. blueday .
a colonelloxlal angst drabble
N A G A S H I . N O . K U R O
It's raining, and she finds that slightly ironic as she stands in front of his grave.
The water pours down and soaks her through, plasters her hair to her face, her clothes to her skin. She is offered an umbrella at one point but hears herself decline, calmly, like there's nothing wrong and it's just a normal rainy day, and it's someone else's grave she's facing, a stranger, anyone, anyone but his. At another point someone tells her she should go in soon, that it's dangerous to stay in the open for too long, and she hears herself, calmly, telling that person to go to hell. He would have laughed at her for that, she knows.
She refuses to cry.
She has never cried in front of him, ever, and she's determined not to break that record now.
The rain pelts down, and every drop of water is like a rebuke and a knife and a caress all in one. In the rain she hears his voice. In the rain she feels his touch.
She knows she's not a weakling. She was a member of the Seven, once. She's one of the elite, a fighter, feared and revered and respected. She can fight with three broken bones, with a bullet lodged in her shoulder, with bruises and burns and wounds in every goddamn place you can think of. She's dealt with death before--with the unavoidable mind-numbing that comes with the realization that someone has left you for the last time. There have been people she failed to protect. There have been people she was unable to protect. And here is that (goddamnmotherfuckingidiot) trainee of hers, the one who had the audacity to tell her he'd be the one to protect her, lying in a grave.
There's a piece of cloth in her hand, and her fingers clench around it.
"Close your eyes and bend down, hey."
"Just do it!"
She did so grudgingly and felt something slip over her head. "...what the hell?"
She could practically hear his grin. "You can open them now, hey!"
The first thing she noticed was that his headband was gone; she put two and two together and stared at him blankly, reaching up and feeling the coarse material under her fingers. "What are you doing?"
The question seems to have a deeper meaning. His grin widens.
"I'm giving you my heart for safekeeping, hey."
Someone behind her says, quietly, that she can cry if she wants to. A bitter smile creeps up her face. She doesn't want to cry. What she wants to do most is fuck her orders, storm the Millefiore base, and kill Byakuran with her own two hands. Revenge is so terribly tempting at the moment...
Something slips over her neck.
"He would have wanted you to have that," says the other person.
She doesn't look.
Her hand reaches up on her own and feels the surface: like stone, cracked in some places, petrified in time along with its owner.
"You idiot! You're going to be like this forever, you know that?! What will you do now?!"
His grin again. She hated that grin.
She hears the person behind her leave as her control slips and she grits her teeth, feeling the anger and frustration and pain overflow and leak out of her eyes, mixing with the rain to pour down her face in streaks of saltwater.
And the air smells of death and false hope.
That's the end. I want to cry now.