Title: drips of perpetuity
Summary: Some things just wouldn't be getting better.
Prompt (given by Ming): Rin walking in on Yukio laying in a pool of his own blood. (A bit altered.)
Rating: T
Warnings: death
Genre: drama/angst
Disclaimer: I don't own aoex. I don't even really own Rin, although he seems to have invaded my mind.
Author's note: This was supposed to be a drabble, though it turned out to be slightly longer. Dedicated to Ming for being my 50th follower on my Rin account, and for being an awesome friend. I hate you for this prompt, though.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His steps are resonating across the pillars and empty walls. Each step comes back to his ears three times more after it was taken, and yet the next one again. His legs seem to know their destination better than he himself does, but he doesn't mind. Anticipation is in the air, though, what for, he wouldn't be able to tell. The walk seems endless, the columns reach up to a roof he cannot see, and what had once been a tiny church is now a cathedral, with mica in the windows, and a carpet between the benches with the colour of long since dried-up blood.
He was coming home here, but it's not home anymore. The feeling of comfort has disappeared a long while ago – but that's still not what he is searching for.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
He would ask himself where he is going, but the question somehow seems pointless, as if he knew already before even asking that there is no answer. The only thing he knows is that eventually he will find something – and the feeling that clenches his stomach into a tight knot is one of expectancy that borders fear; for what he will find might turn his world upside down once again.
He would ask himself why he is going, then, if all that awaits him is disruption, but he doesn't have a choice, for he cannot stop, and he cannot even question anymore.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Drip.
The single sound of a water droplet crashing onto the ground seems to cut into the monotone recurrence of his footsteps' echo. There is a door, and he stops in the middle, an arm raised to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of ice cold sunlight reflecting from crystallic white snow everywhere around.
Drip.
Not all of it is white.
Drip. Drip.
The first thing he sees, as soon as he can allow himself to lower his hand slightly, having gotten used to the blinding light, is the hand. Palm upwards, fingers curling slightly together, but just the slightest bit; the feel of the sight is limp, unmoving, not even the slightest jerk of it. It's entirely unnatural, he'd never sleep in such a pose, he's too composed, this isn't–
Instead of the usual tap, the snow gives a crunching noise under his boots as he takes a step closer. The second thing to notice is the eyes; the greenish tinted jade blue is boring into his own azure pair, and yet his heart is in his throat all of a sudden, for all that is reflecting in them is emptiness.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The third – and last – thing he notices is the colour crimson, and all it signifies. Nonexistent vitality. Life seeping away. Loss. He feels numb as he falls to his knees, taking that hand in his – the feel of it is cold and rigid, he can barely fit his own fingers in between –, still gazing into that pair of eyes that are usually so full of life, tingling with an unspoken smile, or flashing with anger; either would be welcome now, but there is nothing, and soon enough, he can't even see anything anymore through the blur everything melts into as a veil clouds his eyes.
Drip.
He doesn't care that the snow is soaking through his pants, up to his knees as he sits on his heels, the other's head pulled onto his lap; that jade is staring up at him accusingly, and the drip is not just of blood anymore – it's of tears.
Waking felt like emerging from a pool of frozen water. Rin sat up with a jolt, his heart racing as if he had been running for hours, his hand raised, as if he were trying to grab something just out of his reach. Somehow, this dream felt worse than any previous ones. Its end was abrupt, without closure, and Rin was grateful for that; he didn't know what kind of accusations he would have ended up in if it hadn't. Most of his similar dreams ended up with him blaming himself for all the death that happened around him, regardless of whether anyone was at fault to begin with. To have that missing this time was a relief and somehow a disappointment at the same time.
He fell back on his pillows, staring up at the ceiling of his bed. Strangely, there were no tears this time; even his heartbeat was beginning to slow down slightly. But somehow, the lack of tears brought an even more bitter feeling with them; one of resignation.
Because, if he couldn't even cry anymore...
it meant that some things just wouldn't be getting better.
-FIN-
A/N: Well, writing this stabbed me in the feelings. Reviews are much welcome!