Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Laura Marling's "Alas, I Cannot Swim", her song "Cross Your Fingers" from said album, nor Eyeshield 21.

A/N: all the bolded work is Bragi151's. Seriously, love on up on him through his private message inbox.

Death is a dialogue between
The spirit and the dust.
"Dissolve," says Death. The Spirit, "Sir,
I have another trust."

Death doubts it, argues from the ground.
The Spirit turns away,
Just laying off, for evidence,
An overcoat of clay.

-Emily Dickinson

Sena was violently yanked away from the comforting blinding light in front of him. The light had promised peace, it had held an offer of bliss and happiness. Now, he was being wrenched into an eternal darkness, his only company two arguing voices.

"You have no right to interfere," an angry cruel voice – or was it voices? The words had been spoken as if from a single mouth, a single mind, and yet, they were uttered from every corner of the darkness as if by a myriad of beings. Male and Female, Young and Old, the voices had no distinction and every bit of differentiation Sena's mind could imagine. Except for the voice that opposed it.

"I do as I please," the voice said in opposition. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't kind. It just was. It was all there was. It was all that ever would be. It was not bound by the concept of age. It was not fettered by the perception of gender. It was more than Sena could rightly comprehend, and his very soul shuddered in utter pain as the voice pierced what he thought were his ears.

"No! He is ours!" the voices said again, harsh and guttural, angry at their charge being taken from them. And Sena understood instantly that's what he was. A charge. He was to be seen safely to the other side of that light, that wonderful beautiful light. Why wasn't he going? The voices outnumbered the voice. Surely they would take him to the other side.

Sena couldn't have been more wrong.

"I do not recognize your petty duties or you imagined charges. Interfere with me again and I will show you that death is not the end of your foul kind," the voice said. There were no words that Sena could think of to describe the voice that pierced him like a lance. It simply invaded his body, forcing him to be fearful and cower at the feat of the voice. No other thought remotely entered the young man's brain, let alone words to describe the fear and utter abasement he felt.

"Come now, Kobayakawa Sena. For you are mine to play with as I will," the voice said.

The voice had said that, but when Sena could see again, all he could see was light. Everything around him was bright, blinding white light. Sena idly wondered if he had eyes to be hurt by all this light as he equally disinterestedly scanned the non-landscape for something. He wasn't quite sure what he had been looking for until he found it, though. Somewhere in the white—near, far, he genuinely couldn't tell—was a window. The window itself didn't interest Sena, other than existing as something that might not hurt his not-eyes, but the room on the other side of the window, and the person in that room was.

His not-heart clenched. Juumonji was standing in his apartment at Saikyodai, completely oblivious to Sena's eyes greedily watching his every movement.

It wasn't right though, this Juumonji. Sena frowned and tried to evaluate the likelihood of this being a trick played upon him by the Old Man or the voice.

This Juumonji was treading the waters of sanity, and the toll that was being extracted was beyond obvious. Lines; wrinkles; blood-shot, bruised eyes; this Juumonji couldn't be the energetic, athletic, lively Juumonji Sena had known.

But if there was one person Sena had known in his life, it was Juumonji, and his Juumonji was lovingly sculpting an exact replica of Sena's own face in rich, smooth terra-cotta.

"Are you happy now?" Juumonji looked up from his sculpting, straight into Sena's eyes. "Are you happy?" He asked. "I'm doing this for you," he insisted, gesturing at the bust, "I'm all but jumping into your grave with you. I've not slept for days. I don't remember the last time I ate. I'm driving away all my friends for you. Only for you. Is it good enough for you yet?" He demanded, the bags under his eyes deepening with every burden brought to light.

Sena stared wordlessly—voicelessly—he wasn't sure he could have said anything if he had the words to.

"Fine. I'm not the type that quits easily, but my resentment will be etched in even the line of your jaw." Juumonji set his face humorlessly and turned away from his dead lover.

"No." Sena choked out, his voice finally unbound. "It's too much! I'm gone already; just stop it! I don't want it! I don't want to come back to your hatred. I don't want to come back, don't make me!" He screamed.

The room faded, and the voicethanked him for his help and he was left in the bright, alone.

Juumonji awoke to the streetlight flickering outside his living room window from the couch and draped an arm over his eyes.

In a minute he'd get up. In a minute he'd be recovered from his nap, and glimpse of a dream of Sena crying and screaming that he didn't want to come back. In a minute he'd sit up and try to master the beautiful, perfect curve of Sena's jaw, and shake away the most real, most perfect Sena-demon that he'd ever seen. Had he seen Sena-demons before? He must have, he just had. Sena. He pushed himself up.

End note: Uh, this one was a little more complex than usual. Let me know if you want me to break it down.