A/N: Hey everyone! I know it's been years but I'm back and ready to write! My URL from now on will be radioactiveNonconformist and my stories will be a much wider array of fandoms and genres. To ease myself into the writing process, here is a short drabble for my all-time OTP. It's sort of terrible but it's just practice.
Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: These beautiful characters do not belong to me.
They'd be lucky to even be buried in unmarked graves. They were just nameless sinners in the hands of a self-proclaimed god, a god they dared to defy.
Perhaps amongst the smoke, from the building or the cigarette; no one is quite sure, one could feel the memories shared between children and regrets shared between wise men. Perhaps, even through the deafening gunshots, one could hear the laughter of best friends or the whispered I-love-you's of doomed lovers. Perhaps if one were to kneel next to the bullet-ridden John Doe or the burning ex-Mafioso they could hear a synchronized heartbeat fade into perfect silence.
Maybe somewhere, someone was grieving for the boys. A white-haired genius child? A brilliant artist girl? An old man sitting in an office where the two had joined him on occasion after another one of their schemes? Or maybe the only ones who would grieve were the ones they died to avenge. Maybe the only ones who would grieve would have been the men themselves.
No, they weren't men, they were children. They were nothing more than children. Children that died for a cause they were raised, they were trained to believe in. They were children who were never allowed to be children. Their lives were short and anonymous because they weren't lucky enough to have anything else but that. They weren't lucky enough to be happy, to have hope.
Hell, they weren't even lucky enough to be buried in unmarked graves.