Ramblings: I've FINALLY gotten around to stop playing with this idea and write it down. I'm so lazy. But anyway, this is angsty. And I stole the title from one of my favourite songs, Driven Like the Snow by The Sisters of Mercy. So yeah.
Disclaimer: All Characters belong to the stupid head people of CLAMP, and they need to friggin' hurry up and put out book 4. But I own the plot.
Summary: What if Rikou had never been able to rescue Kazahaya from that cold winter's night? Angsty, longer-ish drabble, death fic.
Driven Like the Snow
By Heroin Girl
Still night, nothing for miles,
White curtain come down,
Kill the lights in the middle of the road
And take a look around...
It don't help to be one of the chosen
One of the few, to be sure
When the wheels are spinning around
And the ground is frozen through, and you're
Driven, like the snow
Pure in heart
Driven together
And given
Away to the west
-The Sisters of Mercy-
Driven Like the Snow
He let out a sigh as the falling blanket of snow twisted and turned above his head, he did not need to look up in order to know that the ferocity of the fall was slightly frightening. His dark hair was pulled away from the neat path on his forehead and thrown outward, he let out an exasperated sigh and tore his hand out of his pocket long enough to shove it back into place. A single snow flake drifted quietly into the view of his eyes, before resting passively on the tip of his aristocratic nose. A slight shudder tremored through his body before it melted away into a fine droplet of water.
The bustle of the people around him bothered the country boy inside of him, and for a moment, he thought of her, of her long, black hair and ruby lips, he thought of all the times when he would awake and she would be there, eternally smiling as he stretched his limbs and gathered her up. And she was always so light, he often wondered if she had hollow bones, like a bird.
He often thought in the dark of the night when the silence was only interrupted by the barking of a dog and wails of sirens in some other distant world that she just flew off, away from him.
Sometimes, he thought that she had never actually been, that she was a distant memory from a past life. And he wanted that to be true so badly, because if it was he knew that he might be able to let go.
And sometimes, he hated her for being real.
But for now, he kept looking.
He knew that he would never see her again. And yet he still went.
Perhaps he was trying to cling to a life that he knew that he had never deserved, that he had never really had in the first place, something that had sifted through his fingers like water and had never returned. He knew it was foolish to come to the same place every night in vain hopes that he might catch nothing if but a glimpse of her fleeting form, and he might be able to make her stay.
He laughed at the thought. She was the one who was in control of him, not the other way 'round.
The low murmur of an old couple tore him away from his thoughts as he made a move to pass their huddled form. He blinked and paused, caught in between a lover's quarrel. "--ever listen to me. I told you not to even try to go up those stairs. But what did you do?"
"I've already told you that you were right! How much more do you want?"
The old man's voice dropped and he sighed. "I know. You just really scared me."
A wry smile crossed his lips. He wanted something like that; he wanted some one to hold at night, some one who would not leave, some one he could watch out for.
Someone who was not her, A little voice in his head whispered, secret confession.
"Stop it…" He whispered, acknowledgement of guilt.
And he could see her in his head, so close he felt as if he could reach out and touch her.
But she was not there.
A small sigh interrupted his thoughts. He paused and looked down, towards the source of the noise.
Large, impossibly green eyes met his. They were the colour of a pond in the late summer days, the colour of the shadows at night, when the dark seemed to take over, but just before the true black to set in. His eyes were the colour of a thousand things that did not make any sense, and he was reminded fiercely of a kudzu vine that had grown out in the forest behind one of his past homes. He had watched, fascinated, for several days as it tool over an entire tree. That was how he felt now. Smothered, being pulled to earth by something that he couldn't even find enough adjectives to describe. He felt the first warm traces of (affection) an emotion he couldn't name taking root in his body. Eyes led to a small, fine, gently pointed nose and rosebud lips. He repressed a gasp as he realized that they belonged to a boy, who could be no older than 15, but a weird, inner instinct whispered to him that he was older than he seemed.
The boy was beautiful.
And he could still feel the eyes upon his, taking him in carefully through the slitted, half closed eyes. Something impossibly tight wrapped around his heart, stopping it and tearing it apart.
The boy was suffering. He could see that clearly. His thin body was wracked with shakes, his clothing sopping wet from the snow. He wanted nothing more than to gather him up in his arms and to make him warm. To kiss the frozen lips.
He shuddered in surprise. Where in the hell had that come from? How could he be thinking about even touching some one else when she was still out there, possibly hurt, possibly dead?
As if sensing his turmoil, the boy closed his eyes and turned his head, wrenching the faux-vines away from his heart and head. He felt cold once more.
Panicked, he was about to reach down and try to wake the boy up, anything to see him open his eyes once more, anything to be trapped in the heart-stopping gaze. He felt nothing. Then, the small whisper of painful words on a voice as soft any delicate flower: "Not yet... I can't die yet…!"
He was surprised at the timbre of the boy's voice. It was low. And seductive, almost naively so. The boy was an innocent. He could tell by his golden brown hair, the way that he had looked into his eyes. Pure ingenuousness. And he ached for him, because he had remained so lovely all his life, so alone.
The boy had no one.
And for a stupid, childish moment, he wished that he could be there for him. He wanted to help the boy, he wanted to do something to make the hurt in his voice disappear.
He could hear the treacherous roaring of his blood in his head, so hard and so fast he had to strain to hear the words spoken on the murmur of the wind. "I can't…"
Rikuo was helpless. He could not see, could not hear, could not feel. He was powerless to stop the suffering of one boy, why did he think that he could save a fully grown woman?
"Not yet…" And the boy was so beautiful. And she had been too.
And he had broken her. He knew that he would not be able to handle hurting the boy. He knew that he would die if what happened to her ever came to the small, lissome boy. And that seemed to be all the world ever did. If he saved the boy, his innocence would not last. It would crumple and fall (Just as hers did, he quickly reminded himself, trying not to think of her ruby lips and ink hair) and he would be a shell.
But what would happen if he took the boy back to his apartment with him? What would happen if he actually let himself care for another person, nursed him back to health and never let him leave?
But they all do in the end... He told himself firmly. That's all anyone ever does.
Later, he would look back at this moment and despise himself for what he did.
For the first time in his life, he retreated. He left his emotions with the boy and carefully stepped over him, away from the kudzu eyes and the flower voice.
The boy would never wake up.
But, his mind would try to rationalize with him, trying to justify what he had done, if you saved him, he would be over. There would be nothing left of the boy. If an angel falls into a war, is it better to kill it than to introduce it to the evils of the battle field? Or are you just playing god with something that never should have been touched in the first place?
He had realized long ago that his mind had never been a comfort.
And when he would arrive at the Green drugstore late that night, scrubbing his eyes with his hands furiously to try to make the dried tear tracks leave, Kakei would look at him tearfully. "His name was Kazahaya," He said, letting out a wry, bitter Pandora's box of a smile. "Just like the wind…."
And he would never let himself stop looking for Tsukiko. He would never find her, either.
And in the quiet moments in his mind, just before the thick blanket of sleep would take over any remaining and clear thought, he would think of the kudzu eyes. His name had been Kazahaya. And the name had fit him perfectly. "I cant die… Not yet…"
And Rikuo Himura hated himself.
End.
Yay, the end! Whoot that was angsty. If you ever want me to further emotionally maim and mutilate the characters of Legal Drug, then you need to REVIEW!