.

But I am not sad, I am not sorrowful,

My fate is soothing to me:

All that is best in life that God gave us,

In sacrifice I returned to the fiery eyes!


The sound of a phone ringing jolted Kiku from his sleep. He groaned and sat up on the couch, tangled in blankets. The television was still on, the volume soft as blaring images of a flood flashed on the screen. The high pitched shrill of the phone rang again, setting Kiku into motion as he muted the television and picked up the phone.

'Kiku Honda speaking.'

There was an audible breath of relief on the other side of the phone, hesitance as the person seemed to fumble with the phone. 'K-Kiku. Hey… It's Yao.'

Kiku tensed in his seat, gripping the phone tighter. This was the first time he had heard Yao's voice in a long time, perhaps even in the entirety of the past three years. But the memory of it had never faded for Kiku, always as clear as it rang now.

'Is… something wrong?' Kiku asked.

'No, nothing's wrong. Well-' Yao stopped short, hesitating to continue. 'I mean. Of course something is wrong. I'm going to be dead in two hours, so-' A chuckle broke out of Yao's voice, the sound weak and resigned. When it died out, his voice had grown softer. 'They uh… They said I could make a final call.'

'Oh.'

Kiku eyed the clock on his wall. No, he hadn't forgotten. He very well knew what today was. Otherwise, he would not have drunk half a bottle of cheap wine to lull him into drowsiness, to coax him into sleep so that he would not be awake when it happened, so that he could not even regret for a second that he didn't make it to Yao's execution. The hour was ten in the evening now. He could still make it, if he wanted to-

'Kiku?'

'Yes?'

'Sorry, I… wasn't really thinking when I called -' Yao's stopped again, rethinking and hesitating once again. 'Maybe I should just hang up-'

'Don't.' Kiku blurted out. 'I… I'm sorry,' he said, though he wasn't sure what exactly he was apologizing for. For not speaking, for not comforting Yao when he needed it, for incarcerating Yao in the first place, for putting that bullet in Ivan's stomach, for stabbing Yao all those years ago. Kiku drew his knees up to his chest, stomach churning with a familiar sense of guilt.

'It's okay.' Yao answered, though Kiku wasn't sure what he was talking about either. Everything felt disconnected and jumbled, Kiku's thoughts swimming in memories he thought he had put to sleep.

Shouldn't I have protected him?

'Kiku…' Yao started, voice crackling over the phone. 'I just wanted you to know that I… I don't hate you.'

Kiku swallowed, remembering Yao's widened eyes when he had shot Ivan, when he had pointed the gun to his head, when he had pulled out a knife in their own home.

'You're still my brother.' Yao said. 'And it doesn't matter what you do, or even if you hate me. I don't want to die and leave you alone and thinking… Leave you thinking that no one loves you. Because I do, Kiku.'

'Why are you telling me this?' Kiku said, a lump forming in his throat. 'You shouldn't be telling me this. How am I supposed to-'

How am I supposed to live with what I did?

But the question never left his lips, only a silent sob. He grasped at the blankets strewn around him, his chest hurting as the cry left his throat. Yao was quiet on the other end of the phone, soft sniffles sounding out.

'They… They told me I can have family at the execution.' Yao said, clearing his throat. 'I was hoping you'd be there. I just want a familiar face there, you know… when it happens.'

Kiku shook his head, wiping the tears from his cheeks and hoping Yao couldn't hear his sniffles. 'I… I can't.'

'You can't or you won't?'

Kiku drew out an exhale, his breath shaky and uneven. Tears still streaming down his cheeks, Kiku felt as though they were tears that should have flowed long ago. Sobs ached to burst out of him, a dull pain in his head as he tried to contain the grief washing over him.

'P-Please understand, Yao…'

A silence, though Kiku couldn't hear if Yao was crying on the other end too. Then, the phone closed, a gentle click in Kiku's ear. He put the phone down, a withheld cry breaking out of his throat.

I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…

The words rang childishly in his head, desperately as he buried his face into a pillow and let tears soak it. He couldn't seem to stop crying, each time a new wave of sadness washing over him relentlessly, remembering every instance he had hurt Yao, every instance he had left him in search of something better. His own home… he had destroyed it.

He could still see the knife that had carved up Yao, the bloody pool Kiku had left him in – the mangled corpses Yao and Ivan had left, the desperate splatters of blood they had created. Even Yong Soo, who had been left soaking in his own blood. These red and vivid images were burnt in Kiku's memory, guilt festering at the sight of them. Corpses like replays of the same film, frenzied re-enactments of an old scar that Kiku had caused. If he hadn't stabbed Yao, hadn't torn his heart in two… Kiku wondered if things could have turned out differently, if perhaps Yao would have never turned into the beast he became.

Humid night air teased in through the window, caressing his hair. He lifted his head up from the pillow, tears drying on his cheeks. The curtains were swaying in the breeze, gentle moonlight brimming through the seams and edges. Kiku got up, steadying his breath as he watched, entranced by the moonlit shapes on the floor.

Kiku walked towards the window, trailing his hand between the curtains and letting moonlight bathe it. He was tempted to yank away the curtain, to gaze up and look at the moon that was waiting for him on the other side. Like always, never changing.

But instead, his hand faltered. Yao wouldn't see it. Not tonight, not ever again. The last thing he would see would be the cold fluorescent light above him as his life slipped away, only strangers watching him from behind the window. The thought sat uneasily in Kiku's chest, eating away at it.

I'm sorry, Yao.

These were words that would remain marked on his heart, a scar that would never fade. It buried itself deeper, along with everything else painful and unpleasant. Numbness fell over, clarity as he drew back the curtain. For now, he could only hope that history wouldn't repeat itself again.

.

The gentle ticking of Alfred's watch was irritatingly noticeable in the quiet of his office. He sighed as he rearranged documents in a folder, organizing and reshuffling them. For what, exactly… he wasn't sure. Whittling time away, really. Keeping sleep at bay, not wanting to return to his stuffy new apartment. He had only been there half a year or so, and yet the place had seemingly transformed into his old place – the air thick with coffee and whisky, old clothing piled on the floor and couches, the entire apartment just dark and dim and stale. That was his apartment now, his new office even, both of which he had hoped to be a fresh start instead.

He filed away his papers, sorting through reports of abandoned cars and drunken couple arguments gone wrong. This was the sort of town Alfred had picked, after all. A small, everybody knows everyone kind of town. Where detectives like Alfred only had the occasional bar fight to investigate, the odd robbery here and there. And yet… how he wished he had a real investigation on his hands. Horrible as it might be, Alfred wished he had something dangerous to pursue, a killer on the loose. A beast…

Alfred's eyes caught onto the sight of a cane, leaning against the corner of the room. His chest sank. He shouldn't have brought it with him, should have left it behind with everything else that reminded him of that case. But it stuck to him like an extra limb, useless and good for nothing, yet somehow still part of him.

He took off his glasses and set them on the table. Rubbing his tired eyes, the idea of having a drink appealed to him. Not coffee. No, a real drink.

He leaned down beneath his desk and brought out a bottle of whisky. He unscrewed the cap and gulped down straight from the bottle. Not really how whisky was meant to be drunk, but Alfred couldn't care less. Everybody drank from the bottle in this shithole of a town.

Lifting the bottle to take another gulp, the sound of someone bumping into a desk stopped him still. He listened closely. Silence. Then, another stumble. Footsteps tripping over something. Alfred sighed and set the bottle down. The sounds had stopped, though Alfred was sure the culprit was just standing still and thinking they were being smart about it.

Alfred got up, pulling his gun out and approaching the door. It wouldn't be the first time Alfred's done this – confronted an intruder in the police station. Most of the time it was drunk kids, punks with too much alcohol and too much free time on their hands. They thought it was funny to trash the place up, maybe even tear up the police reports that got their daddy arrested for firing a gun on New Year's Eve or something. Alfred had often been tempted to actually shoot and teach a lesson or two… but that would be a waste of a bullet, really.

His hand hovered over the handle. He could hear floorboards creaking on the other side of the door – they thought they were going to get to him first? Well-

'Hands in the air!' Alfred yanked the door open, gun aimed straight ahead. The muzzle bumped into the intruder's head.

'That's… a lovely greeting you've got there, Alfred.' Arthur said, not even flinching at the gun pointed at his head.

'Arthur…?' Alfred lowered the gun, his voice dry as his brows furrowed. 'What… What the hell are you doing here?'

'Well, I uh…' A small smile etches on Arthur's lips, his eyes not quite meeting Alfred's. 'I thought to pay you a visit.'

'You… What?' Alfred turned around as he watched Arthur enter the room, comfortable as if he had been in it before. 'But how did you…?'

'I didn't think you'd have the heart to watch our dear boy die under the needle.' Arthur sighed as he seated himself on top of Alfred's desk, nudging aside the miniature American flag and whisky bottle. 'And I figured you might… want some company. Or maybe none at all. I don't know, Alfred. To be perfectly honest, the longer I know you the harder it gets to read you, you know-'

'Yeah, but-' Alfred shut the door, irritated and yet oddly jittery at the sight of Arthur sitting in his office, sitting on his desk like it was any other normal day. Like then, like three years ago. 'How did you find me?'

'It really wasn't that hard.' Arthur toyed with the flag, aligning it in various ways. 'Kiku was happy to divulge your new address and workplace...'

'Oh, and let me guess. Someone gave you the keys to the station, too.'

'Uh, actually no.' Arthur looked up, a sheepish smile on his lips. 'I broke in.'

'Oh my god…' Alfred sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 'You couldn't have knocked? Or called?'

'Where's the fun in that, Alfred?'

'Jesus Christ…'

'Or should I say, Detective Lieutenant Jones? Hm?' Arthur picked up the title card from Alfred's desk. 'You've been working hard as always, as I can see.' He set the card back down onto the desk, a teasing smile on his lips. Alfred only stared back. Arthur cleared his throat and continued on anyway. 'I, uh… I have to say, the title rather suits you.'

'Yeah?' Alfred said, pacing around the office and feeling a headache beginning to sprout in his head. Migraines. They seemed to be visiting, too.

Arthur hummed, fingers fidgeting in his lap. His eyes flickered across the room, landing upon the cane in the corner of the room. A lopsided smile stretched across his lips, eyes brightening.

'You kept it!'

'Don't-' Alfred sighed, watching Arthur hop off the desk to pick up the cane. 'Don't touch that…'

'It's been so long…'

Arthur fiddled with the cane in his hands, twisting it this way and that. Again, like it was perfectly natural. Like Arthur had never left to begin with, like he had never nearly died in Alfred's arms.

'Is that what you came back for?' Alfred said, taking a seat at his desk and crossing his arms. Arthur spun the cane in his hands, knocking a nearby bookshelf. They both tensed at the loud bang.

'Well, no. I came to see you, Alfred.' Arthur straightened books that had tilted from the impact. 'Isn't that what I told you?' He looked back at Alfred, his expression soft and for once, not mocking him.

Alfred remained quiet, watching as Arthur hesitated and turned away, busying himself with books and trinkets on the bookshelves. The ticking of Alfred's watch became loud once again, measuring the odd silence between them. He watched Arthur's steps, balanced and steady. Arms folding comfortably, without pain or complaint. And in the gentle light of the desk lamp, Alfred could see that the bruises on Arthur's throat had long since faded. Not a mark, not even a staggered footstep to give away that Arthur had been a broken mess not too long ago.

'Arthur?'

'Yes, Alfred?' Arthur spun back towards Alfred.

'Why did you leave?'

Arthur froze for a moment, as if the question had caught him off guard somehow, though it shouldn't have. Arthur burst into a nervous chuckle, softly stabbing the cane into the floor as he looked down.

'Alfred, that was almost three years ago-'

'Off to England. Tired of staying in bed.'

Arthur furrowed his brows, looking up at Alfred. '... Excuse me?'

'That's what you wrote. On that flimsy napkin.' Alfred said. 'That's what you wrote. After months of recovering from fatal wounds, after weeks of having just regained use of your leg - before you could even be released from hospital! You tore out your own IV, Arthur!'

'Yes, that… wasn't pleasant.'

'No, you wanna know what's not pleasant?' Alfred got up from his chair, approaching Arthur. 'Carrying someone who might as well have been dead to an ambulance. Waiting outside of the surgery and expecting someone to tell you that they didn't make it, that you should have brought them sooner. Having them survive, staying by their side, only for them to leave a… a stupid little 'see you later' note!'

'Alfred, you know I didn't mean it like that-' Arthur backed into a wall, Alfred realizing just how little space had been left between them. A lump in his throat, Alfred tried to ignore the unsteadiness of his own voice, the pitiful sound it gave.

'And do you want to know what's even more unpleasant than that, Arthur? Finding out that… Finding out that your sister was buried in a ditch for the past seven years, only the one person you want to be there for you isn't there.' Alfred exhaled shakily, feeling the prick of tears in his eyes. 'You weren't there.'

'I know…' Arthur spoke softly, that familiar look of pity in his eyes. His hand reached up for Alfred's shoulder. 'I know, Alfred. And I'm sorry-'

'Don't be.' Alfred pulled away, stumbling back. He backed into the desk, the knot in his throat painful. 'It's… It's like you said. Almost three years ago, right?' He gazed at the floor, blinking away tears and feeling far too exposed, far too weak in this state. He slumped back into the chair, watching Arthur approach slowly in the corner of his eye, as if Alfred had been a feral animal of some sort.

Silence fell once again, more uncomfortable than the last. Alfred tried to compose himself, to draw back in the shakiness of his throat, the trembling that had quietly begun to take over. Only with every step Arthur took, Alfred's throat seemed to grow weaker, as if it could crumble at any moment.

'You know…' Arthur's footsteps disappeared behind Alfred, his voice tactful and soft in his tone. 'When Yao Wang was arrested, I have to say it… It didn't exactly feel like a victory. Wouldn't you say so?'

'We got him in the end, didn't we?' Alfred kept his gaze on the table, noting the coffee stains and cigarette ashes strewn across it. Uneasy with being unable to look at Arthur, and yet fearing the unsteadiness of his own voice.

'You didn't seem too happy about it.' The creaks of the floorboards slowed down.

'Yeah, well. Things didn't exactly end neatly.'

Arthur hummed, fingertips touching Alfred's temples. Alfred flinched and turned his head.

'What are you-'

Arthur's hands caught his face, turning it to face forward. 'Keep your eyes there, love.'

'What the hell are you doing?' Alfred felt his face warm up, burning where Arthur's fingers touched.

'I thought to play a little game.'

'Now's a bad time, Arthur.' Alfred spluttered out, the steadiness in his voice long gone. He sounded weak, fragile. He hated it.

'Indulge me for a bit.'

'Maybe I've already done too much of that.' Alfred said, wanting to shift in his seat, to pull away. Only he couldn't – he worried what Arthur might see in this, what conclusions he would draw from it. Flustered and needing something to do, he glanced at his watch. Midnight. Yao's execution would be starting about now.

'Alfred…'

'Yeah?'

'Close your eyes for me.'

'Why?'

'Try it.'

For something coming out of Arthur's mouth, it wasn't particularly convincing. Yet, with those slender fingers holding onto him, as if tuning into a pulse of some kind, Alfred found himself curious. His previous anger seemed to have melted away somehow, replaced by a reluctant wish to indulge him, to play along with his games just a little bit more…

Hesitantly, Alfred closed his eyes, hearing the tiny ticks of his watch. Time passing by, Yao's life slipping away with every minute. Soon enough, Alfred would be a murderer, too.

Arthur hummed in approval, the pads of his fingertips dragging across skin, back to Alfred's hairline. Alfred felt a shiver at the touch, though he tried to contain it, to keep this from showing. Arthur's hands drew over the back of Alfred's head, smoothing over hair.

'Do you remember when I told you about my father, Alfred? And I asked you about your childhood, about what you think of whenever you lock away a murderer…'

Fingers snaking through hair, it almost felt as though they were snaking into his mind as well. Alfred pursed his lips, swallowing nervously.

'Y-Yeah. I remember.'

'You never told me your answer at the time. But I think I got it.'

'Really…' Alfred's head felt heavy, wanting to drift away.

Arthur hummed. 'You think… At least there's one less monster in the world. At least, someone else won't have to suffer like you did. They won't have to lose someone and blame themselves for it. It's a satisfying feeling, to play the hero… isn't it? Only… you're still hurting.'

The lump in Alfred's throat returned, climbing up higher and higher until he thought he wouldn't be able to speak. Arthur's hands combed back Alfred's hair, brushing his fringe away – surely, so that if tears spilled, Arthur could see them. Alfred wouldn't let it happen.

'You… sound really confident about that.' Alfred said, his voice scratchy and aching in his throat. The pricks of tears still in his eyes, he held them back, kept them like he always did.

'I am.' Arthur let Alfred's fringe fall back over, softly brushing against his forehead. 'And I don't think you really ever made it out of that case in one piece. I don't think I did, either.'

'You don't say...' Alfred muttered.

'But what I'm trying to say, Alfred, is that… well.'

'Well what?'

'I thought I could fix myself on my own. I thought going back to England and pretending it never happened might… erase it somehow…' Arthur's hands trailed down to Alfred's shoulders. 'But I forgot that you would have been doing the same, too.'

Alfred swallowed, the gentle weight of Arthur's hands somehow heavy on his shoulders. 'What am I supposed to say to that? It's done, isn't it? Just forget about it. I know I did.' The lie, too, felt heavy.

Arthur tilted his head back. Alfred opened his eyes in surprise, finding emerald green eyes boring into his. Closer than before, softer. And for the first time, Alfred saw a hazel hue in them.

'I'm… deeply sorry, Alfred.'

'For what?' Alfred said, aware that his and Arthur's breaths were mixing, surely. The thought sent a kind of panic in his veins, a realization that he had surrendered to those eyes somehow, without even noticing.

'The world's been tough on you, hasn't it?' Fingers trailed across his jaw, Arthur's palm cupping his cheek. Arthur's voice was barely a murmur now, only to Alfred it was louder than anything else. 'I should have been there to catch you…'

'Are you…' A reluctant smile tugged at Alfred's lips. 'Are you trying to say I fell from the sky or something? Is that supposed to be, like… your pick-up line? That I'm an angel-'

Lips pressed against Alfred's, chapped and rough on his. Torn, as if bitten in worry. Breath having been stolen from shock, Alfred still found himself kissing back, smoothing over Arthur's broken lips as if to heal them. Arthur's fingertips press into his face, holding tighter as his lips parted. Alfred could no longer hear the ticking of the clock, only the beating of his own heart when he realized he had been longing for this – for silence with Arthur, for only needing him there and nothing more. For having him without the colorful words, the masks and the coy smiles. Like a magician's hat, they meant to distract from the real spectacle, to hide Arthur away.

Alfred reached his hand up to touch Arthur's, to hold it like he did when Arthur had been bleeding out in the snow – desperately tight and close in a blizzard that wanted to bury them. Fingers only just brushing against Arthur's hand, Arthur broke away, slowly as if reluctant to do so.

'I'm… I'm afraid I didn't… plan on doing that.' Arthur's hands slid away from Alfred, face flushed when he pulled away completely.

'What do mean you…' Alfred sat up, only to find Arthur already at the doorway, cane in hand. Too far away to reach, too far away to hold onto now.

'You're leaving?'

Arthur hesitated, eyes flickering as they tried to meet Alfred's. 'I… have some matters to tend to at home. Sorry to disappoint.' A weak smile tugged at Arthur's lips, a poor imitation of his previous confidence. He opened the door. 'Well. I'm off. See you… when the next bloody corpse arrives, I… guess...'

'Arthur, wait-' Alfred stood up, somehow afraid that once he walked through that doorway, he would lose him forever.

'Yes, Alfred?' Arthur took a small step back towards Alfred, the tiny gesture igniting a cruel kind of hope in Alfred's chest.

Don't leave.

'I… I don't understand.' Alfred said.

Arthur's eyes held onto his for a moment, a kind of hesitance in them that Alfred hadn't seen before. 'I'm not leaving forever, Alfred. Please don't look at me like that. I'll be back. I promise, Alfred. I… I only planned on making a short visit. M-My plane leaves in the morning. Really, it's not…' Arthur sighed. 'I don't think you need another stray in your life, Alfred. You can only put up with so much… I'm afraid you'll only end up hating me. I'll be burden. I'll be worse than any feral stray. You know that.'

'No, I don't…'

'I'm sorry.' Arthur took a step back, halfway out the doorway. Alfred grabbed his wrist, his heart pounding at the thought of the words he would say next.

'D-Don't do it. Don't go back.' Alfred spluttered, the air suddenly feeling thick like smoke when Arthur gazed back at him. 'Stay here. Stay with me.'

'Alfred, I told you-'

'I know, I know. You're insane, you're a psychopath, you're a killer in the making. But…But I don't care if you're dangerous, or crazy or whatever. Because I don't know what you're talking about, man. You're the… You're the sanest guy I know. You're not a stray. You're not… feral.'

Arthur's brow piqued up in interest, sending Alfred's pulse into a nerve-racking throb.

'I-' Alfred swallowed, drawing Arthur closer by the wrist. 'You're my sanity, Arthur. I… Do you know how long that cane has been lying against the wall there? How I haven't polished it since the day you left? The - The crazy kind of bullshit I put the movers through when they forgot to bubble wrap it?'

'Oh dear…' Arthur pursed his lips, a smile – a real one – hidden beneath them. Alfred felt his chest warm up at the sight, hope sprouting when Arthur's feet hesitated and stepped closer. A short chuckle burst out of Alfred.

'I- I'm the insane one, Arthur. You're… You're the anchor. My anchor. And I need you here. Don't leave me with another goodbye. I'm sick of goodbyes. I just need you here, next to me, picking through my mind because god knows I don't know how. I… I...'

'You're lost without me?'

Alfred blinked, opening his mouth to speak.

'You're totally and terribly hopeless without me by your side? You can't stand the thought of living without me?'

'Y-Yes, Arthur. Don't make me give that speech again-'

Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred, burying his face into Alfred's chest. Alfred stumbled back, chest constricted and elated at the same time. He held Arthur closer, resting his head on Arthur's. It was quiet, save for the sound of his own heart beating, of Arthur's slowed breaths against his chest. Without speaking, they knew. Broken as they might be, clipped as their wings might be, they had each other to hold onto, for better or for worse.

.

The heavy door groaned as it opened, hands roughly guiding Yao into the room. The first thing that caught his eye was the gurney in the center of the room, black straps hanging down from the sides. Yao felt blood begin to pump in his ears.

This is it. This is where I'm going to die.

'Sit up on the gurney and lie down on your back.' A guard commanded. Yao nodded, seating himself up onto the gurney with shaky hands. He lied down, a fluorescent light glaring down on him. He exhaled slowly, cold sweat breaking out on his skin. The room was cool, clinical… unforgiving.

The guards began to secure the straps on Yao's legs and arms. Another one around his upper torso, one around his stomach. They were yanked tight, constricting enough so that Yao couldn't even wiggle for room. His hands clenched and unclenched, aching with restlessness. He had been waiting a long time for this, a long time to leave that dull prison and end his sentence. Only now, Yao couldn't shake off the urge to run away, to flinch even when the technician dabbed at his arm with rubbing alcohol.

It was at that moment that Yao also had the strange urge to laugh. Perhaps nervousness, perhaps fear… perhaps even the fact that only a few years ago, the scariest thing on Yao's mind was the idea of facing that interview again, of simply having pointed questions thrown at him. Now, it was death.

A small smile was brimming beneath the surface of his trembling lips, only to die out at the prick of a needle in his arm. The moment was now too real, too present to find any strange humor in it.

Overhead, Yao watched the IV stand draw closer, a clear bag hanging from it. He tried to steady his breath, focusing on the gentle sway on the bag. He knew he was being watched, being judged by the way he held himself, even in his own death. He wondered what kind of man Yao was in the minds of others. A cold, unfeeling killer. Or maybe, a scared kid that had somehow got himself caught up in trouble, and let it take him too far. Perhaps a bit of both. Yao didn't really care anymore. Whatever he truly was, it didn't matter. It never did.

The curtains drew from behind the viewing window, faces of strangers watching. Yao could feel the stares, the hatred of those who condemned him, the cold interest of those who studied him. In that moment, he wished there were kind eyes among them, tender eyes like…

(Ochi chernye…)

A small lump formed in Yao's throat. He swallowed, the straps seemingly tighter around him now, suffocating him like coiled snakes. No… He couldn't cry. He couldn't cry now. Three years he had cried in secret, three years he had pretended not to care, not to miss him so that others wouldn't prey on him. He couldn't start crying now.

Among the witnesses, someone pushed their way through. People reluctantly moved aside, giving way to Kiku as he approached the window. His hands hovering with uncertainty towards the window, perhaps wanting to press against it but too reluctant to do so. It was only when Kiku finally touched the glass that Yao noticed the redness of Kiku's eyes, the subtle pinch of his brows.

'Would you like to say any final words?' A voice asked.

Yao kept his eyes on Kiku, hoping his voice wouldn't break when he spoke. 'Yeah… I… I want my brother to know I'm sorry I won't be there for him anymore. And that… it's not his fault. I chose this.'

Yao paused, watching the disapproval grow on the strangers' faces. They were expecting formal apologies for his crimes, regrets… But Yao didn't have any.

One of the guards hovered around Yao uncertainly, as if asking for confirmation. Yao nodded, turning his head away from the window.

The technician pierced the IV bag with a syringe, the clear fluid dripping into it. It washed down the line, into Yao's arm. He thought of red pouring through it, viscous blood crawling down the line as it once did for him so long ago…

(I'm not leaving, myshka.)

He exhaled shakily and watched the fluorescent light above him flicker gently. The edge of his vision began to blur, though he wasn't sure if it was from the IV or the tears prickling in his eyes. He tried to blink them away, only each time his vision became dimmer, hazier.

He turned toward the window, expecting to see Kiku still there. Only when he did, Yong Soo's bloody corpse stood among the witnesses, his eye dripping with dark fluid. Next to him, a man covered in silver needles, his face flayed like ruffled petals. A woman with spider lilies spilling out of her chest. A man with a bouquet of flowers for a head. The woman with burning candles in her womb, the sweet and nostalgic scent of honeysuckle lingering in the air. But the scent only sickened Yao, only tore the ache in his chest further, reminded him of who he had made those corpses for.

(It'll be fine, myshka…)

Yao swallowed, a pain in his throat as he buried his whimper. He could still recall those last weak thuds of Ivan's heart, the soft breath that had left Ivan's lips before he died, the weight of Ivan's head leaning against Yao's hand. Vivid as if it had only happened yesterday, as if everything had happened in the blink of an eye. As if one moment Yao was terrified of those lilac eyes gazing at him, and the next fearing they would tear away and close forever.

His vision flickered, like a candle being blown out by the wind. Voices wandered around him, Kiku's hushed words, Jin and Yong Soo's lively chatter. Katyusha's trembling voice and Alfred's commanding one. Drifting away, Yao couldn't tell which voices were real and which voices weren't. He only wished he could hear the one voice that wasn't there, the one he desperately held onto in memory.

The world went dark for Yao, like the final curtain dropping on him. He felt as though he were floating on viscous air, warmth washing over and enveloping him. It started to grow in intensity, growing warmer and piercing his skin like sunlight. He then felt the ground on his back, softer than the gurney he had been lying on before.

'Yao…'

The voice was close, close enough for Yao to feel his breath still. A hand softly brushed against his cheek, cool to the touch. Something rustled nearby, like plants swaying in the breeze. He reached his hand up, though he couldn't see it. Someone caught his hand, holding it gently.

'Open your eyes.'

Yao opened his eyes, a lump in his throat. Even so, a soft smile swept across his lips.

'I've missed you.' Yao croaked out, not wanting that hand to ever let go.

'I know. I missed you, too.'

A sob broke out of Yao's throat, warm tears pooling at his eyes. His breaths became ragged, the smile still on his lips even as he cried. His chest hurt, as if having waited to see those lilac eyes for an eternity. His eyes burned with tears, throat raw with sobs as Ivan leaned down to place a soft kiss on his forehead. The sweetness of it was tinged with pain, with knowing that the world had killed them both.

They had met at such an unlucky hour, in the dark of an alleyway with splatters of red and thoughts led astray. And yet, they lay here now with sunflowers cradling the end of their lives, bringing them to the close of a curtain, and then… the peace they had long been waiting for.


A/N: So...That's the end of 'Ochi Chernye'! Thank you so much for reading through until the end, and thank you so so much for the reviews and support! I hope this was a story worth reading, and that you enjoyed (?) it as much as I did writing it.

Anyways, feel free to leave your much appreciated thoughts in the reviews section! And once again, thank you for reading :)