I am back. Again.

Okay. I know it's the 24th of February and it's supposed to be Fubuki's birthday, but I'm writing about him dying. Don't kill me, Fubuki fans! I am one of you!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inazuma Eleven or any of its characters.

Warnings: Yaoi. Suicide. All self-destructive behaviour in story is inappropriate for everyone. Please do not try to do it yourself. Thank you.

Let us proceed.

With trembling hands, he raised the army knife and ran its sharp tip over his thigh. A trail of blood appeared on his pale skin, dripping out of the long, thin wound. The cut stung, but the pain was good. He concentrated on the pain, letting it wash over him and clear his head. This is for him, he told himself. This is for him, Fubuki Shirou. This is for him. This is for Isshido Shuuji!

OoOoOoOoO

Isshido knocked on hotel room 910. He was sure that Fubuki Shirou, the coach of Hakuren, was in there. His servants had told him so. He frowned when no one answered. He had to be in there. His servants had confirmed it. Fubuki was inside, Isshido was positive about it. He turned the knob. As expected, it was locked. Cursing under his breath, he leaned against the opposite wall to wait.

OoOoOoOoO

Someone was knocking at the door. By that unique knocking rhythm, he knew that it was Isshido Shuuji. He placed the army knife by the sink and limped out to the living room to grab a pen and piece of paper, and he began to scribble a message on the sheet.

OoOoOoOoO

Isshido knocked at the door again impatiently. He had to talk to Fubuki. There were important matters to discuss.

Losing his patience, he twisted the knob to try to force his way in. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. The wooden door swing open smoothly. "Sneaky, huh," he mused, stepping into the small room. He picked his way through the neat hotel space. He noted that the small black suitcase beside the cabinet was unpacked, and Fubuki's signature dark blue jacket was spread out on bed.

So Fubuki was here.

He wasn't in the bedroom, so he must be…

In the bathroom.

Isshido ran a hand through his dyed hair and opened the door to the bathroom. Shocked, he stared at the scene before him.

Fubuki Shirou was lying on the cold marble floor, cheeks deathly pale. His wrists were bleeding severely. The blood that flowed from the deliberate cuts pooled the floor with its dark scarlet. His eyes were closed, and there was something tight and painful about his expression.

"Shirou!" In one swift movement, Isshido had swept Fubuki into his arms. "Shirou!" Isshido pressed a hand against one of those pale, smooth cheeks. It was cold. Ice cold. Growing frantic, he held Fubuki's unmoving form closer, checking his breathing. There wasn't the typical airflow, or the soft rising and falling of his chest.

No… this had to be a joke. It can't be true.

He pressed an ear against the bloodstained white shirt. The usual heavy thumping of his heart was missing. His heart was silent. Completely silent. Deathly silent.

"Shirou! Please! Don't…" Isshido stopped. His words choked in his throat. Irrevocable suffocating pain slashed across his heart as he noticed the bloodstained army knife on the floor near where Fubuki lay.

It clicked together.

Fubuki… his Fubuki… had committed suicide. Why? "Why? Shirou! Why? Why did you do something so stupid?" Tears blurred his vision. Fubuki's beautiful, gentle smile flashed across his eyes. He blinked. It was only his imagination. He no longer cared that the blood was seeping into his socks. All it mattered was that Fubuki was dead. His Shirou. Dead. Cold. Unmoving.

Under the bridge. Thunder. Fear. Atsuya. Rain. Alone.

Aliea Meteorite.

Real Soccer.

Genesis. Raimon. Scarf. Atsuya. Gone. Wolf Legend.

Crossfire. Both. Together.

The Earth. Everyone. True power. Defeat Genesis.

Friendship.

Real soccer.

FFI.

Winning. With real soccer.

Raimon Junior. Graduation. Match. Fun. Happy.

Real soccer.

He was Gouenji Shuuya.

Not Isshido Shuuji.

Not a freak that controlled soccer.

He was Gouenji Shuuya.

The tears kept coming, spilling from his eyes and streaming down his face. Why had he, himself, Isshido Shuuji – Gouenji Shuuya – fallen for the trap of temptation of power? Why wasn't he strong enough to resist? Like Fubuki…the love of his life… The twisting pain and guilt worsened as more memories flooded out from the back of his mind.

High school. With Fubuki.

Confess. Love.

Their first kiss.

Their first date.

Their relationship.

Their first night together.

The pain was too much for him to bear, but he fought to keep his emotions under control. Standing up, he placed his dead boyfriend into the dry, empty bathtub.

A piece of folded paper fell from Fubuki's fingers, fluttering to a rest at Gouenji's lap.

Gouenji picked it up. It was slightly bloodstained, and the cover read, "To Isshido Shuuji" in Fubuki's small, neat handwriting.

Both saddened and curious, he unfolded Fubuki Shirou's final message with trembling hands.

Shuuya, it said.

I should be dead by the time you read this. I'm sorry that I have to do this, but it's all too much, and this is for the good for everyone, which includes you.

When you became the Holy Emperor, I wondered why you did it. I should've stopped you in time. To have pulled you back to the right side.

But I was too late.

Seeing you on television as the Holy Emperor caused me to feel so guilty. I feel an indescribable pain. It hurts so much. Everything is out of control. The only thing I can do is to cut myself to release the pain. To forget it. I wanted you back, like before all of this. When it was just the Pro-League, just you and me.

Perhaps, I know, deep down inside, that the case of all this is me. And to put a stop to this, the only solution is me Perhaps, after this, you'll go back to who you were, and remember real soccer.

I don't have many wishes. I don't even have a will. I just hope that you'll realize your own faults, and let real soccer reign the field once more. I place Yukimura Hyouga under your care. I hope that you'll train him into a strong, confident player who enjoys real soccer.

Directly to you, I just want to say that I will always love you, no matter what. Remember that I'll always look out for you, no matter where you are, Gouenji Shuuya. Please, think over everything again. Real soccer deserves to exist.

Love,

Fubuki Shirou

P.S. My last request is to help me thank everyone else, epecially Endou-kun, for everything they'd done for me. Thank you for everthing, Shuuya. Love you forever.

For a few seconds, Isshido stared at the letter, stunned. Guilt finally overrode everything else and tears of sadness, loss, love, pain and regret flowed freely as he held Fubuki's body close. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry…"

OoOoOoOoO

Fubuki sat cross-legged by Isshi – Gouenji at the side of the bathtub. He glanced sadly at his weeping boyfriend, who was clutching at his corpse. He longed to reach out and comfort the broken man. He extended a scarred arm, but it passed right through Gouenji's torso. Sighing ruefully, Fubuki studied the two fatal marks on his wrists that took his life. He tenderly wrapped his arms around the crying flame striker, not caring that they passed through, but held on tightly as sobs racked at the platinum blond's body.

OoOoOoOoO

Gouenji place his white rose – the last rose into the coffin, taking in the last glimpse of Fubuki Shirou's face. His silver-grey hair framed his pale, handsome face, gleaming in the multi-coloured light that streamed into the church from the glass-stained windows. His long-lashed eyes were closed, and his still, unmoving form spoke of sorrow, guilt and pain.

Beside him, Haruna, Natsumi, Aki and Fuyuka were weeping profusely, while Endou was bawling out loud.

Yukimura and the rest of the Hakuren team were holding on to the now locked coffin, crying their hearts out.

Gouenji looked away from the scene, blinking away his own tears, his heart heavy with guilt.

He wished that he could turn back time, and turn away the offer for the Holy Emerpor's seat more confidently, with a stronger will, with a better sense of right and wrong.

At least real soccer is back now…

As they all watched the coffin being lowered into the hole beside the other Fubukis' graves, Endou pulled out something from his bag

It was Atsuya's scarf, exactly the one Fubuki used to wear so many years ago.

Wordlessly, Endou offered Gouenji the scarf. He took it silently and draped it around the new gravestone, adding a soccer ball at the foot of it.

As the priest finished his prayer and everyone began to leave, Gouenji turned to take a last glance at the grave.

To his astonishment, he saw the faint form of Fubuki Shirou sitting on the gravestone, wearing a white robe, a pair of wings protruded from his shoulders, white and feathered. Fubuki was an angel.

Fubuki was touching the scarf. He suddenly looked up and gave him a small, reassuring smile that carried both joy and sadness.

"Shirou – " Gouenji gasped, but he was gone. Renewed pain wrenched at his heart as he brushed away his tears, walking away from the graveyard.

As he shut his car door behind him and started up the engine, he once again saw the form of his lover sitting at the passenger's seat beside him, like he used to when he was alive. Fubuki smiled at him once again, before disappearing into thin air.

Shuuya, his voice breathed at his ear, carrying a thousand emotions through those two simple syllables. I love you. I'll be always watching over you.

Gouenji – for the first time in a month – gave a sincere smile at the empty space of the passenger's seat. Fubuki's final words have truly warmed his empty, ice-cold heart.

Finally.

Yes. Fubuki died for Gouenji. For more details, please visit my tumblr page bookworm868(.)tumblr(.)com! Review please! You're just one click away from telling me what you think! ^_^ Thanks for reading~