Disclaimer: I don't own Yu Yu Haksuho.

A/N: This is a drabble-fic I wrote in about half an hour, ignoring the urge to use the loo, and started at about 11:30 pm. So it probably stinks. And probably doesn't make much sense. But here you have it. Enjoy.


He was always the watcher, hidden unseen in the shadows. He would observe them night and day, what they did, their hobbies, their quirks. He would know of each and every one of the burning emotions they felt, of love and of hate, happiness and depression. He would know how they would think, and so he was able to predict every one of their moves. He knew far more about them than they could ever know about themselves.

And yet... They knew him not at all.

He was never there, not really. A shadow hiding in the world of grey. He would live forever, and not live at all. His emotions were nothing but playthings, toys that were never meant to be kept. Rather, played with then thrown away as others came into the picture. He could love, hate, desire, despise, hurt, and be happy all he wanted. But it would never matter. It never did.

Immortality was something he wished he didn't have. To be a simple human, to care about ningen things, to feel what he wanted to feel... That was the life he so desperately wanted, and so desperately couldn't have. He was there from the beginning of time, and would be there until it's end. But time, like himself, was eternal, and would never die.

He feared for his life, like any other being of a logical mind. But more often than not, when reflecting, he would wish that just once he had flung himself in danger's path. Perhaps then he would be killed and could truly die. To him, the physical pain and suffering would be a fair price to end the turmoil of his own mind.

But no, he could not do it, no matter what he tried. He would not fight for his life; he had others to do that. Once, when betting his own life, he thought that maybe, just maybe the hero would lose. And he would die.

The hero always wins.

Those he observed took little to no regard of his well being, or his being at all. He was simply there, one of the many pawns of life and the living, of death and the dead. At least, that's what they thought. He was so much more. The power he could wield was unimaginable, simply because no one knew it was there.

They don't know what it's like to know when and why everyone will die. They don't know what it's like to not be able to stop anything from happening. Even if you're the cause of it all. He knew that feeling all to well. Everything would eventually fall into place, and he would move on. He was never a part of it anyway.

But then the unexpected happened. Everything he knew was tossed out the window. Until he realized it was a simple mistake, one of many, and the droning, endless life he lived continued on as if nothing had happened.

For really, nothing had.

He could never get close, never be attached. Friends were for them, and not himself. He had no friends; the meaning was useless. It was all part of his everyday, eternal life. Predictable.

But again, the unexpected happened. He grew attached. And this time everything shattered. His personality, brought on by years of the same thing, over and over, forever and always, began to fade away. Not entirely; it was who he was. But enough so that a new version of himself could shine through. And this very much scared him. Because soon, all too soon, they would all die. Each and every one of them.

And he would live. But the part of himself that had become attached only grew stronger. Those who had died before died again, in a cycle he had only brought upon by himself. But they soon remained dead. One by one they disappeared, and one by one they fell into despair. Their legacy was ripped to pieces, torn to shreds.

Until only he remained.

There was nothing left for him now. If he had the same emptiness as before, it was now overwhelming to the point he felt he couldn't stand to live any longer. But that wasn't for him to decide. He would die when the eternal, everlasting, immortal time died.

The suffering would never end.

Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. Months turned to years. Years to centuries, and centuries to millennia. Everything else had moved on, forgotten of the legacy he so dearly adored, of his friends. The worlds forgot of the only beings who had ever truly been like family. Life went on and on. And still, he himself could not forget.

He was immortal. He would never die. Even if he could, no doubt some greater power would bring him back. There was no end, no escape.

He was always the watcher, hidden unseen in the shadows. He would observe them night and day, what they did, their hobbies, their quirks. He would know of each and every one of the burning emotions they felt, of love and of hate, happiness and depression. He would how they would think, and so he was able to predict every one of their moves. He knew far more about them than they could ever know about themselves.

And yet... They knew him not at all.

He was the only one who would watch them all die. The only one who would wait as they began to rot inside the earth, as they faded away to legend, to myth, to not at all. The only one to remain alive.

They would all die.

Each and every one of them...

And he... He would live.