"The wait is long, my dream of you does not end."
― Nuala O'Faolain, My Dream of You

The biting chill of the winter wind cannot infiltrate the artificial warmth of the car. Shion watches the world outside whiz by in a blur he doesn't bother focusing on. He is just looking out, eyes void of any emotion; distant, indifferent. People fade in the distance as new ones join the view only to dissolve from his sight. So many of them, he thinks fleetingly. Walking, eating, waiting at bus stations, talking, shopping… so many of them living all around him. No.6 has never housed people in such great numbers before.

It feels suffocating.

Somewhere along the way he has realized, although all that he has been doing for three years has a great importance and meaning for thousands of people in this city, although he has a huge responsibility he has tried his hardest to fulfill since he has shouldered it—for he still has promises he must keep—nothing seems to hold any meaning to him anymore. He feels a sore weakness, an open wound sensitive to the slightest touch in the very core of his being. Like the throbbing pain of a tooth hollowed out with cavities being exposed to cold water, he feels his heart constrict and ache in his chest at the sight and feel of everything he knows is incomplete.

Shion feels tired. He is so, very tired.

"… were informed that the residents of No.2 in lower areas have been warned to stay indoors. All other city-states are currently on stand-by, waiting for the relentless rain to cease to be able to send help to the flooded parts of the city. The mayor of No.4 addressed the matter on an emergency press conference earlier today. The Mayor has informed…"

The floating screen above the console shows a pretty woman with a small audio transducer attached to an opaque earpiece. She is standing in front of tall, crystalline windows—the caption on the screen defines the building she is in as 'City Hall of No.2'—as she speaks pointing towards the view behind her. The camera's angle has been adjusted to allow the viewers to get a full sight of the clamor of rain attacking the windows and the trees bowing against the wind's force.

"I hope it clears out soon."

Shion's mind barely registers the words spoken by the man driving the car. He absent-mindedly glances at the reporter before the images switch to that of a press conference. Presumably, the speech given by the mayor of No.4. Shion recognizes him a second later.

"Yeah," he replies to his assistant. "I hope so too."

As he watches the disastrous flood the rain has caused in No.2, all he feels is a sore longing. He wants to be under that downpour, feel it patter against his skin, seep into his hair, run down his arms, down his face, his neck and put out that dull, dry burning fire eating him alive from the inside. He wants to let it tore his way inside him like hurricanes uproot trees and drag out a scream from the very depths of his body. It would be a scream of solitary desperation. A scream of uprising against everything expected of him. A scream of protest for what was asked of him—to bid his time, to stay.. to wait—until he could no longer shout, until his lungs ached and his hands loosened on both sides of him; leaving red crescents on the insides of his palms; until holding back his tears no longer mattered. Until the realization sank in that no matter how long or how loud he screamed, he would not hear him.

The sky stretches leaden and impenetrable above the city. Shion stares into it, trying to will it to crumble, to shatter into pieces with blinding lightning and ground shaking thunder. If he could, he would summon the storm in No.2 here at this moment. He would watch as clouds gathered and throbbed with a looming gale. He would savor the sight of brilliant lightning reflect off the countless windows adorning No.6 in a furious white. Let the rain pour down onto the city he has slowly begun to resent. So that he could push his balcony doors open at his apartment and stand under the storm beneath that glowing grey. He has always loved grey… the grey of stormy skies. The grey of breaking dawn. The grey of moonlit skies —the grey of his eyes— but this grey above his head is unforgiving. Its arid, lifeless, heavy with things impending and frozen in limbo… just like him.

"Shion-san?"

Shion turns his head to face his assistant. Tori is looking at him with a bemused expression. Warm brown eyes are careful and focused as he glances at him before looking back at the road as he drives.

"I am sorry, Tori. Did you ask me something?" Shion feels bad for letting his thoughts carry him away. Tori is a good man; intelligent and kind —like many people around him. He deserves better treatment. He at least deserves his full attention.

"You seem occupied, Shion-san. Are you concerned about the Memorial Day preparations?"

The Memorial Day… The day Shion helped the collapse of the previous governing body of No.6. The day hundreds of people were victims of Elyurias' rage, of soldiers' guns, of their own comrades as they ran over their fallen bodies to escape their own deaths. Memorial Day was now celebrated every year to remember and honor all those that had died in the hands of the previous government. This would be Shion's third time witnessing it… All citizens of No.6 wearing black and visiting the Rose Cemetery—the place where the fallen were buried or immortalized with empty graves; families uniting if only for two days no matter how far their daily lives might push them apart, meals being shared, distant phone calls being made… It was a day about remembering and understanding not to take anything, not to take anyone for granted.

"No, Tori, I am not. I am just tired." Shion offers a gentle smile at his assistant.

"You haven't been resting for weeks. You haven't taken a day off since last December." Tori knits his eyebrows. Shion thinks he looks older than his age when he has that look on his face. "I wish you relied on me more, Shion-san. I am your assistant; it is my job to help you."

The car stops in front of a pair of unpretentious apartments. Tori shifts the gear to full stop and turns to look at him fully with a respectful sincerity in his eyes.

"You don't need to do everything alone."

Although he is three years older than Shion, Tori has the unstoppable eagerness and energy of a teenage boy; earnest and ambitious and at times overly excited. He is skilled and intelligent; declared 'special' at the age of two just like Shion had been. He also has life gushing out from every pore of him and that's something Shion isn't able to find within himself lately. He thinks he is becoming more like the senior members of the Reconstruction Committee. Thoughtful, quiet and always busy.

Sometimes, Shion thinks he is getting old.

"I am not doing everything alone. Everyone in the committee and you too, Tori, already help me out so much." He smiles again. The expression is strained. He can feel it tug reluctantly at his facial muscles but he smiles anyway. "Please, don't worry about me." Opening the door, Shion steps out of the car, keeping his hand on the roof, he leans in and adds "See you in two days. Take it easy."

Before he closes the door he hears Tori speak.

"Shion-san."

"Yes?"

There is silence. Tori stares at him with a heavy expression that makes Shion's stomach tense. His steadfast brown eyes are too knowing for his liking.

"See you on Monday, Shion-san." His voice is firm, determined. For a moment Shion wants to laugh at how serious he sounds. It isn't as if Shion could do anything else but show up. He will be there at his duty on Monday and the next Monday too and the Monday two months later as well. The shallow smile he has learned to adorn at any given moment returns.

"See you on Monday, Tori. Thanks for the ride."

Shion walks to his apartment and doesn't look back. He doesn't hear Tori start the car until he enters the building and after that, he is alone. Ignoring the elevator, he takes the stairs and climbs two floors before he is standing in front of his door, fishing for his keys in his pocket.

Silence greets him. For a split moment he stands there confused, half expecting to hear the sound of soft scurry and gentle squeaking before he remembers there will not be either of that. His jaw clenches as his heart is squeezed painfully between beats.

It has been over two months already and Shion still hasn't gotten used to it. It feels like he never will. His only companion in the darkest hours of the night and the only thing making his apartment feel a bit like home is gone.

Tsukiyo had lived out his life. Longer than Shion had hoped he would but… it hadn't make his death any easier. The jet black mouse with glowing obsidian eyes had died on Shion's bed; in his hands. The whistle of his breathing and the slowing of his heart was permanently etched In Shion's memory. He would never be able to forget the way his little body had shook before his last breath or the way his claws had weakly scratched Shion's palms in a final attempt to fight before going limb. Shion had skipped work that day... that was the last time he had taken a day off. On December.

Sometimes, Shion wonders if that'll also be his fate. Living out his life waiting.

Dropping his keys in an unused ashtray on the coffee table while tugging at the tie around his neck, Shion tries to avoid glancing at the tiny pet bed still sitting in front of his tall windows. He sheds his coat, throwing it at the back of his couch and walks to his bedroom.

His reflection on the mirror leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Day by day he sees himself changing and it's a process he cannot stop. The change is not just on the surface. It isn't in the slow growing of white locks or the maturing of the bone frames. It isn't in the couple of extra inches added to his height nor is it in the amorphous muscle tissue that he has gained in his legs. The real change is deep within and it makes him grimace at his vision. It's the way he smiles, corners of his lips easily curving upwards in a beguile expression even he can read—despite his innate cluelessness like someone used to say. It's the way his eyes look so dull. As if nothing in the world could remotely interest him, as if he would rather sit somewhere without moving for hours and watch the sky than make an attempt for anything else. It's the way he can't find an ounce of hint on his face that suggests that's not what he wants.

No wonder people keep checking on him. His mother, Inukashi, Rikiga-san. Even Tori.

Shion wishes they would understand that he is no danger to himself. That he is bound by three words so inexorably he can do nothing but living his day clinging onto them. Wake up because reunion will come. Go to work becausereunion will come. Live, Shion, because reunion will come.

"I want you to stay as Shion", he had said once. Shion has already failed that one.

"…you'll be murdering two people…"
He still remembers the pain behind those words. He can at least make sure he isn't killing anyone else.

Warm water soaks into his hair in a matter of seconds, making his fringes stick to his forehead and temples; tickling the nape of his neck. Shion presses both hands against the shower wall, letting the water trickle down his body and wash away the day's weight. It's a lost cause really, since the weight on his shoulders is no burden a shower can abrade but it's a routine and routine is what he needs so he sticks to it.

Wash, rinse, repeat… Before the eucalyptus scent of his shampoo can suffuse his bathroom, Shion is done. But he stands under the water, listening to the steady sound and thinking about the rain, open windows, and stitching shoulder injuries. A hand on the wall, the other over his chest, as if the physical weight would help hold himself together, Shion closes his eyes to the rush of memories. His palm slides down his stomach, over the raise of his hipbone and comes to a stop on his left thigh where the tip of his middle finger absently traces the scar left by a bullet graze.

Shion clenches his jaw as his head falls down.

I am alive, Nezumi.

It's been three years and I am still alive.

The memory jumps fresh and vibrant in his mind, playing before his eyes. A pair of quicksilver eyes peering into his face, fingers hooked on his chin and a voice as mystifying as ever; deep and stimulating from within. Nothing has changed. He caves. His body responds.

—Do you regret it? Do you regret staying alive?

Shion feels his eyes burn beneath closed eyelids. He presses his hand against his lower abdomen as if it would help ease the chronic ache that's settled there. The water hits his sore skin, warmth seeping into him. His heart quickens in recognition, at the mere memory of the voice that haunts him.

No, Nezumi. I want to live. I still want to live.

A smile graces his thin lips. It's one of his rare smiles Shion can see flicker in his eyes. Proud, praising; affectionate even.

There's a good boy.

A low sound echoes in the bathroom; a sound split between a breathless sob and a quiet whimper. Shion rests his arm on the shower wall, burying his face in the crook of his elbow as shame tints his face in red. His other hand moves with a rhythm matching his heartbeat; increasing with every flash of deep grey eyes burning behind his eyelids.

—You are not half-bad, he says while humming a tune for their dance. There is a pleasant surprise in his voice and a lot more in his steady gaze. Shion can't look away. He feels the urge hit him; foreign, unfamiliar, ever so pressing. He is only a few inches away… so close… too far away.

"Nnnh," Shion breaths out against the tiles. A slip of his thumb over sensitive skin breaks a violent shiver down his spine, the movement ending with a roll of his hips into his hand. His lips part in an inaudible groan; chest rising to enunciate the name his lips yearn to call. It remains locked in his throat, fueling his desperation.

He has denied crying but he can taste his own tears in the kiss. Nezumi kisses just like the way he dances… the way he fights… the way he lives. Untamed and wild and with all of his being. Shion is dizzy with the mere foreshadowing and then all at once, the taste of Nezumi is pouring into him. Liquid fire and velvety sweetness flood into his mouth with a fierceness and hunger that tears him apart at the seams. It's easy to break down in his arms, almost inviting in a way Nezumi would not understand—or maybe he would and Shion doesn't know which is worse—and for that reason Shion holds back, gulps down the bulk of his protest, his objection; his plea: Stay, stay, stay.

With maddening reluctance heat pools into his lap. At the peak of his desperate search for release Shion feels a strange sort of satisfaction in the way he imagines him; without his permission and knowledge, a feeble revenge for what he has taken from him. His heart thunders in his chest. He breathes hard and in unsteady bursts; every inhale bordering on gasps. His abdomen convulses, each wave of his impending climax throbbing within the core of his being.

"Nezumi…"

The sound of his name spills from his lips in a needful moan. His palm moves as hot tears slide down his cheeks.

He keeps staring at him, a smile playing on his lips.

Cold fingertips trace the scar winding around his chest.

The same hand cups the side of his face.

Limbs tangle with his at the dead hours of the night in a small single bed, when he is too soundly asleep to remember keeping his distance. A kind of warmth so intoxicating Shion loses himself in it.

"Nezumiii…"

The last vowels fade into the sound of running water. Shion is shaking from head to toe despite the warmth pouring down on him. Forehead pressed against his arm, he stares blankly into the wall, unable to move, unable to breathe. The headiness of his release tingles in the pores of his body. He feels suspended in the temporary lethargy that comes over him, a sense of bone-deep sedation as if he has been drugged and left in a state of crepuscular consciousness. He is afraid to move, afraid to even think of anything when his whole being feeds off of this brief escape, this little doze of remedy blinding him to the pain in his heart and the hollowness in his soul. But his heartbeat slows in a grinding pace, his drawn-out exhale brushes hotly against his arm and the way shadows grow and claim his bedroom at night; it only takes a moment for the reality to catch up with him; for the true extend of his incompleteness to leak into his oblivion. Shion smiles and then all at once, he is shaking with sobs he can't control. He falls to his knees in the shower, grasping his face with both hands and the sound that rips through his throat is a whimper; lost and excruciated.

Sometimes, Shion thinks those three words were a lie. And he still believes them.

The End

It took me a long time to finish this due to a lot of distractions I am too distracted to list OTL
All I can say that I had undesirable amounts of free time in the past three weeks so I read five books worked on two fics and finished... this. Hopefully it isn't too late to post it. I just really don't like leaving things unfinished. You'll likely never have me post a multi-chapter fanfic here and drop it without finishing. IamabitOCDIadmit.

Although this is unfairly sad and tears off the strings of your heart in violent jerks, I dedicate it to my ordinary miracle and the one and only person who makes Shion's unconditional loyalty relatable to me. Okay?

Artwork belongs to: I_m [ www. pixiv member_illust. php?mode=medium&illust_id=31845202]