You cradled Dreams like they'd save Your Life

In Your Right hand that Contained Your Strife

You Prayed-that hand that was Shaking in Mine

And we Married beneath the tree that had Died in our Youth

I, Holder of that Strife that You left behind in Soot

And Ashes in my hand after They Cremated You

Cremated Us

Not only You

I only Wish that I had Died too

-O-

I should have known nothing good would come of falling in love.

Especially with my estranged and suicidal cousin, Shisui.

But...

I guess I've always been a masochist.

Love. All I really know of it is the pain of loss and abandonment.

I don't scream. I don't cry. I bleed, lovingly. I let myself hurt because it's the most fascinating feeling in the world. I succumb to pain, laying in bed as a thrumming ache works its way up into my chest, my heart unresponsive to the threat of bursting. My emotions skirr in lieu of aching tendons when I dare myself to run from the pain. I accept the names bestowed on me by all that I know, "Emo," "Depressing," "A loner."

But I can only ever smile...laugh, and take it on the nose. Because I don't think they'll ever know what it is, exactly, that drives me to such seclusion.

Beautiful...beautiful...beautiful...

He would consistantly chant that beneath his husky breath, esurience dripping like the waterfall that makes the Nakano, where we would hide from the world and pretend ourselves dead.

Do you believe me when I say we would pass the time imagining ways to die together? We would borderline ridiculous, claiming we could scream until polyps formed and grew so large, we suffocated as we held hands beneath an unforgiving, yet witnessing sun. Can someone die from screaming? Probably...if other circumstances took effect. Hemorrhage of the brain, from the stress...that's a way...

But I don't scream...so that's a bother.

We would dream that we could die together, peacefully. Even so, his image of peace was so obscured after the war...after his father perished in war...that his idea of peace was sacrifice, throwing himself into fire to feel warmth...

I will not deny he scared me at times. His eyes always seemed to flicker red in the most inadvertant ways, sidelong glances turning into furious gazes, maddened, harrowed. I would grab his wrists before he could harm himself...or me.

He screamed in the middle of the night, tearing through aphotic silence with rage and desperation, relief from his aching dreams, please, please! he called.

I guess nobody came to call. Nobody responsible enough to have him live.

But I held him anyways. And it hurt.

His nails would dig into my arms like thorns and nails, steely and leaving behind a melancholic twinge of iron, his tears of frustration teeming with angry glances up as I restrained him from his self-harm. Accepting his burden was the least I could do to thank him for all he had done for me when he wasn't caught in his painful nightmares.

I would dream of holding him after he died. I would silently allow myself to afflict and agonize as a razor from nowhere would appear in my hand and tear at my arm neatly, silently raining in the room, my eyes wet and burning with grief. I never realized how much I loved the way his nails would rip my epidermis until it was raw and red, how I missed being able to cry into his soft, unkempt hair as he screamed to nobody who would listen, screamed to all those who had wronged him, "Are you happy now? I want to die! Are you happy now?"

I never did know who he was screaming to.

I wanted to be that person, if only for clarity.

Clarity as to why he would erupt in unbridled rage, swing at everything he could reach, me, included.

It may create a funny image in your mind, a seventeen year old lashing out like a child, throwing himself at a door to escape reality, one who braids rubber bands into a noose, who turns a pencil into a weapon of murder. But I assure you, there is nothing humorous about it in the midst of his rage.

I've had to cover up for bruises and cuts and scars as Mother would ask each's whearabouts. Saying Judo was rough was usually enough to quell her curiosity, though I could always see the maternal anxiety in her eyes as she glanced at me.

I remember the day he died well, despite my desire to forget. I remember the night before even better.

Heat filled the room as each breath he took made me shiver, his tongue on my neck, his hands on my hips, thumbs digging into each with bruising force, enough to make me overflow with pleasure. My toes curled as his voice secluded us into his world, a beautiful one he created where nightmares don't exist, sleep doesn't exist, and the expanse of the ground was silk, the birds crows, the sky violet and red and purple and blue. where the rain was tears and was cold and pleasing and wonderful. Clouds never obscured such light that radiated from nothing.

And after the clock broke midnight to us, we opened our eyes and looked at eachother, smiles etched into perspiry skin. My lips were raw and red, his neck covered in bites and bruises. His shirt was discarded on his desk, and I never did find my belt after that night. We were flushed and tired and hot and happy for a last time. Shisui stared at the ceiling, his smile not wavering as he said, "I've always wanted to die, y'know."

And I could only respond, "I know."

"Yeah...but, you know what I figure? I've never really known what it was like to be alive. It's one of those painful revelations that I don't have a real fucking idea what it really means. Not one I can grasp...all the time."

"All the time?"

"Yeah, and I'm gonna be really corny, but...I think you're the closest thing I've ever had to actually being alive...feeling it."

I could only stare as he gazed at me with sincerity.

"And..."

I waited. His sanity was fully intact as he looked me in the eyes one last time and said, quietly, "I'm sorry for everything."

"Don't apologize, Shisui. I love you."

"I know you do. I love you, too. But...in the end...history isn't rewritten because we're in love. Nobody's life changes. Ours do, of course, but it doesn't matter to anyone else, when you think about it," he stared hard at the ceiling, as if all of his answers were there.

"I..." I muttered breathlessly, "I know..."

"But...I don't care about that. We can love eachother, no problem...but it won't change the way I feel about you."

At that point, I was probably as confused as you are now, reading this.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked cautiously, stupidly, regretting the words almost as soon as they left my mouth.

His gaze dropped from the ceiling, his eyes closing as he sighed, quietly, as if he was just too tired to explain.

"One day..." he muttered, folding his hands behind his head, his brows furrowing in sadness. "You'll know."

I'm still trying to figure it out.

A/N: the t button on my keyboard is current;y broken, as is backspace, so I must paste the t each time, as well as use "Delete" to backspace. Please excuse the length of the chapter and any grammatical errors. Heart Shaped Box is on temp/ Hiatus, but should be back soon, so please be patient. Enjoy!