Wake

Pairing: One-sided Yuusuke/Hiei. Genres: Angst, tragedy, death.

This was something I came up with on an extremely odd and difficult day. It sat there half finished for months, and then suddenly I had to complete it. If it's weird or short or truncated, I guess it's supposed to be that way; please don't flame me for the coupling, or for the angst—I can't help it!

There was surprisingly little blood, really. Yuusuke had seen far worse before in his past battles—had seen entire rooms drenched in crimson, the blood of a single person splattered in playful arcs across walls and ceilings. He had, once or twice, been the one to spill that blood.

So why, now, did he fall to his knees, his vision all but destroyed by dizziness and shock? He couldn't say.

Blood and fire all around, their mingled scents worming through the air and making breathing impossible. Acrid smoke stinging his eyes, constricting his throat, giving everything about him a dark, sentient halo. Red to his right, blue to his left, and black before him, capering in an insane rhythm to the beat of the enemy's heart.

A hand, pale and small and untouched by the blood, lay outflung on the jagged stone floor, fingers curled limply inward. It was the only spot of brightness that Yuusuke could see amidst the black that cloaked the sprawled form. It drew him towards it, inexorably, its coldness reaching out to cover the distance between them and twist around his heart. He found after a moment that he had crawled within reach; he took the hand in his own.

It was almost delicate, though it had never seemed so before, and roughly calloused from years of hard survival. An intricate latticework of scars traced the curves of palm and wristbone, a white so faint as to be invisible—he had never seen them before, never known of the tiny imperfections marring hands that he had thought of as strong, capable, and…

…beautiful…?

The hand was so still in his; it didn't seem real. Nothing seemed real. Even the scent of the blood was distant and insubstantial—

Vision was eclipsed by a veil of moisture, and Yuusuke felt his body jerk with the force of a sudden sob. "You—said you'd be all right… that you could handle it.

"You promised…"

A whipcrack of sound, a snap of heels on stone, the bright tang of metal striking ground; a shout—his name.

"Yuusuke!"

The black disappearing, vanishing with no more than a few short, vital words.

"I won't let him escape! I can handle it—you keep fighting here!"

A promise.

Even as he let the grief take him over completely, the hollow thud of running feet pierced the darkness, and his mind sank further into despair as he thought not only of his own pain, but the pain they would feel. He would have to bear it all; it was his responsibility.

He didn't even know if his own heart was still beating.

There were shouting voices, cries of horror and disbelief—and a choked silence that was worse than anything else. All he could hear in that moment were his own strangled sobs, echoing from the walls like the last dying flutters of a broken bird.

Then he heard another voice, whispering faint words into the chill, dead air. It didn't sound like anyone he knew.

"How?" the voice said.

"I don't know," someone answered back.

"Why?" it asked.

"I don't know," came the echo. "I don't know."

Those three words throbbed inside him in place of a heart; the icy cord that had seemed so fragile at first closed on it, constricted it, crushing all feeling and all reason and all reality from it until it ceased its frantic flutters and lay like lead slag in his breast. He had already forgotten what it was like to feel it beating there. There was no heartbeat anywhere now; nothing in him truly lived.

A hand gripped Yuusuke's shoulder gently, compassionately, painfully; and someone's voice, this time a familiar one, spoke his name. That soft, brief sound held a sorrow as profound as his own. He lifted his head to look for the first time at his two friends—it was Kuwabara who offered his sympathy. The pain on their faces broke his heart all over again.

Kurama had dropped to his knees beside Yuusuke, staring not at him but at the pitiful bundle of blood-stained cloth that lay there on the stone—at the hand that Yuusuke held. His normally calm contralto cracked with emotion, coming out with great effort, and his leaf-green eyes were bright with tears. "H-how—could this have—why didn't I sense—"

There were more words, but Yuusuke couldn't hear them. He saw them flow soundlessly from Kurama's lips, saw the molten silver tears spill over his friends' cheeks, and wondered why.

His body began to flow around him, dissipating, until he was in darkness and emptiness, where he could feel nothing. How long he floated there, he had not the awareness to wonder.

More blood, more dance, more salty sweat mingling and thinning the life's liquid. Then death, inexorable, final, triumphant. Red and blue swam before his eyes; where was the black?

Why could he not see him?

Talking. Incessant speech, bullying his senses, shoving them out of their newly dormant state. He couldn't hold onto the blessed numbness—they wouldn't let him. He struggled desperately for just one moment more of unfeeling, of not-knowing, of dreaming, before he must wake.

I…

Sound brightened, became distinct. Voices calling his name, much like before—

…love…?

Sight returned, sharpened, and he saw again the black with its nimbus of red blood and gray stone. Feeling came back into his hands; he felt the cold again.

…Hiei…

And he woke.

I know I always kill Hiei, but don't hate me? (looks chibi)