Bury Me
by Ryuuen
Warnings: shounen-ai, SUICIDE, DEATHFIC, EXTREMELY mature/dark themes, language.
A/N: A little bit of angsty YST for the teenager in all of us. Ha, ha, just kidding. I'm sorry that this is really depressing. I need to stop reading so much angsty fanfiction. The song is "Cave" by Muse, a song I've never heard but I saw the lyrics and thought that it was perfect. Please read and review. C&Cs are, as always, welcome.
BURYME
Leave me alone, it's nothing serious I'll do it myself. It's got nothing to do with you, and there's nothing that you could do.
The words swam in his head, and they refused to leave him be. 'Go away, Seiji!' he had shouted, and he, being the fool he was, had complied. He had gone away, left the problem for someone else to handle. Only no one else handled it. And now, it was out of control. Had it ever been in control, he wondered, or was control merely an illusion that we convinced ourselves to believe? They had all said it wasn't his fault. They had all said that he couldn't have done anything more than he did. But he heard the silent conviction in their voices; knew that they knew that he had abandoned him, that he had turned away and obeyed orders that he knew were insincere. They tried to convince him that it had nothing at all to do with him, that he had had no part in this, that he hadn't caused it all. He had been able to almost taste the sorrow, the helplessness, in his fellow warrior's voice that day, and yet he had still turned away. He had still left, despite that complete despair that he knew, had known for some time, lurked just beneath the surface of those midnight eyes.
He knew it all. He knew the loneliness, he knew the sadness. And still he had turned away. But why?
You can see it, and you can almost hear it, too; You can almost taste it. It's nothing to do with you, and there's still nothing that you can do.
Did he regret what he had done? Of course he did. He had returned only a few moments later, but it had been almost too late anyway. The tears his friend had cried had mingled with the blood, seeping into the carpet, from which it would never wash out. There would always be the stain, and he was almost glad for that. He didn't want to forget. Or maybe he did. It differed at times, how he felt. His moods fluctuated so much that even the others had noticed the change from his normally stoic behaviour. He had tasted the tears and blood that day, as he tried to kiss away the tracks the salty drops had left on his beautiful, pale face, waiting with a futile kind of hope and an overwhelming weight in his heart for the ambulance to arrive. He felt like someone was pushing against his chest, hard, such was the weight he felt in his heart, in his entire being. He held his friend, held him close and whispered reassurances and caring words, kissed his tears and cried his own, for the first time in what seemed like forever, crying as he waited for his friend's midnight eyes to open again, for that crooked smile and the "gotcha".
Only it never came, and those eyes had yet to open again.
So come in my cave and I'll burn your heart away. Come in my cave I'll burn your heart away.
A coma, the doctors had informed him with that false sympathy. He was in a coma. He who had fought so hard, who had survived so much, had finally succumb to his own misled desire to escape, merely because of a few words that had been left unsaid. Oh, but words had power. He had learned that, he had learned it very well. And as he sat by the hospital bed every day, he remembered that. He spoke with his voice trembling with the tears that fell down his paling cheeks, reminded him of all the good times, begged him to open his eyes. The doctor told him with a real kind of sympathy that it didn't look good, and even if he lived, he might never wake up. He said that there would be brain damage. He said that there would be problems, even if he woke up. But he didn't care, he just wanted him back. Didn't want to believe that just those words, the ones he had been unable to say, could have caused such a thing. That his fright and then his negligance had caused all of this. He had been so afraid to say those words, and he had thought it had been understood, but he had been wrong. How wrong he had been..
He regretted it. With every waking moment, with every whispered word, he regretted it.
Please, close your ears, and try to look away, so you never hear a single word I say and don't ever come my way.
He knew that he was waiting in vain. It had already been over three months, and still he was sitting by his bedside, closing gray-lavender eyes in thought and worry, holding back tears by biting his lip so hard it bled. The others spoke in whispered voices, wondered about his health and asking if he should be seeing someone. He ignored them, tuned them out. His attention was all for the one whose bed he sat by, the one who had claimed his heart and become his life even before this tragedy. He dreamed of him, him taking his hand and leading him back into his arms, and forgiving him everything, telling him that it would be alright as long as they were together. As long as they were together... He looked upon the pale figure in the bed, his hair so shocking against the pale bedding and his pale skin that was almost the same stark white, the greenish hospital gown another shout of color against such lack of it. His hair was a scream. He smoothed back his hair, ignoring the lock that fell back, perpetually, against his forehead. He wondered how he could ever be forgiven for the crimes that he had commited. He had done so much. So very much wrong.
But still he craved his friend's.. his love's.. forgiveness. He wanted to see those midnight eyes open, wanted to hear his soft musical voice ask him where he was, and he would tell him, "you're finally back." But it hadn't happened yet, and he had begun to believe it never would.
Leave me alone, it's nothing serious I'll do it myself. It's got nothing to do with you, and there's nothing that you could do.
They ended his life on a Sunday. No priest was called, because he had never been religious. They each stood at one point of the bed, and there were tears in all their eyes. The cord in his right hand, his fingers curling around it. It had been over three years since it had happened. For three years, he had sat by that bedside, waiting for him to wake up, and finally he had been forced to realize that he never would. He hadn't wanted to accept it, had wanted to believe that someday he would open his eyes and give him that smile again, but there hadn't been any brain activity for a long while. They told him that that meant that he was mentally dead.. that there was no coming back. That no matter what they did, he would never return. He would never smile again, never laugh, never run free in the wind that he had loved so much, never read another book, never stay up all night on the balcony watching the stars. So much that he would never do again, and he couldn't forgive himself for that. He closed his eyes, allowing the tears to fall, his voice barely a whisper as he spoke, his speech broken by the tears:
"I love you... Touma."
So come in my cave and I'll burn your heart away. Come in my cave...
He pulled the plug, just one quick jerk. The machines went dead. Everyone was silent, all eyes on the pale figure on the bed, as the artificial breathing stopped, and his body stopped functioning. It was all so fast, that sudden death. He opened his eyes slowly, keeping them on his love's face. Slowly, he sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving the closed ones before him. Sobs wracked his body, and he covered his face with his hands, save for one eye, which continued to stare at the still form before him. He spoke muffled apologies through the sobs, muffled words of love. He asked for forgiveness from the one who would never again speak to him, never again give him that devil's smile.
And still, he didn't open his eyes.
...and arrest me for my mistakes.
=owari=
Warnings: shounen-ai, SUICIDE, DEATHFIC, EXTREMELY mature/dark themes, language.
A/N: A little bit of angsty YST for the teenager in all of us. Ha, ha, just kidding. I'm sorry that this is really depressing. I need to stop reading so much angsty fanfiction. The song is "Cave" by Muse, a song I've never heard but I saw the lyrics and thought that it was perfect. Please read and review. C&Cs are, as always, welcome.
BURYME
Leave me alone, it's nothing serious I'll do it myself. It's got nothing to do with you, and there's nothing that you could do.
The words swam in his head, and they refused to leave him be. 'Go away, Seiji!' he had shouted, and he, being the fool he was, had complied. He had gone away, left the problem for someone else to handle. Only no one else handled it. And now, it was out of control. Had it ever been in control, he wondered, or was control merely an illusion that we convinced ourselves to believe? They had all said it wasn't his fault. They had all said that he couldn't have done anything more than he did. But he heard the silent conviction in their voices; knew that they knew that he had abandoned him, that he had turned away and obeyed orders that he knew were insincere. They tried to convince him that it had nothing at all to do with him, that he had had no part in this, that he hadn't caused it all. He had been able to almost taste the sorrow, the helplessness, in his fellow warrior's voice that day, and yet he had still turned away. He had still left, despite that complete despair that he knew, had known for some time, lurked just beneath the surface of those midnight eyes.
He knew it all. He knew the loneliness, he knew the sadness. And still he had turned away. But why?
You can see it, and you can almost hear it, too; You can almost taste it. It's nothing to do with you, and there's still nothing that you can do.
Did he regret what he had done? Of course he did. He had returned only a few moments later, but it had been almost too late anyway. The tears his friend had cried had mingled with the blood, seeping into the carpet, from which it would never wash out. There would always be the stain, and he was almost glad for that. He didn't want to forget. Or maybe he did. It differed at times, how he felt. His moods fluctuated so much that even the others had noticed the change from his normally stoic behaviour. He had tasted the tears and blood that day, as he tried to kiss away the tracks the salty drops had left on his beautiful, pale face, waiting with a futile kind of hope and an overwhelming weight in his heart for the ambulance to arrive. He felt like someone was pushing against his chest, hard, such was the weight he felt in his heart, in his entire being. He held his friend, held him close and whispered reassurances and caring words, kissed his tears and cried his own, for the first time in what seemed like forever, crying as he waited for his friend's midnight eyes to open again, for that crooked smile and the "gotcha".
Only it never came, and those eyes had yet to open again.
So come in my cave and I'll burn your heart away. Come in my cave I'll burn your heart away.
A coma, the doctors had informed him with that false sympathy. He was in a coma. He who had fought so hard, who had survived so much, had finally succumb to his own misled desire to escape, merely because of a few words that had been left unsaid. Oh, but words had power. He had learned that, he had learned it very well. And as he sat by the hospital bed every day, he remembered that. He spoke with his voice trembling with the tears that fell down his paling cheeks, reminded him of all the good times, begged him to open his eyes. The doctor told him with a real kind of sympathy that it didn't look good, and even if he lived, he might never wake up. He said that there would be brain damage. He said that there would be problems, even if he woke up. But he didn't care, he just wanted him back. Didn't want to believe that just those words, the ones he had been unable to say, could have caused such a thing. That his fright and then his negligance had caused all of this. He had been so afraid to say those words, and he had thought it had been understood, but he had been wrong. How wrong he had been..
He regretted it. With every waking moment, with every whispered word, he regretted it.
Please, close your ears, and try to look away, so you never hear a single word I say and don't ever come my way.
He knew that he was waiting in vain. It had already been over three months, and still he was sitting by his bedside, closing gray-lavender eyes in thought and worry, holding back tears by biting his lip so hard it bled. The others spoke in whispered voices, wondered about his health and asking if he should be seeing someone. He ignored them, tuned them out. His attention was all for the one whose bed he sat by, the one who had claimed his heart and become his life even before this tragedy. He dreamed of him, him taking his hand and leading him back into his arms, and forgiving him everything, telling him that it would be alright as long as they were together. As long as they were together... He looked upon the pale figure in the bed, his hair so shocking against the pale bedding and his pale skin that was almost the same stark white, the greenish hospital gown another shout of color against such lack of it. His hair was a scream. He smoothed back his hair, ignoring the lock that fell back, perpetually, against his forehead. He wondered how he could ever be forgiven for the crimes that he had commited. He had done so much. So very much wrong.
But still he craved his friend's.. his love's.. forgiveness. He wanted to see those midnight eyes open, wanted to hear his soft musical voice ask him where he was, and he would tell him, "you're finally back." But it hadn't happened yet, and he had begun to believe it never would.
Leave me alone, it's nothing serious I'll do it myself. It's got nothing to do with you, and there's nothing that you could do.
They ended his life on a Sunday. No priest was called, because he had never been religious. They each stood at one point of the bed, and there were tears in all their eyes. The cord in his right hand, his fingers curling around it. It had been over three years since it had happened. For three years, he had sat by that bedside, waiting for him to wake up, and finally he had been forced to realize that he never would. He hadn't wanted to accept it, had wanted to believe that someday he would open his eyes and give him that smile again, but there hadn't been any brain activity for a long while. They told him that that meant that he was mentally dead.. that there was no coming back. That no matter what they did, he would never return. He would never smile again, never laugh, never run free in the wind that he had loved so much, never read another book, never stay up all night on the balcony watching the stars. So much that he would never do again, and he couldn't forgive himself for that. He closed his eyes, allowing the tears to fall, his voice barely a whisper as he spoke, his speech broken by the tears:
"I love you... Touma."
So come in my cave and I'll burn your heart away. Come in my cave...
He pulled the plug, just one quick jerk. The machines went dead. Everyone was silent, all eyes on the pale figure on the bed, as the artificial breathing stopped, and his body stopped functioning. It was all so fast, that sudden death. He opened his eyes slowly, keeping them on his love's face. Slowly, he sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving the closed ones before him. Sobs wracked his body, and he covered his face with his hands, save for one eye, which continued to stare at the still form before him. He spoke muffled apologies through the sobs, muffled words of love. He asked for forgiveness from the one who would never again speak to him, never again give him that devil's smile.
And still, he didn't open his eyes.
...and arrest me for my mistakes.
=owari=