"Where are the people?" resumed the little prince at last. "It's a little lonely in the desert..."
"It is lonely when you're among people, too" said the snake."

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Of Leaving

Nezumi decides he hates rain.

It hasn't stopped for three days and the knee high water flooding the backstreets of No.2 prevents him to go out and make enough money to feed himself. The Bookbinder's Shop is closed. No one in their right mind would go out in a flood to get their books bound anyway. He knows it and there is nothing he can do about it but it still makes him infuriated. He doesn't like to be idle, doesn't like to be left with nothing to do when he can't occupy himself with something and focus on the pain on his calloused hands as he bends and bends and bends and just… doesn't think.

The last time he has put food in his mouth was two days ago when he had begrudgingly eaten the only thing edible he had left; a piece of stale bread and some left-over dried plums. His stomach grumbles where he lays and even his dated copy of Paradise Lost with its weathered yellow pages can't keep his mind off of how painfully hungry he is. Nezumi pushes himself off the bed and walks to the window maybe for the sixth time that day.

The saturnine sky shows no sign of clearing as the thick, leaden clouds swirl and move with intimidating speed. The rain patters against his window― a mere layer of glass, too thin to keep the cold out― and the tin roof above his head. The only cooking pot he has is on the floor, aligned under the largest crack on his ceiling to hold the water seeping in. The sound of it dripping inside the make-shift pool drives Nezumi insane. He has already lost count of times he has had to get up and empty the pot to prevent it from overflowing on his mold infested and creaking floorboards.

He hates being trapped like this. He hates being stationary, not being able to move, to get away… not being able to run. This solitude is the very thing he can no longer stand. He hates being confined in his own mind. He hates that low whisper reigning over his thoughts when there is nothing louder to shut it out. He hates the way he can't distract himself from it when his hands and feet have nothing to do. He can't stop the feeling… the urge stir right behind the walls he has put up to distance himself from everything he needs to get away from. He can feel it crawl, raise its head and writhe behind layers and layers of defenses. It lurks in the silence between his heartbeats, waiting for the first moment of weakness to claim him.

He glares at the sky and thinks he hates gray too. It's the color of unforgiving cold and ash and the entire dome creaking above his head is gray and gray and infinitely gray as far as the eyes can see. There is no brilliance, no light, no opening. Just a dull, merciless color of everything dead. It's almost impossible to believe the sky is as blue as ever above the thick layer of clouds.

Drip. Drip.

―What the fuck am I doing here... I should have gone to No.4 with those gypsies I met on my way to this rotten place. Even a tent would be better than this pathetic excuse of a room.

Chirp, chirp, chirp.

Nezumi turns his head to look at the low chirping. Hamlet is on his hind legs on the bed, apparently no longer asleep in Nezumi's scarf where his master left it there for him and his brown friend to nestle in.

"Sorry, Hamlet. It seems we'll sleep hungry today too."

Hamlet scurries down the bed and climbs up Nezumi's shoulder. Nuzzling his tiny nose against his ear he chirps and Nezumi raises his hand to stroke him with cold fingers. He leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. The iciness of the wind outside pushes against the glass and Nezumi feels his forehead go numb in a matter of seconds but he doesn't pull away. It's comforting in a way that it is cold enough to halt his thought process. He breathes and watches his breath dye the window glass with more of the gray he despises.

"It'll probably clear in a few hours. Then I'll go try to scrounge a bit of bread or maybe some meat if I can find any unless I can convince them to accept a day's delay in payment… Hang in there only a bit longer, alright?"

Hamlet's light weight on his shoulder and the warmth of his tiny body is the only source of heat in his entire room. He lets slip an acid smile as another memory fragment flashes in the most secluded parts of his mind despite the haze in his head caused by the wave of hunger and sleep deprivation. The ghost of a hand; warm and gentle, closes around his own.

―No. Nezumi grits his teeth.

―Don't you go there.

―Don't you dare… go there.

Nezumi stares into the gray a bit longer and then pushes away from the window. Going back to his bed he sinks down on the hard mattress. Hamlet jumps from his shoulder and goes back to curl up with Cravat as his master pulls the single rag of a blanket over himself and picks up Paradise Lost again.

For an hour or so Nezumi really tries to focus on the book despite the clamor of the storm and the dripping of the water. At Book IX he gets up to empty the pot in the sink again only to lie back down and clench his jaw to keep from shivering. He pulls his legs up to his chest to preserve his body heat but with no food to burn and consequently keep him warm; he is plainly freezing. He locks his jaw to prevent the involuntary shudders and forces his mind to focus on the book.

So dear I love him that with him, all deaths
I could endure. Without him, live no life.

Nezumi is suddenly assaulted with the fiery urge to throw the book across the room as his eyes flare up but instead he closes it shut, tosses it on the bed and turns his back to the room, facing the wall. The once creamy yellow paint of it has faded into a pale ivory in time. There are so many cracks in the plaster Nezumi thinks it looks like a huge basket made of straw.

―A basket of mice, he thinks to himself. A basket of mice left in a river. We just don't have any pampered royalty to save us from drowning.

Nezumi smiles bitterly at his own weakness as his hands clench tightly around his forearms pressed firmly against his shivering form. Like the rabid rain seeping into his decrepit motel room through layers of tin, planks of wood and straw, he is seeping into his mind. The cold is driving him insane. The only memory of warmth he has, glows crystalline behind his eyelids, taunting his petty, desultory efforts to ignore it. Such a glorious invitation… A mirage for his tired eyes… a slow burning fire for his frigid bones… a forbidden consolation for his worn heart. Like a siren's call in the infinite depths of a livid ocean, Nezumi is drawn to it. He is too cold to turn his back to it. Too hungry to fight. Too tired to pretend. He closes his eyes.

It's the scent that wakes him up. Filling his lungs with each languid inhalation; it is so close, so poignant. His hazy mind frees itself from the arms of sleep and Nezumi's eyes open.

He is holding him. Sometime during the night, he has turned around from the wall, towards the boy he is sharing his bed with and he has held him. Drawn to his warmth, his vitality, his peacefulness… it isn't the first time this has happened but never once before, had he found himself breathing against the pale scar coiling around that frail neck. The tips of white locks brush against the bridge of his nose, his lips merely a few millimeters away from the fiery skin.

He needs to pull away (His arms won't move).. turn around and let the boy go (his body remains still) He needs to put distance between them (He can feel his heartbeat) He needs to stop breathing him in (another inhale leaks into his lungs).

Nezumi feels lightheaded. The boy is asleep, he can hear him breathe. Evenly, regularly.. beautifully.His skin is burning ―how can someone be so warm? ―his lips ache to feel the fire emitting from it. The longing stirs in the core of his being, his breath hitches against the red snake, his head spins, the hair on his arms stands on ends…

... Nezumi turns away.

The coldness of his hand at the first touch almost makes him gasp. He grits his teeth. His palm moves and every insubstantial defense, every lie, every layer he has put up in the expanse of three years he has been traveling, shatters into pieces. Memories flood into his mind, tingle across his skin, burn in his eyes and pierce his heart. Nezumi lets out a subdued moan; a pained sound filled with everything he hates to hear in his voice.

"I'm glad I met you."

It is barely a whisper. The boy leans down; crimson eyes hold his own gaze and lips brush against his.

A feather-light touch of velvet fire. Such a sweet poison.

Such audacity. Such arrogance.

Such a beautiful lie.

Nezumi feels his heart ache.

Silver eyes glow through long eyelashes. Nezumi turns his head to stifle his pants into the unyielding felting of his pillow. He feels like he is drawing bits and remnants of warmth from his memories by force. They shoot through his nerves, prickling across his icy skin and gather in the core of his being. His hand moves, his heart races…

… he is looking at him.

The hand around his arm tightens.

The boy speaks, voice small, fleeting… he is crying.

"Nezumi, the world means nothing to me without you. Nothing."

Nezumi hooks a finger on his chin and makes the boy meet his gaze.

A sea of crimson greets him. He stares into a pair of knowing eyes.. knowing and hurting.

―Ah… so you've finally realized, haven't you?

―Now, you also understand.. what this is.

He speaks to the boy teasingly. His feet tingle with the call of the earth. His body light, ready to take flight. He will leave. He will leave now. The boy needs to understand.

"Nezumi, I'm serious―" is all the boy says.. all he can say before Nezumi's lips break the gasp that spills from his mouth. He can't pull back and yet he has to. He has to keep it short, chaste, fluttery… his will crumbles, lips cave in, they claim the warmth fiercely. The taste explodes in his mouth, a heady aphrodisiac. He is stealing a moment of heaven from the boy he is indefinitely condemning to hell.

The name ascends with the blinding heat in his abdomen. Nezumi's free hand fists around the pillow as he groans into it. His heart is in his throat; with every staggering beat it bleeds out tears he will not cry. With each move of his hand, Nezumi pulls out the blazing fire within his body. Eyes shut tight to keep out the sight of his pathetic life, ears deaf to the endless dripping sound, Nezumi heaves a savaging sigh. Tremulous and deep, he exhales and the name spills through his cracked lips, rustling against the fiber of his flavescent pillowcase,

"Shion…"

"I am drawn to you, Nezumi."

"Shion…"

"Nothing scares me more than the thought of losing you, Nezumi."

"..Shhion…"

"Don't go, Nezumi. I want to be by your side. I want you to be by my side. That's all I wish for."

"Shi―on…"

Last vowels of his name drown in an elision. Nezumi feels his sanity, his reason, his sense of reality hang at the end of a filament. Waves of fire inexorably lick across his skin, riding his heartbeat to the peak and stripping him of the air in his chest. A flash of light leaves its imprint on his retinas as his body shakes uncontrollably with a release almost too powerful for his weakened state. His lips part, forehead pressed against the pillow and Nezumi feels the warmth spread out and envelope him, much like Shion's arms did, so many years ago. For a fraction of a single second he is set free from the pain that has been eating him alive and the longing that has been tugging at the end of each inhale with the weight of tons he can't shoulder. For a mere moment, he can feel arms around him, hear a cheerful voice, see the tender glow of curious red and smell the succulent aroma of the boy he has left behind. For a moment, he can breathe, jagged and unstable and yet, a full breath that feeds every pore of his suffocating body.

It only takes a mere moment for the pain to hit him. Sharp and intense; it jolts through his nerves, disrupting the somnolent waves of his short-lived release. Pulling his hand from in between his legs, Nezumi stares at his white coated fingers. The wetness on his skin catches on the cold as few drops slid down his wrist. He forces a haughty smile on his lips but it breaks before it's completely fabricated. His sight goes blurry, his body shrinks, shaking under the single blanket he has and Nezumi lies in his bed, doing what he has always done the best ―surviving, until he falls asleep with the taste of salt on his lips.

I am actually sorry for writing this. It has been painful for me but it has been on my mind for ages and it had to be written. After months of postponing it, I finally finished the first chapter. Considering how short it is, its unforgivable that it took me so long but I think... it was the emotions that I was avoiding.

I hope despite the tone of sorrow and pain, you'll catch what I meant to convey with this.

I dedicate this to two people who shaped my life in 2012. One of them made me see myself in a completely new angle, in a view I had never considered myself being in. She gave me warmth, laughter, inspiration, miracles and a healthy dose of heartache. I am no longer the same person I was last year and I have her to thank for that. As Nezumi says "Some debts can never be paid," but I sure as hell will try my hardest.
Jackie, thank you for everything I experienced through your hands. You will always be invaluable to me.

And the other is the one person who came into my life in the rightest moment and saved not only my sanity but my faith in things that matter to me as well. She is without a doubt the most startlingly complex person I know but to me that is only a challenge. Time is my ally and you, my dear, shall always remain in my life. Whetheryoulikeitornot :/
Fan, thank you for the aching jaws, ample amount of 'feels' and the impromptu Nezushi drabbles. Talking to you gives me infinite peace.

PS! There will be a second chapter for this fanfiction. It will be named 'Of Waiting' and it will be Shion-centric. Expect parallels in every sense of the word.

Pixiv Illustration ID for the Cover Art= (21778690)