.
It's magic and angels and all sorts of glorious things, sparkling in the air as the winter draws near. Stars are thrown out by the city lights, and yet the firefly glow remains. The merry jingle of Christmas advertisement rings through every street and every shop. He breathes in, breathes out, warmth colored as whispered steam, and shivers with his hands in his pockets and his headphones hanging from his neck.
Neku continues to lean against the statue, cold as the stone is getting on his backside, his neck stretching up as the boy tries to make out the faint cross-lines of the constellations in the ink-blank sky. A timeless passing. He breathes in, closes his eyes, breathes out, blinks - the stars are still not there, futile as this has always been, but he remains rooted where he is and sighs. Should he go, or should he not go?
Another sigh. He pulls out his phone, checks the time, almost wonders if he's just being impatient, flips it closed and tucks it back into his pocket - the motion is fluid and expertly practiced. The boy folds his arms, unconsciously tugging the sleeve ends closer across his frostbitten hands, and looks up again to the sky. He tries to count the stars and again finds none, yet he can still see illusionary specks of light here and there, none a part of the festivities, but considered real all the same.
-but, just how real? The question is abrupt and loud, even with the lingering murmur of his headphones on max volume. Neku has asked himself this question many times, and never comes up with an answer. After all- after all this and after all that, where is the line to reality drawn? It's only where the dead and the living are divided, of course, but that just makes it even harder to answer, for it's best a vague explaination.
Breathe in, out. Simple people watching - time's ticking, chiming every fifteen minutes in his ears. He supposes, idly, it's not a surprise now that he's gotten a habit of playing with his phone, hearing the key chains and friendly charms dangling against each other while checking the time again. He pushes a foot against the statue as he raises his phone high up, pretending to take a picture, though there is nothing to really admire. Neku squints, wonders if it's just static, then lowers his hand. The object is switched off for good and tucked away. Indeed, watching is best done with one's own eyes.
Ten minutes, nine minutes. Eight minutes, seven minutes. The boy dutifully counts each seconds and each missing star, knowing that at some point he's gone off track and he's just fumbling to remember everything - just like all those moments and memories of a three-clover game that supposedly never was - and trying to catch up to his own steps all the same. Six minutes, five minutes. Four minutes. He gives up to a split-second annoyance and frustration suddenly bubbling up in his chest that just dies even quicker, and he remains as he always has been, teeth clenched behind his tall collar and boot-clad feet shuffling against the freshly snowed ground.
Families and couples continue to pass him without another thought to existence. He can hear and feel their cheer and love, brighter than all these dazzling lights and shining decorations. The twinkle of stars can never compare to this, but they are not any better than the former either. Isolation has never been so quiet.
But he has to keep waiting - there's no other choice. At the same time, however, he's not the most patient person in the world. Waiting takes time. Takes its toll and its sacrifices and just how long can someone wait for anything and anyone? The boy frowns and squeezes his eyes closed. He can weakly feel the cold stone against his scalp, and he wishes desperately, longingly, hopefully. Waiting is so, so tiring.
Slowly, dreamily, he opens his eyes. Everything is a blur of not-fallen tears and mind haze. He thinks the sky has fallen and the distant underworld filled with twinkling fragments. Daylight and nighttime cloud his view and he's back there again - a queer war field stretching to the city limits, of magic and glory till the moment they breathed and never saw the stars ever again.
Everything is gone, all withered and all just a dream that never was. The dead and the living will never mingle - Neku is, after all this time, still just a boy searching for nothing and everything he used to have.
"Where are you?" he whispers. Shakingly breathes in, breathes out, closes his eyes for a moment and sees the fireflies dancing in the sky-
a brush of the wind, footsteps in the snow, a voice in his ears, the glittering and blinded form of the death god now just a child of his age; a hand, a greeting, a smirk and a deep scowl to make the finest pair - you're late, Kiryu - maybe a few wishes and a definite promise - oh, silly Neku, I wouldn't miss it for the world
-blinks awake, and it's just red and green Christmas wires drawn over the rising walls and skyscrapers of Shibuya, the glory gone as the clocks all strike midnight - winter will draw to a close.
.
.
DID I MAKE YOU GUYS SAD? IF SO, GOOD. VERY GOOD.
So um I suppose this is a slight AU thing? I'm not sure myself, really. This seems a lot like an AU, because I've so blatantly implied that Neku's memory of the Games seem foggy or doubtful to believe, at the very least. Which would mean that the ending where he meets up with Shiki, Beat and Rhyme never really happened. Huh. (I should write more about this...)
And yup, lots of purple prose everywhere. I have a horrible habit of being too prosy, haha, not sure if I should feel sorry in this instance though.
~Shiroi