Title: Misery and Company
Disclaimer: Nabari no Ou isn't mine...and I'm glad it isn't, because I probably wouldn't be able to cry over it so much if it was my own work. *Sniffle.*
Words: 685 (Not including notes.)
Songs listened to while writing: Metallica – Nothing else matters; Snow Patrol - Set Fire to the Third Bar
AN: Just a little thing, written quickly and without much thought. Set in Chapter 45, after the story flipped back to Yukimi.
They huddled together in the warehouse, in a tight little space between boxes and sacks and barrels, sharing warmth and comfort like abandoned kittens. That was what they both felt like, probably; rejected, helpless, scared, miserable. It felt strange, for Miharu, to admit such feelings to himself. The purpose of apathy was to hold such unpleasantness at bay. Apathy had long since failed him.
He thought his heart had stopped, in the moment when he wasn't sure whether Yoite's eyes would open.
He fisted his hands in Yoite's coat, wanting suddenly, desperately, to be closer; close enough to actually feel Yoite breathe, to reassure himself that they were both still alive.
The lay on their sides, facing each other, knees drawn up and touching, elbows together and forearms tangled, foreheads almost brushing, the folding of their bodies minimizing the height difference. Yoite's hat hid his eyes, but Miharu somehow knew he was crying beneath it. He imagined brushing his fingers along thin eyelids, feeling wetness and long lashes, being somehow able to give comfort.
Yoite smelled like lemons, and blood, and pharmaceutical antiseptic.
Suddenly compelled to act on impulse, Miharu tucked his head beneath his companion's chin and pressed up against him, both relieved and surprised when Yoite did not stiffen. Instead, one nearly skeletal arm draped over him, and the hat fell off as Yoite buried his face in the place where Miharu's neck and shoulder met.
They were both crying, then.
Their thoughts seemed to mingle; the surety that they were thinking the same things was so strong that Miharu distantly wondered whether they were actually speaking aloud.
I want to go home.
I want to be safe.
I want Yukimi, and lemon tea, and to sleep without worrying about being attacked.
I want you with me, forever.
When their lips met, wet with tears, they both stiffened, each unsure of who had made the move, each wondering if it had been they who started it, and if they ought to jerk away and claim it an accident, apologize profusely. Instead, desperate for any kind of contact, for any closeness Yoite would allow, Miharu simply stayed still, tangling his fingers in his companion's hair.
Some distant, coherent part of Miharu's mind registered that this was not a normal kiss; this wasn't the sort of kiss that happened in the suspicious manga that Raimei read. It was...a clinging. A joining that was about something beyond the way their lips touched. When their tongues brushed, there was no jolt of unfamiliar desire, as he'd been led to believe kissing entailed. How could there be, when Yoite's mouth tasted like the blood that was a so constant reminder of their limited time, and the salt of their tears mingled on their lips? How could something as base and...and normal...as physical passion exist, when Yoite was sobbing quietly between kisses, somehow delighted because he could taste the salt, just barely; and Miharu was crying because no matter how much he tried to make a memory, a future loomed in which these touches would be nothing but a blank space in his mind?
He touched Yoite's eyes, his cheeks, his lips, his nose, his chin, his ears; tracing the entirety of the Kira user's face with his lips and fingers, desperate.
I want to remember. Please, let me remember.
Eyes of deep blue, wet, half-way to blind.
Cheeks with just the slightest touch of color, normally nonexistent.
Lips redder than normal, slightly swollen by crying and kissing, parted, panting around the occasional wracking cough.
Nose, long and delicate and almost pretty.
Chin, pointed and thin, tendrils of ash creeping up towards perfect pale skin.
Ears, almost completely deafened, too big and somehow adorable for it, the tips chilled, warming beneath his breath.
I need to remember you. If I don't...
...half of me will be gone.
I can't survive as half of a whole.
Yoite slept, chest rising and falling, the movement barely perceptible. And as Miharu curled against him, feeling his own eyes become heavy, he could not help but whisper.
"I would rather disappear with you."