Summary: It hurts worse when you don't say anything at all

Notes: One shot, written in second person, mild violence, language, character death.

Disclaimer: I can't draw worth shit. GravitationNot mine.

Kill Me Shining
.oOo.

It was another petty argument, a stupid thing really. He'd gone shopping that weekend and spent nearly one hundred bucks on shitty food and drinks and snacks. Your fridge is full to the gills with food, food you don't even like, and he managed somehow to forget the one thing you want most of all: the beer.

You're cool and casual that morning, perhaps a little pissed. So when he comes to kiss you goodbye and you turn away coldly, maybe it's a little more out of punishment for forgetting the beer than any real desire to make him adorably mad so he'll stomp his foot and pout and make you kiss him (because secretly you love it when he does that).

You lock yourself in your study before he can pull that stunt, and like the brat he is, he follows and knocks and whines at the door, throwing out a million accusations, asking a million questions, giving himself a million wrong answers and you just want to scream at him to leave, for the love of God.

You stand up instead and unlock the door, glaring down at him, shadows casting anger lines into your face and you know that for at least a second his a little scared of you. Good. He needs to be reminded who he's dealing with.

You push past him and get the coffee pot, pour yourself a cup of bitter black caffeine and sip it, hoping it'll burn your tongue so maybe you'll keep silent and won't hurt his feelings. He's still asking questions. His voice is rising in pitch. All the signs are there, eventually he's going to start crying, and if his furious squeals are any indication, he's going to start crying soon.

The coffee isn't hot enough to keep you from making a sarcastic remark you don't really mean. He gets flushed and indignant and crosses his arms. You keep sipping your coffee, staring off into space, finding patterns in the stucco ceiling.

He's complaining again, that voice bouncing around like an echo in the small kitchen. His voice is grating on your every nerve. Just shut up. Just shut up. All you want is for him to shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Your hands are shaking now. You put down your coffee mug before you drop it and break it and create such a big mess that your temper will flare and you won't be able to stop yourself from shouting at him until he dissolves into nothing.

Another curse. Another question. Why? It's always why with him, why this, why that, why, why, why, why, why? You don't know the fucking answer, because you would have told him by now just to get him off your back. Now your fists are clenched. The point of no return is fast approaching, the breaking point drawing nearer.

And it hits.

Rage grips you and squeezes and for a moment it's like you can't even breathe because you're so angry. You lash out, not at him, but your fist connects with his favorite coffee mug, the orange one with a little cartoon man on the side, the one that he brought with him when he first moved in. It plummets to the ground and shatters, five large pieces and countless shards that will never be found. There's a red haze glowing in front of your eyes, and for a moment you allow yourself the joy of being able to break something, of being able to just take it and destroy it.

He's stays silent, and then takes a deep breath, and another, and another.

"Fine!" He screeches, voice breaking on the tears that were long overdue. "Fuck you Eiri! Just… just fuck you!"

He leaves, the door slamming so hard behind him that a picture frame in the hallway falls off its perch and the glass breaks. You can hear the tinkle as it shatters. You're stuck in a permanent crouch, guarding yourself against the unexpected. The use of your first name is a low-blow. He never calls you Eiri.

The rage has subsided now, gone as quickly as it came. Your gut clenches as you realize what you've just done, how much you've hurt him. Quick apologies and passionate kisses won't buy you forgiveness on this one, not for a long time.

You stand there. Minutes drag by. You don't move a single muscle, though your body protests and your shoulders and legs ache. It's been a half hour. Should you try to put the mug back together, even though the ceramic has splintered off into microscopic pieces and it will never, ever, fit the same again? Ten more minutes pass before you grab your cup of coffee and pour its cold contents down the sink, stepping carefully to avoid a razor sharp stab in the foot from the broken ceramic.

Your phone rings. The music playing warns you that it's Tohma, but you pick it up anyway, just for a reason to snap out of your reverie.

What he says has you running, running to put on a jacket, to grab your keys, to get to a car, to get the fuck out of there and go to wherever he is.

Because, Tohma says, Shuichi is dying.

There's blood in his hair and on his clothes. It's pooled around him, a crimson bath overtaking this fragile broken body. It's an auto versus pedestrian accident, the police say in whispers. The driver is unharmed, a minor cut on his forehead. He keeps asking if whoever he hit is okay. He doesn't know who it is; he doesn't know he's mangled a young star, a young life.

Yuki is dead inside. He can feel it creeping into his heart, into his lungs, the death and despair and the will, the fucking desire to let go and die along with Shuichi. The amethyst eyes are fading in and out of focus, there's recognition and sadness and confusion.

"Yuki," he whispers, and all at once... he's gone.

You return home late. Drunk. You tried your hardest to drink until you died of alcohol poisoning or liver failure. You didn't succeed at either.

The house is exactly as you left it this morning. The picture that was broken as he left lies on the ground, his wide and vibrant smile shining up at you. It makes you sick. It makes you want to cry, to drink more, to forget. Passing forever into unawareness is more than welcome at this point.

You stumble, half-blind, into the living room, kicking off your shoes and throwing your jacket to the ground. Your head is splitting open from the premature beginnings of a hangover and the unfamiliar ache of tears spilling freely.

You need to get to a bed, to lie down and pray for death, but that requires passing the kitchen. You don't want to go there.

But you do, because there's no way around it. You try your very hardest not to look at the shattered remains of his last moments, your last memories of him, here in this house neither one of you called home.

You stop. You stare. You fall to the ground in fresh sobs and screams of pain and torment.

He just wanted to give you something better than rotten takeout and beer to drink. He just wanted to stock the fridge with something healthy, something good for you, for once. You had to get mad. You had to make him leave. Maybe, if you hadn't delayed him that mornign with your dumbass antics and your fucked-up mind games, maybe, he wouldn't be... wouldn't be...

He was just trying to take care of you, and the best yo could do was break his favorite cup into pieces.

A/N: I wrote this at eleven o'clock at night after one of the worst and most depressing days of my life. And then I posted it. If it sucks, blame it on lack of sleep and haywire emotions. Review?