His body couldn't move.

He was stuck, stuck to the spot, forced to stare at the sight stretched out before him in the light of the streetlamps, turning the world orange, red and black. And in the middle of it all, a pale head was resting on the grass next to a blood stained grave.

"Art…"

The word broke from Nice's mouth, a small bubble of pain and disbelief that rose from his chest and burst out of his mouth. The sound of his own voice seemed to free him, and suddenly he could move again. He stumbled forward, one tiny, leaden step at a time towards to fallen body.

He did not notice the wet grass when he fell to his knees. He did not notice the blood staining his shirt, or the phone lying discarded at his feet. The only thing he could see was Art, and the holes that had leaked Art's life. His face was still beautiful, even in death. Nice would've liked to say that it was peaceful, but it was full of grim determination that Art had always possessed under his cool, good-natured exterior. His hair was stained red, and his clung to Nice's chest and arms when he picked him up and clutched him to his chest.

Quietly, Nice let his tears fall.

Why had Art died? What did he die for? Nice was at such a complete loss. If only he had been there, he could've protected him, could've saved him… Nice had never felt so dead inside before, it was as if he was also dead, had left this world alongside Art, instead of being left behind, so completely alone.

But he had to say something. He had to speak to him. He had to let him know…

"I… I never told you, Art…" he murmured into the night, "I never told you how much you… Please wake up. I lo-love you, Art, please wake up…"

The night was silent. There was no one around to listen to the broken sobs that filled the spaces where Nice's words would've been. And when Nice laid Art's broken body back on the ground again, there was no one around to see him gently kissing his cold, bloodied lips, once, twice, three times. Each kiss was clumsier than the last, teeth bumped against each other and noses collided because Nice's body was shaking now, and his tears rolled down onto Art's cheeks and eyelids where they will never be felt, never be gently wiped off with a sad smile from violet eyes, staring deep into Nice's own.

Nice would never see that smile again. He would never feel that mouth move against his own, or those arms embrace him as he had dreamed, as he burned for. Art had light a fire inside him, but now he was only filled with ice.

Ice in his heart, blood on his lips. Love had left him, lost and broken, kneeling under the vast expanse of sky.