Take the Gun, Pull the Trigger, Can You Do It?

"You've grabbed the gun, yet you can't shoot it. What are you going to do?"

There was silence. Plenty silence. The boy still couldn't shoot. His hands were still trembling like he was thrown out into the mountain during winter, even though his body was producing a lot of sweat. The man didn't speak, his eyes didn't even widen, he was just looking at the boy casually. Did he expect this?

"Good bye." he said again, and this time he shot. Another gunshot rang across the silent town.

The bullet didn't make it. It flew toward the wall and landed on one of the bookshelves, as the books tumbled down. Shou-chan flinched, it reminded him of all the bullets he had dropped, target after target, yet after, the blood of his target would stain the carpets, yet this target, this target only, was special.

"Now, where did Shou-chan get that gun?" Byakuran asked like he was questioning a child who was misbehaving.

He shot again, it missed.

Byakuran then sat up and gripped the boy's wrist tightly, so tight that his skin was turning white like snow.

"Answer me, Shou-chan." he said strictly, with his face all serious. "where did you get that gun?"

the misbehaving boy panicked with a look of sadness on his face, like he was afraid of losing Byakuran's trust, if he hadn't already lost it from the bullets that laid on the pretty white carpet floor, as fluffy as the owner's hair.

The boy tried struggle out of the tight grip, and turned his pitiful expression to one of hatred, yet he failed horribly, and his mouth was turned slightly into a frown. His hand dropped the gun, and the target continued to question him, like a cop and a criminal.

"Shou-chan. Where did you get that gun?"

The pressure was heavy, it hung on their shoulders, the air feeling like smoke. Silent, small breaths turned into heavy, loud gasps, and the cold air from outside collided with the hot steamy atmosphere from the room. It felt like a ossen inside there, except that the air was also occupied by deathly bloodlust. Yes, the boy was really going to shoot, and shoot until the bullets got tired, and they all withered away. His thoughts were bloody, brutal, violent, and cruel.

"Is Shou-chan trying to kill me?" the white-haired man than asked with his creepy smile. The boy didn't like that smile. A smile that means "I know what you're thinking."

He then sighed in fake relief and he softly said, "But you know, I think Shou-chan doesn't have the guts to do so."

The boy stared at him with fake hate, and mustered all his strength and said sternly,

"Let go of my wrist."

"Oooo, Shou-chan's so scary, I'm frightened!" he said mockingly, and he raised his hands up like he was surrendering and dropped the frustrated boy's hand.

The boy quickly grabbed up the gun and positioned it quickly, the bullet should, and would, hit the man's heart right through. Silent and painful death. Perfection.

Being used to pulling the trigger by now, he only hesitated a second, and had pulled the trigger without any shaking or sweating.

He would have made it. Had not his target muttered to himself,

"I doubt you would make it, Shou-chan~"

The boy's eyes widened quite a bit and his hand slid down and shot the bed sheets, instead of the intended human.

Byakuran smirked slightly, and then pulled his face close to the shaking boy's and asked,

"Why can't you shoot me? Shoot me! Try shoot me! Can you do it? Can you say good bye?!"

"Who said I can't shoot you?! I want to shoot you! Why won't you be shot? Go die, Byakuran!" the boy replied back with burning eyes.

Silence, and then a evil laugh, followed by a soft,

"Shoot me."

"My pleasure."

Again a gunshot ran out, and a little boy muttered in his sleep, wondering if the gunshots were coming from the baby that slept in a hammock.

It missed. Again. It flew right above his head, and ended up embedded deeply inside the white wooden table.

He shot, and shot, and shot, yet one never made it's target, even though the target was moving.

The boy let go of the gun and gripped the other's shirt tightly, the fabric twisting under the boy's sweaty hands.

"I don't…want to shoot you." he then shoved his head in the other's white shirt, and said,

"Please don't make me."

The other gently put his hand on the other's orange hair, and patted him softly.

"Who bullied my Shou-chan?"

No words, just sounds of crying and meek sniffing, and tightened hands.

Byakuran's face was dark. Eyebrows tilted slightly, lips in a deep frown, and eyes with glaring murdering intent.

"He's going to die." he murmured.

10 years later, with birds chirping, and a bright shining sun, a white-haired man with a face of disdain held a newspaper in his pale hand. Grey words on it matched the scenery of the room that the man sat in with the same colored outfit, grey and bland. On the side of that grey paper, tucked in with all the other words surrounding it, a death was announced. A young man, with brown hair and the same color eyes that always held a determined look. A mafia boss that sat in a black leather chair and wore a orange suit. And on his desk, his small baby tutor, an yellow pacifier hung around his neck, and a top hat that sat on his head. Both that suffered the same fate. Born to suffer the fate, the day an orange-haired young boy with greenish blue glasses came tumbling into a man's room, armed with a flimsy gun and mountain load of precise metal bullets.

The day, when the sound of bullets filled the night air and in a white room somewhere, an sweating boy fell asleep amongst white fluffy pillows and blankets along with a white haired man who bore a purple tattoo on his face.

"I can't shoot."