A short post. I've been having trouble finishing anything I start lately, and along with college I don't really have a lot of time for writing fics right now. You have Nedunque and Shin Rigel to thank for me actually posting this- I've come to depend on their opinion as to how good or bad what I write is. It's short and a little sad, but I hope you like it:
Whenever someone dies young, people call it a tragedy. Though sometimes it isn't. Sometimes the dead person, like any other dead person, young or old, is a nasty, cruel sort of person. Someone who hurts people. Someone who takes all the love they can find and gives nothing back.
But Kai hadn't been like that. So when he died, it really was a tragedy. For everyone in the world, who would never be able to see what Kai could have been, for his team-mates, who would never feel like a team again without him, and also for Rei, who had lost his whole world to a violent thug with a grudge. A grudge that had had nothing to do with Kai. But the thug had been drunk and stupid and unable to tell the difference between his thug friend and Kai. That made it hurt all the more, knowing that Kai's death hadn't been –for- anything. Knowing that there was no reason behind it.
The funeral had been a quiet, private affair. The only journalist who ignored their request for no press to attend was met with the full force of Yuriy's angry grief, his undoubtedly expensive camera smashed into pieces beneath his pointy, ferrety nose. Yuriy hadn't been dealing with Kai's death very well. No-one had. It was too shocking to take in and too sudden to make sense of.
The feeling of loss in the air was almost tangible as Takao stood, tears throttling his throat as he tried to tell everyone what they already knew. That Kai hadn't deserved what happened to him. That he was brave, and strong, and good and kind.
The funeral party was a sombre affair. People milled around the room with sadness etched into their faces, offering condolences to Rei. After all, he'd been so close to Kai. People had always speculated as to whether they were together or just good friends, but no-one had ever asked and they all knew that now was not the time to. They just offered the comfort they could and wondered.
A gravestone was placed in the cemetery, a simple marble slab. People talked about having it inscribed with all kinds of fancy epitaphs, but the final say was Rei's. He ignored everyone else's suggestions and had Kai's name, birth date and death date picked out in gold against the black stone. There was no need for flouncy words that Kai would never see, he said. Nor any need for a poem hand written and picked out in silver that Kai would never read.
Days passed, and people visited the grave to pay respects, leaving cards and flowers. Then months went by, and inevitably the number of visitors dwindled. Eventually there was just Rei, faithfully going back every day. He'd found himself a job so he could afford fresh flowers- the kinds that Kai had always liked. Though they were not for Kai, he told his friends, when they found the time to visit Kai's grave on the anniversary of his death a year later. They were to make Kai's resting place beautiful. To turn it into a monument to the beauty that had been stolen away from them in the space of an evening.
"I'm back, Kai." Silence. "Lilies today." A gust of wind throws a few leaves into the flowers around the grave. Dedicated hands pick them out again, setting the pale, delicate lilies among the chrysanthemums and roses. It's a well-practiced routine; take out the dead flowers, put in the new ones, tidy the grass and think about all the things that might have happened if Kai had never died.
The grass is tidy, though, neat and fresh and lively around the thinning marble. It's only a little, but it -is- starting to wear down, thinner by just a little every day. Kai had always said his hair was thin. He'd hated it, and secretly invested in all kinds of herbal shampoos to solve the problem. Though of course none of them had worked. He had always been so fussy about his appearance, with those flamboyant clothes and that silly face paint…
With a sigh, the man before the grave tightens his grip on his walking stick and hobbles away. He knows he shouldn't dwell so on the past, but now his hair is grey and his back is bent, and he knows in his heart that he has never let go, and will never let go, and will visit the grave until he finally dies too…
R&R please?