Notes
SPOILER
Guren when his friends were dead. Just a drabble cause me bored.
It's the ticking of the clock again. Never ending, keep on going forever. Doesn't freeze, even when his world is collapsing.
(If only he were dead, just like them.)
It's not even a year yet, but he's too used to the cackle of laughs around him. The smiles and easy air from them, easing his pain. Too used hearing Mito and Goshi, bickering from an end to never. His tongue still tasted like Sayuri's homemade curry. Sometimes he looks behind, feeling the shadow of Shigure with her sharp eyes. The warmth on his shoulders, everytime Shinya threw his hand around him and laughed.
Now, it's the ticking of the clock. The silhouettes in the blinds. The deafening silence.
Guren feels weary. As if his skin is strung too tight, his veins dripping in venom, and bones cracking inside. But he's not. Because Guren is—despite how he feels—sixteen. Young, and a teenager with awkward limbs haven't blossomed into mature hood yet.
They were, too. Sixteen, and too young. And gone, from the world.
(She too, sixteen and degenerating from the demons haunting her for so long.
So young, and yet—)
He let his hands hover over the body encased in magic. Pale and bluish. Corpses—but not. The soft sweep of silver hair over the pillow. Eyelids over blue irises—missing the fire from the soul beneath.
The magic is draining him, energy, life and soul—and Guren frankly doesn't care. Let them take everything from him, from the world who has stolen them from him. For these—precious beings for him—to be back around. Easing his nightmares, dispelling the silhouettes.
And to stop the deafening silence.