Title: Monday Morning (2/?)

Author: Kameko-chan

Pairings: Strong Hiroshi Shuichi friendship, Hiro x ?, various canon

Warnings: Deathfic (Well, maybe 'character death' is more accurate. I don't know.)

Notes: Inspired by the Prozzak song of the same name

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Hiro died on a Sunday. Stupid day to die, really, nothing interesting ever happens on a Sunday. 'Famous guitarist smeared across the road' is more suited for the Friday night news, don't you think? No one wants to hear that their best friend died on a Sunday. Then again, there isn't really any day where that's good news, is there?

The funeral was on a Tuesday, more than a week later. Tuesday had always been their favorite night when they were in high school—cheap night, the one night where they could afford to go out to eat, and even to the occasional movie. They shouldn't have buried him on their night, Shuichi thought, any night but that.

Everyone showed up, of course, dressed in black like good little funeral goers. Mrs. Nakano had wanted a small, private funeral, something traditional, but Hiro had been a star and stars can't do anything privately. All of Nittle Grasper was there, and so were K and Sakano and Suguru and everyone that Hiro had ever known, it seemed. Yuki had even shown, for once following Shuichi not out of nagging, but worry. This was the first time in a week that Shuichi had set foot out of his room.

Yuki didn't like this feeling. He didn't like knowing that his lover was slowly dying over his friend's death. He hadn't liked walking into that room day after day, trying to get Shu out of bed. He hadn't liked that dull, lifeless gaze that greeted him. He hadn't liked realizing that without Hiro, Shuichi felt like there was nothing to live for.

Yuki discovered that he hated feeling like he didn't matter.

Shuichi had dressed in white. He stood out among the gloomy sea of black, of course, but he didn't much care. Shuichi hated wearing black, it made you feel sad and he already felt like dying himself. Besides, Hiro had been there when he bought this outfit. That had been a good day, they'd had fun running around the mall in their anti-fangirl disguises and hiding from the paparazzi. Hiro had been there the last time he wore this outfit, too; they'd been lying on the floor in Hiro's room and gorging themselves on pocky. Who would he do that with now? Shuichi sniffed the sleeve and could have sworn he detected his best friend's lingering scent, but surely that was his imagination.

Everyone stopped to talk to him. 'Sorry for your loss', 'I know how close you were', endlessly bland, fill-in-the-blank condolences. Shuichi nodded and thanked them, but inside he was screaming, 'Stop, please just stop! I don't want to hear any more!'

Eventually, he found Mrs. Nakano. They stood opposite one another for a few minutes, each unsure of what to do, what to say. How do you great your dead best friend's mother at his funeral? How do you greet your dead son's best friend?

The answer, of course, is that you don't; you just cry. They collapsed into each other's arms, sobbing. He cried and she cried, and Shuichi detected the familiar aroma of Hiro's childhood home wafting about her and wept all the more. There were precious few who really shared the grief of Hiroshi's death, who were truly ripped apart by his absence, and so both took comfort in the fact that finally, there was someone who knew how they felt.

The funeral was a dull affair. A man stood beside the coffin and droned on about Hiro's life and how it had been cut tragically short, how he had such a great future and oh, wasn't it a shame that he'd never get to see it. As if anyone there who cared needed reminding. It was hard to pay attention to someone who simply rattled off the same thing he'd said a million times before, knowing nothing about the person he talked about other than his name and enough attributes to make the oratory seem personalized. It was like an insult to his friend's memory, letting this stranger speak of him at his interment. Shuichi found himself dozing off more than once; this was simply not his way to mourn.

'At least,' Yuki thought dryly as Shu napped on his shoulder for the third time, 'it's a change from crying.'

After the eulogies were done, the guests were invited to view Hiro's body one last time before the cremation—that, at least, his parents had insisted on; the thought of her son residing in the cold ground for eternity was too much for Hiro's poor mother to bear. When it was their row's turn to walk past the casket, Yuki stood up and offered his hand to Shuichi in a rare gesture of concern.

Shuichi, however, would not take it. He was rooted to his seat, eyes wide, gripping the edges of the cheap folding chair so hard his knuckles were as white as his conspicuous outfit. "I can't," he whispered thickly, his voice cracked and rusty from a week of crying and disuse.

Yuki frowned. "And why not?"

"I can't see him like that!" the younger man squeaked, "I don't want to remember him that way!"

"You're just scared. Scared of the dead body." The condescending grin was back, not that it ever really went away. "Worried he'll jump out and bite you?"

It hurt Yuki to say such things to him, and Shuichi knew that it hurt, but he never asked why the callous author did it anyways. "I am not scared of the body," he retorted, bringing his legs up and wrapping his arms around his knees in a gesture of misery. "I just don't want my last memory of him to be that."

"And bits and pieces of him scattered all over the road on the evening news is so much better?" The blonde shook his head in disgust. "Do what you want, brat. I'm going to pay my respects—I wouldn't want to regret anything later."

Damn Yuki, Shuichi thought bitterly as his boyfriend strolled calmly up to the casket. He stood, shakily, and shuffled after him. Damn him for being right.

It was true, Shuichi was a little frightened of seeing Hiro that way—pale and motionless, a sleep from which he'd never wake up. But it was also true that he'd never be able to live with himself if he didn't say a final farewell, even if Hiro wouldn't hear him no matter how loud he cried.

Yuki slowed down to let the young singer catch up. Shuichi gripped his hand.

"I'm scared."

Yuki didn't reply, didn't even glance in the distraught young man's direction, but he gave the tense hand a quick, reassuring squeeze, and that spoke more than Yuki would ever be capable of doing.

The casket was free of any elaborate decoration, made of simple mahogany polished to a dazzling sheen. Not black, Shuichi noted, grateful for that small blessing. Had it been black, he didn't think he could have made it any further.

He caught a glimpse of the body and stopped cold, stopped breathing for a terrifying moment. His eyes were wide. He couldn't do it, he couldn't take another step to that very embodiment of death, because seeing Hiro's body there would be the end of it, end of pretending, end of hope. Gazing upon his lifeless form would finally be admitting that his best friend was gone and never coming back.

He shouldn't have come. O God, he shouldn't have come here.

Yuki's eyes softened as he gently tugged the stunned youth forward. "It's okay," he whispered, "they just look like they're sleeping."

It was a lie, but a comforting one. Shuichi took the final steps towards the coffin.

It did look a little bit like he was sleeping, Shuichi supposed, only Hiro always snored and twitched when he slept. He was also pale, far too pale even with the funeral makeup attempting to imitate a faint blush on his cheeks. And, of course, there were remnants of the accident, gashes void of blood but nonetheless visibly crisscrossing any exposed part of his body.

It wasn't fair. His best friend was dead, and the macabre sight of his imitation of sleep was too much for Shuichi. He released Yuki's hand soundlessly and, stepping even closer to the coffin, close enough to trace the cuts that would never have a chance to become scars, he made a vow.

"I will find the bastard who did this to you," the young man whispered, angry tears clinging to his eyelashes as he clasped the cold hand in his own, "and I will make them pay." Eyes narrowed. "Oh, how I will make them pay."

TBC

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Ummmm... I'm weird?

I realize that Japanese funerary services are quite different from NA ones, but it's my fic and so I Americanized it P I figure, better stick to what I kind of know than what I don't know at all Oo;

And thank you for the kind reviews 3