Marry Me

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He loves the moisture beneath his fingers. He loves the way his tears fall into dust and turn to mud. He loves the way the air is cold, sharp and intoxicating. He loves it, loves it more than life itself, his little sanctuary, although it's always a bit too cold for his liking.

He loves this place which he will never submissively quit. He sometimes must wonder off, to the outside world. It's the laws of the living. But he would always come back to his sweet home. Here, they could be together. He would dig to the confines of the prison and finally they could embrace again in the tormenting passion of their infatuation, burning for it, burning with it. The sweet whispers. Caresses and flesh and cold skin. How he loved tracing patterns over that porcelain skin. It was smooth and icily pale... why, you could almost consider it dead white. But he knew better. His lover was always dressed at his best when he met him, although he wore seemingly the same clothes. And he was so fragile. Even when he tenderly held him by the arm, his skin would tear apart like paper... and that would leave him awfully upset and he would beg his lover for forgiveness, trying to heal the wounds. He was always forgiven. They were deeply in love, bound to each other for eternity. And everyday, when he had to go, the Russian boy would tug his lover safely under puffy covers and then return to find him there, sweetly obedient. He was just about to wake his sweet, sleeping lover... Yuuri...

Marry me...

Yuuri...

...I love you...

...Yuuri...

"Boris?" The voice rang through the empty space, and the youth raised his head, alarmed, still clinging onto the remains of his sanity, his mauve eyes narrowing in confusion and anger to be disturbed at such a time. The other boy stopped dead in his tracks. Hesitant, broken voice and his eyes were so shocked, so bewildered that they confused Boris. "What... are you doing?"

Pause. "You have nothing to do here, Ian."

Feeling sick. Quivering. "You're... insane..."

Harshly. "Go away before I stick my arms down your throat." Serious.

---

Violet eyes narrowed at the stones, at the earth drenched in the soaking rain and at the pale, sickly looking ghost-man before him, his arms digging in the mud up to his elbows. The church's bells rang over the graves in a mute howl of its injury, freezing time in its tracks, jeweled with sadness. Even the frosty sound of dying leaves stopped in mid-air. The graveyard was being raped. Everything went deadly silent. So the short boy did the most logical thing he could. He ran.

---

The snails and the worms resurfaced from tunnels, in hopes of not drowning.

Tears mingled with the rain. He clenched his fists and slammed his knuckles into the ground. Nails clawing into the wood like as animal. Bloodshot eyes used to be so untouched, but look at him now... disconnected and vacant.

He missed him so much... gathered the carcass into his arms, closed his eyes to sleep for the night.

Everything was dark and ugly. The sadness had took away all of his senses, losing him inside delusions. The truth has made him crazy. The gears will not return to normal fuctions ever again. He hates the moist ground beneath his fingers. He hates the way his tears turn to mud. He hates the cold, sharp air in which bathes the midnight sun. And he hates coming to this place, all over again, creeping behind the old grey walls of the church.

"Marry me."

And what he hates the most is that he cannot remember that they could never..