Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation. Maki Murakami does.
A/N: Tie in to submission 9 – between 9 and 22. There's probably a few more pieces to be attached to that particular prompt.
Prompt: He wishes he had a damn cigarette and a damn time machine to go back and just change the fact that the weight in his hand is from the handle of a coffin.
Rating: M for language and dark material.
Untitled
The sun is shining.
The sun is shining, and it makes him feel a little guilty for it. Not because it is there, providing warmth and what not, because that would be a stupid thing to feel guilt over. No. It makes him feel a little guilty because even though it's one of the most beautiful sights he has ever seen (and he's seen a lot of beautiful things), and people are walking out in it and smiling, and it's warm and because of that it's comforting, he really just wishes it were raining.
Because while people are enjoying this sun, enjoying this glorious weather, enjoying that their eyes aren't clouded with grief and that their feet aren't dragging and that their shoulders aren't slumped with the defeat by the bastard called life, he's walking on grass freshly soaked by a sprinkler system long shut off. Walking on freshly soaked grass, with the weight of heavy brass held tightly in one hand, his eyes lowered and his feet dragging and if it wouldn't make his burden falter his shoulders would be slumped too. It's hot and taunting because the damnable sun has no use for his thick black jacket and slacks, sees no need for anyone to be sad this day.
He wishes he had a damn cigarette. A damn cigarette and a damn cold breeze and a damn fucking time machine to go back and just change the fact that the weight in his hand is from the handle of a coffin holding the body of someone dead long before his time.
Covered in blood – pink tinged with red, white covered in it – laying across the bathroom floor so comfortably as though he had just fallen asleep there. A soft, small smile on a lately broken face.
As people around him cry, as his feet hold firm and do not slip, as something cold brushes tenderly across the back of his neck to offer that cooling breeze he longed for, as he wishes for rain and rain and damn it, damn it all for fucking rain, Yuki can't help but smile at the bitterness of it all, and his golden eyes glint hard.
That he's here, in a cemetery again, surrounded by people he doesn't know just to be with the one person he does know, as he surrounded by an orchestra of grief so poorly and brilliantly conducted. He's finally holding hands, exposing it all, and the one person who even gave a fucking damn isn't even seeing it. Feeling it. Enjoying it.
"I'm glad it's not raining," someone behind him whispers as he and other faceless men carry the coffin by. "Shuichi was so happy all the time, so radiant. He deserves nothing less than a sunny day."
The sun is shining.
The sun is shining, and even though he has heard the words, and even though he agrees with those words, and even though he knows he will return to this grave every year for the rest of his life – even before he goes to the grave of the other – he feels a little guilty for it.
Because, as he rests the coffin on top of the holdings, and steps back away from the mourners, as his lungs suddenly seize up and he doesn't wish for his cigarette anymore and the world starts to fade a little bit, he still wishes for the fucking rain.
All moved back to Washington now, things kind of straightened out. Thanks to anyone who's sticking with me.
Not sharing my thoughts again, not on this particular set. But I would love to know what you are thinking.