Author's Note: So I'm still upset about Art's death. And while I wrote my other fic, Sleepless, in an attempt to ease some of my pain and frustration, it wasn't enough. The other fic was a nice fluffy one that helped soothe the sorrow over Art's death. This one is to help with the anger.

I DO WARN THOUGH, if you're looking for an actual act of revenge, this isn't quite it. It details the events after Nice first finds out about Art's death.

I don't actually think this is anything close to how the anime will play out. I have a feeling they might not even address Art's death for a while, so this also helps to cushion the frustration/disappointment if nothing happens in the next episode.

I hope Art, Nice and Murasaki are all relatively in character and that I didn't butcher some details. I haven't actually read the manga, so if any details about their youth are messed up, sorry. Hopefully it won't even matter though. Title isn't terribly creative.

Hope you all enjoy!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction written for fun, not for profit. No copyright infringement or slandering of characters, actors or any related persons is intended.

~*~ Black Cosmos ~*~

"…got it. Thank you. I'll let him know," Murasaki spoke grimly, ending the phone call. He turned and looked over at Nice, who had not moved since Murasaki left him to take the call. The normally suave and carefree redhead was silent and stood rooted and rigid to the spot. His face was void of emotions and eyes unblinking, and it was only through the intensity at which he stared at the patches of red staining the grass that Murasaki knew the other wasn't just a statue.

The older of the Minimum duo let his eyes wander over to the area of interest, which had been sectioned off with police tape. He had never paid so much attention to one little detail as he had in that moment, noticing the way the thin yellow banner fluttered violently in the strong wind and light rain. It was odd, that those words painted boldly on the tape—'POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS', which had always seemed fitting and normal to him before, now appeared cold and callous. He wanted to rip it to shreds.

He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaws, eyes narrowing at the scene. A couple of forensics guys discussed something in the background. He glared at them. "Tch," he muttered, before exhaling heavily and making his way over to his partner.

Walking up to the other's shoulder, Murasaki waited a second before saying, "…Gasquet says that they were able to confirm Moral's fingerprints on…" He paused and frowned, clearing his throat before continuing, "…they've got a solid warrant out for Moral now. He's wanted for seven different accounts of murder, and they've got a team organized for the manhunt. I told them what you said about Moral using a disguise…"

Nice did not say anything. His gaze remained fixed, and the speckles of the rain did little to faze him.

Murasaki sighed and pushed his palm through his hair. "We should go, Nice." When it was clear that the other showed absolutely zero interest in moving, the taller man let out another sigh and moved to leave.

"…he was protecting me," Nice muttered quietly, nearly inaudible with the rustling of the trees and howling of the wind around them. But Murasaki was close enough to hear the distinct words and stopped in his tracks. For a moment, he thought Nice was going to fall back into complete silence again, but a few moments later, Nice spoke. "Art… didn't want me to get involved. Because we're too alike."

"Too alike?" Murasaki echoed, completely lost.

"Moral and I," Nice clarified. "We're similar, in a sense. And Art didn't want that to…" the younger man trailed off, unable to find the strength to finish. Suddenly, his expressionless mask broke, and his face contorted into one of pain and frustration. His jaws clenched tightly, and his entire frame shook with now pure rage and hurt. "Fuck!" he screamed, and like a puppet that had its strings cut, he collapsed onto the stone pavement. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Nice punched the ground with each syllable, and then kept punching the ground until his knuckles began to bleed and he was heaving for breaths, which came in unsteadily and shuddering and soon morphed into silent sobs.

Rage tore through him. Rage at his own utter helplessness, rage at his own uselessness, rage at Moral, rage at Minimums, rage at anything and everything…and rage at Art. "I never asked for your protection, you idiot…" he thought bitterly and painfully, but the anger was quickly wilting, without which he had nothing to hold onto.

He knelt there, on the ground, for a good few minutes, fists balled tightly and pressed painfully into the ground. Angry tears mixed with rain down his face, and he breathed heavily and deeply in an attempt to reign in his erratic breaths. When he finally mustered the strength to look up again to the scene in front of him, he saw again the ugly red blotches staining the grass. Part of Nice wanted to tear the grass apart, so that he wouldn't have to stare at Art's blood anymore, and the other part wanted the rain to stop washing it away, because it was washing away the last of Art's life.

He had been there. Art had been there, not an hour prior. Lying lifelessly and brokenly in front of the graves, shot four times in the chest, once in the head and stabbed once in the abdomen. He could still see the red staining his friend's suit, dark crimson on deep purple. He could still see the blood matting his friend's pale-violet hair. He could still see the boneless way his friend laid across the grass, dying the green below him red. He could still remember how cold he felt and how…lifeless.

It had been a gruesome scene and one completely unbefitting of someone like Art. Art was clean. Art was never messy. Everything from the way he combed and parted his hair to the way his shoes shone contributed to his aura of cleanliness and immaculateness.

Art would never be caught dead sprawled out haphazardly like that outdoors, with his hair falling messily over his face and suit stained with any dust let alone anything dirty and messy.

Nice let out a bitter laugh. "Except he was…" he thought to himself, laughing a little more at the irony of his previous thought just then.

It didn't fit at all.

Art had always been pale, but of the cold and delicate sort.

He was never the color of ghostly white.

Sometimes, more so when they were younger before the young detective established better control of his reactions, Art would, on the occasion where Nice managed to embarrass him, turn a healthy shade of pink.

Nice recalled the first time he had seen his friend blush.

It was his first month in at Facultas Academy, and he was already acing all the tests and experiments the school had thrown at him. Everyday there were physical training and tests, and the researchers would spend the afternoon hooking all sorts of probing devices onto them and gather the readings as they performed the activities. Mornings were reserved for physical exercises and afternoons saw to their education.

He didn't really actively seek out any new friendships, nor did he actively try to avoid them either. He did strike up an interesting friendship with a young girl named Hajime, however. She offered him a bite of her lunch one day, out of nowhere, and the two settled into a quiet but understanding relationship. They didn't talk much—or if they did, it was Nice at the girl, but they were comfortable.

Sometimes though, Nice would find his attentions wandering, tad bored at the lack of talk. He enjoyed observing people and watching their interactions, taking note of little habits and interesting quirks. Today, he had let his attention wander over to the obstacle course, which he had completed his rotation of just earlier.

A boy about his age with short, pale-violet hair had just fallen from the bars halfway through the course. He landed on the mat with a loud 'thump', and Nice was about to turn his attention elsewhere when he recognized the boy to be someone from his grade and afternoon class.

Curiosity got the better of him for once, and he shifted to better observe the boy as the other slowly pushed himself back up. The boy's face scrunched up and for a second, Nice thought the boy was going to cry, but instead the boy looked directly up at the researchers' viewing box on the second floor and shouted, "Please let me try again!"

Nice's eyes widened in surprise at the reflection of raw determination and intense desire to prove himself in the boy's eyes.

Art. That was the boy's name.

For a week, he quietly observed the small and weak boy.

"How do you do it?"

Nice looked up, a spoonful of pudding halfway through his mouth and replied, "Huh?" It was Art. He took a second to swallow the bite, all the meantime giving the other a questioning glance. "Do what? Eat pudding?" he asked teasingly, grinning widely.

In the past month since he first noticed Art, there had been no acknowledgement or interaction between them. Although Nice knew that the other boy hated peas with a burning passion from the way the other picked at his lunch trays on Wednesdays and that the other boy had a soft spot for birds—pigeons especially—from the way the latter sometimes fed parts of his lunch to the tiny creatures in the courtyard, not a single word or shared glance had passed between them till now.

Art frowned, unhappy with the response he received and manner in which he received it. "Of course not. I mean manifest your Minimum ability."

"Oh. That," Nice mumbled around a mouthful of food, having turned his attention back to his food. He put on a bored but contemplative expression and said, "Didn't the teachers tell you already? Not everyone has it. To find out whether or not you do is why we're here and doing all these lame exercises."

He did not expect hands to slam down on the table space next to him. It didn't faze him however. "I know that! But..." Art trailed off uncertainly, biting his lip in frustration.

Nice finally looked at Art. The latter was glaring down at the table. He stared at the other for a few passing seconds, facials blank, before breaking out into another grin and saying, "You look pretty when you're angry. But you'd probably look prettier if you smiled more often!"

Needless to say, Nice had a very painful reminder for that remark that day.

Nevertheless, it was the birth of an odd but invaluable friendship.

And he would never forget the rosy tint that worked its way up to Art's cheeks that day. The boy's face was flushed with embarrassment, and he started yelling indignantly at him, but all Nice could think was how the tinge of pink complemented the pale-violet locks quite nicely.

And now those same cheeks were white, translucent and void of life.

They had become friends when they were eleven, and Art had changed considerably since then. What was once a rather brash and short-fused young boy soon turned into an understanding, good-tempered and mature young man. Of course, Art's childhood impatience had a tendency to manifest when it came to Nice or an infringement upon the justice he so loves, but all in all it became pretty unusual to find the man get upset over something small or see him without a light smile and kind eyes.

Nice always found his friend's eyes to be the most breathtaking part of him.

It was rare that Nice could catch Art in the innocent act of sleeping. Even back when they were both students at Facultas Academy, Nice couldn't recall ever really seeing the other sleep. His friend would always wake up at six in the morning, go to sleep late at midnight or so, and somehow still manage to stay attentive through all his lectures whereas Nice started dozing off at the first one.

After Nice left the academy, he saw Art even less. It wasn't until the other graduated and started working at the police headquarters that he began to saw the other more often.

Art made it a point of spending more time with the friends he hadn't seen in a while due to their decisions to drop out. Obviously, Nice was at the top of that list. The two managed to meet up for coffee and chatting every Thursday after Art's work hours, with the occasional dinners and hang outs on weekends.

It was inevitable that one of these weekends, after a long and hard week of chasing down a prime suspect through mountains of paperwork and actual physical footwork, Art passed out at Nice's place. It was a Friday evening and the movie they rented wasn't even halfway through before Nice felt something nudge his shoulder and looked down to find the other fast asleep and using Nice's shoulder as a pillow.

Nice smiled. 'So this guy actually sleeps too…' he thought, humored by the fact. Then a brilliant idea shot into his mind and he quickly but smoothly whipped out his phone, careful not to jar the other awake.

"Yes…success!" Nice beamed proudly to himself at the photo he managed to snap of Art's sleeping face. He stared at the photo he took, giant grin slowly fading into a small smile. He tucked his phone away. Taking Art's shoulders gently, he scooted over slightly and guided Art's sleeping form down so that the other's head now rested in his lap. The paler man shifted a bit, snuggling up to his new pillow.

Nice tucked a few strands of hair behind Art's ear, which revealed the other's relaxed and sleeping face. The redhead took the rare opportunity to scan Art's profile, outline his face, from his long lashes to the slightly parted lips that looked soft and gentle.

Nice had never exactly been in a relationship, nor did he really foresee himself getting into one in the future, but he thought to himself in that moment that if he ever did and grew fond of his significant other, this must be similar to what it would feel like.

He didn't actually know what kind of relationship he and Art currently had, but he couldn't imagine living out a life without his best friend in it.

He thought back to the photo he snapped, and decided it was a very precious photo indeed. He'd probably never get to see Art sleeping again, once Art knows he took a picture of the other in the act. He would probably never have a chance to observe Art with his eyes closed again, so it was better to appreciate it now.

But now…he could only see Art, face pale with his eyes shut, almost innocently like he was sleeping, and it nauseated Nice. He felt physically sick and drained.

He would never have a chance to get pulled in by those mesmerizing pools of violet again.

A part of him was still denying that he was gone. Art was gone.

His phone rang twice before he picked up. "Yo, Three? What's up? It's rare for you to call—"

"I'm sorry, Nice." Nice frowned, stopping at the intersection even though the light was green. But before he could ask what the other was apologizing for, Three said the two words that would completely shatter his world.

"It's Art."

He couldn't process everything. So he shut it all out. Everything became numb. He vaguely recalled ending the call with Three and dialing Murasaki. He didn't remember what he actually said over the phone, and he barely remembered being picked up in the rain. He didn't remember the car ride over. He might recall some fuzzy memories of seeing the rain droplets fly past on the passenger's window and maybe some of the gray trees that swept past his vision as he stared out. He might have remembered hearing his partner's cussing from the driver's seat, and the endless barrage of questions, mixed in with curses of frustration, that he didn't have the care to listen to or answer. He didn't remember making his way up the hill, to the grave where Art's brother was buried and where Art himself now laid.

He felt detached as he watched Murasaki run up to Art's still form and shake and shout at him desperately. He did not react to Art's men running up to Murasaki and attempt to stop him from continuing to shake their head inspector's lifeless body. It took two men to pull his partner back, and they promptly put up the yellow police tape. He watched idly as two EMTs came and gingerly lifted Art onto a stretcher. In the distant back of his mind, he recalled once making fun of how ambulances still arrived at murder scenes and paramedics still took the body away, as if it did any good anymore. He couldn't find the same humor in that moment.

He couldn't find feeling in anything.

Until it all broke like a dam.

Now, he was clawing at the ground, wanting to tear out the cruel pieces of pavement that sat by while Art bled out on top of them.

"Nice…" Murasaki called out hesitantly.

For a long time, he didn't answer. His vision remained fixed on one streak of crimson that slowly inched his way along the crevice of the stone pavement. The rain was beginning to really pick up, scattered droplets slowly morphing into a torrent of heavy rain. He watched as the red slowly began to dissipate from the downpour and reached out to touch the last of it before it washed away.

By the time he brought his fingers up to look at them, the blood had already washed away completely.

He closed his fist, shut his eyes and gradually pushed himself into a standing position. He took one last look at the grass, now nearly cleansed of the red and filth, shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to leave. "Let's go, Murasaki," he said, and without another glance behind him started walking down the steps.

Murasaki watched Nice's retreating figure with a frown, but followed soon after.

In front of Murasaki, Nice looked on with a renewed sense of motivation. His cerulean eyes were ice-cold and burning. There was a hard edge to it that added to the cutting gaze. Although to a passing onlooker, he may have seemed relaxed, his entire body was burning with purpose and determination.

"Moral…I'm going to hunt you down. And I'm going to make you pay."

~End

End Notes: Hope it wasn't so much depressing as it was kind of satisfying. Closure! Reviews are love! :) I'd love to have feedback, good or bad. And it means a lot when others say the stuff I wrote is just what they needed after the Art scene haha.