It always seemed as if there was a glass between him and the world. Everything was so ephemeral, so unreal. As if it was going to vanish the very moment he averted his gaze. As if it existed only in his eyes - just like children use to imagine no-one would see them when they close their eyes, and the world isn't there as long as they don't look.
He could laugh, joke and be nice. He could eat, study and sleep. And always, always felt it was all but a dream, enfolding him like a cocoon. Without a touch. His own emotions, sensations and feelings seemed so unimportant and insignificant. Not real. He was spinning left and right, up and down, never really certain where he was headed, carried away by the wind with no footing. He never knew if he would ever find a landing and what would follow, then. As if he was to disappear anyway.
A snowflake.
When he was looking at his hands, it was so hard to believe he had them. He wasn't sure whether their touch was real. He was afraid to stretch an arm, for he could meet no resistance. He was afraid to look around, for there might be only grey fog - tranquillizing, sedating, but empty. Lifeless.
Now, he knew he hadn't even been a human.
He had eyes that kept looking. He had hands that kept touching. He had a voice that, sometimes, rang with laughter. Still, he was only a substitute of a man, forced out from someone's mind. Created without asking, for some purpose he hadn't even been aware of. He was, he existed, and he breathed. And he supposed no-one in the world could feel more unworthy.
He hadn't known what a peace was. Suspended in the air, he was falling in every direction at once, with constant feeling he was about to disappear. By himself, he wouldn't know what a peace was.
But he wasn't by himself.
There was Tōya - and this changed everything.
Tōya had magical power: he gave shape and sense. With Tōya, only with Tōya, he converged into entity - as if all spinning snowflakes conglomerated - and experience what it meant to live. As if he waked up from a dream and discovered he had the very same beating heart. Sometimes, he even wondered whether he existed in another time and place - or it was just Tōya, capable of bringing him into reality.
A touch became a touch; everything felt so sharp under his fingertips. His eyes caught every detail, so precisely, and every smell in the air seemed a taste of life. Laughter sounded like a crystal, and that particular, wonderful warmth inside him told him that yes, there was nothing more real than that.
He didn't really exist without Tōya.
If Tōya hadn't given him his power, a man - being - named Yukito would have disappeared. If Tōya hadn't been there, Yukito wouldn't have been there, too. But, in the end, it wasn't about that power. Even if Tōya had given it to him and then left, gone past him, never sparing a single look, Yukito would have been an invisible particle in the air, a snowflake that melted before anyone could notice.
After receiving Tōya's power, the surrounding world didn't become more real to him, not in the slightest - but it didn't matter, for Yukito's whole world was only Tōya.
And Tōya accepted this.
It wasn't an easy thing to accede - and, in the same time, there was nothing he could have desired more that that. It would do for the rest of his time: to only look at Tōya. Staying with Tōya, he had a chance to live his life.
He would give Tōya all of his - if only Tōya let him.
He didn't want to be a parasite - and Tōya had given him everything without asking. He didn't want to only take - just like he had been always taking from their both. He didn't want to deceive and delude - like he had been almost doing with Sakura.
He had told Sakura he didn't really know about Tōya's feelings, and Sakura had said they couldn't be so different from his own.
Could he believe it? But, if not that, then what else? And... there was nothing to lose, in the end.
He would give Tōya all of his.
Sometimes Tōya put a hand on his shoulder - and it was so real. Sometimes Tōya touched his cheek - and there was nothing more perfect than this touch. Sometimes Tōya cupped his face and was only looking, his bright eyes so serious - so unsure! - and so warm their gaze didn't melt down even one snowflake. He was looking as if Yukito was the only thing in the world.
And Yukito knew the closer Tōya was the more real he himself became.
How close could he ever be? Because sometimes, when Tōya was looking at him, something in Yukito tried to break free and wished... and Yukito didn't even understand it, and he would - in some other place and with someone else - be afraid...
But not with Tōya. Sakura had told that Tōya can be mean, and if he was ever mean to Yukito... But that thought made Yukito smile. In his strange, short existence, he had never been sure of anything but this: Tōya would never, ever hurt him. Tōya, his every part, his every move and breath - it all made Yukito happy. He did tremble - he felt it in his hands and chest, everywhere under his skin - but it was not with fear.
He didn't have the past, but looking at Tōya he was under the impression he could see the future. Was it his desire, or perhaps Tōya's, or even something that simply could - was to - happen one day... He could see it as clearly as the face of the man who was his world.
Maybe he would embrace him one day? Maybe their lips would meet? Maybe they would even become one?
He didn't know if it was possible - he wasn't even a human; he had no idea of anything - he only knew, with all himself, he would give Tōya anything.
He could only hope it would be enough. He could only trust his words.
'As long as you are at my side, I don't care about anything else.'
Only trust...
He smiled at the thought that it didn't take much to create a snowflake. His faith was more than a water drop.
He felt he would never stop smiling.