was an abominable feeling that nobody dared to experience. They had to obliterate the emotion, for it would destroy them all.

And so Jean lies in bed, alone, sobbing horrendously and without restraint. He pretends that Marco is whispering sweet words to him, reassuring him. He imagines warm breath against his ear, warm lips against his, warm arms wrapped around him.

Reality is a bitter thing.


A/N: I'm definitely not proud of this, but I haven't written in 2,235,192,345,237 years because of school, so I had to write something. The quote at the beginning is from the song Angels by The XX. ^.^ Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed, & please review. c: