really love writing shiro and yukio angst :)

In Regret I Linger

When had it all begun? Yukio wasn't sure. The days after Shiro's funeral were a blur—Mephisto, Neuhaus, Kyoto, Toudou—it was all one train wreck after another, and Shiro wasn't there anymore to guide him forward. Yukio was on his own.

In the daylight anyway. At night, once he'd laid down and melted into his bed with exhaustion, Shiro would stand over him, and in the shadows, without his glasses, Yukio couldn't make out his expression. Was he angry? Disappointed? Yukio was too scared to look properly, so he closed his eyes and clenched his fists under the blankets, willing the dream to change.

But Shiro's presence would linger, and Yukio's pooling anxiety would grow. He'd count sheep, strain his ears to focus on the rhythmic tick-tock sound of the clock hanging on the worn wall of their bedroom, but no matter how he tried to distract himself, no matter how much he tried to lull himself back into a deeper sleep, he remained maddeningly aware of Shiro standing by his bedside.

Too often he would wake up earlier than he'd meant to and hurry out of bed, preferring to start his morning swallowing back energy drinks than to spend another moment in his father's haunting presence.

But some days, often when he'd been run down to the bone, to the point that he couldn't spare an ounce of energy to entertain the deep well of his self-doubt, he found Shiro's presence comforting instead. He would roll over, eyes still closed, and under the safe blanket of darkness, Yukio would sometimes find the courage to speak.

"What should I do?" he'd ask in a small whisper, no louder than a breath.

Shiro would never respond, but Yukio—he felt his father's thick, rough fingers cart through his hair as if he was five and sick and helpless. The touch soothed him as much as it made him want to curl up and shy away from it—from the reminder that after all this time, he was still weak.

Tears prickled hotly under his eyelids, and the next day, after waking up to a damp pillowcase, he would shove the evidence of his weakness away from himself. A deep breath later had him moving to straighten up his bed, the disciplined routine a more numbing comfort.

He saw Shiro much less after the Illuminati; after the ugly, cathartic blow out with his brother. Weeks passed without him realizing it, but just before the loneliness could set in again, Shiro would return, his presence much quieter than before, but still (blessedly) there.

One night, when he'd had a particularly bad day, he felt his father's hand again, gently running through his hair, and Yukio found himself leaning into it this time.

"I miss you," he admitted out loud for once.

There had been points in his life where he had felt tempted to lash out at Shiro, times where an unending anger had filled the balloon trapped in his chest, leaving little room for air; little room to breathe.

These days, the anger had since deflated. His paralyzing fear had, too. So Yukio dared to open his eyes and the last knot that had been tightly fastened over his heart loosened as he sat up and took in the worn worry, the loving care etched on Shiro's face.

Yukio stared at him for a long moment, burning each detail into his mind. The memories of his father were flawed—they were of a man who'd always been a far too perfect ideal, whose high expectations drove Yukio to take on a role he hadn't fully understood until the weight of it became more than he could handle. Foolishly, he'd forced himself to chase after his shadow, to fill in the shoes he'd left behind, all while carrying a resentment in his heart that blackened his memories further.

But now, all he could see was his father—the man who'd given him the strength to stand on his own feet, who'd teased him about girls whenever the frown lines on his face deepened too much, whose rice balls he so desperately missed eating.

There was so much he wanted to tell him. Too much that he couldn't. Yukio sat there, paralyzed by indecision. But not for long. As Shiro reached out again and rested his hand on Yukio's head, the familiar, encouraging touch helped him find his words. His voice was quiet, a little rough, but steady.

"…There are a lot of things I have always wanted to ask you. Neither of us were ever good with words. But, you know, I no longer feel clouded or lost."

It had taken a lot of time, a lot of effort. Rin's support. Shura's too, as well as his friends'.

"I'll be okay, dad," he told Shiro, and meant it.

His words made Shiro's face soften and the way he looked at Yukio then—Yukio remembered that look. He had buried the memory of it under all of his self doubt and self hatred, but the sight of that warm, proud gaze on him had as much of an effect on him now as it had been the first time—the many times—he had seen it before.

Little by little, he felt the pressure on his head fade away and the one in his eyes begin. Thick, slow tears fell from his eyes as Shiro's presence slowly grew faint, as his outline lost shape. But Yukio didn't scorn them this time.

Instead, he smiled too. And when he laid back in bed again, he slept peacefully.