Disclaimer: Nabari no Ou and its' characters belong fully to Yuhki Kamatani.

This is a tad different than what I normally write, but I figured I should give it a shot. I suppose it's slightly AU...Set a few years after the events of NNO. Back that snowy day, what if Miharu had chosen his own wish that Yoite never obtained the kira? Focusses on Yoite.


At last he uncurled himself from the safety of his own limbs, pulling himself up onto shaky and unsteady legs to make his way toward the bathroom. He glanced at the clock upon the dresser just long enough for his mind to register the late, or perhaps earliness of the hour. It was unfortunate, he thought, that a person could not recall such a wonderful, choice dream when returning to bed, and the thought alone caused regret to swell at the fact he'd moved at all. Though as he prepared himself to turn and run back to the sanctity of his covers, it dawned on him that though he were still half asleep, if he were awake enough to formulate a logical sentence, then he would not be able to return to the dream.

His mind reeled as he entered the bathroom, pushing the door closed with an open palm, cloaked now into heavier shadow. The light of the moon alone seeped in through every crack it may, as if it couldn't tell by the drapes of the bedroom that it was not welcome. It always found a way first into the area, then into his eyes to wake him. It was so bright, too bright, but he prayed that the bathroom would serve as a barrier. For the moonlight to filter into here, would be near impossible.

In the velvety blackness, he brought a hand to run along the wall until meeting with the switch. He hesitated. The image of a game show contestant ran through his mind and he was on the verge of finding what lay behind door number one. Was he to win a fully loaded convertible, or leave with the board game edition? Did he want to know?

'The greatest thing about darkness, is that you can be whatever you want to.' he thought silently to himself, squaring his shoulders in the mirror. 'If I stand just so...if I hold my breath...If I deny all sensation that could say otherwise, then what I want, I am.' He urged his mind to hush then, allowing the feeling and memory of the dream to overcome him once more. He was his own sculptor, his body the clay.

He thought back to the vision from moments ago, feeling an ache to the man he had seen there. Twenty years old. Tall. Raven hair, a bit long. Sea-blue eyes. Kind eyes. Light skin. Not too pale. Defined jaw. Soft lips. Nice voice. Calming. Thin face. Thin neck. No scar, but smooth skin. Strong shoulders. Slim figure. Not too feminine. Long fingers. Hands rough. Well used. Flat chest. Flat stomach. Standard hips. Pants fit. Fit well. Cargo pants, jeans, dress pants, shorts, it didn't matter. They fit him, because he had the correct hips of a man. He crosses his leg as he sits, resting his ankle on the knee. Lean back in the chair. No one looks, but his penis is there. Real. Genuine. He uses a urinal in the men's room. He holds a normal reaction to a beautiful person. Functioning. He was a good man. Good person who hadn't harmed in the past. Sweet. Sensitive. Sentimental. Intelligent. Generous. Thoughtful. Gentle. Compassionate. Empathetic. Selfless. Fair. Affectionate. Absolute. Young man. Post-adolescent teenage boy. The son of a man. The son of a woman. They loved him. The brother of another son. Son-in-law. Someday father. Years ago a little boy. Now a young man. Someday a middle-aged man. Someday after, an old man. Male. Manly. Masculine.

He couldn't tell how long he'd stood there. He couldn't bring himself to turn on the light. If he had, then maybe, just maybe this wonderful image he saw so clearly now would vanish. Swallowing harshly, his delicate fingers lifted once more to rest upon the switch, then, without so much as a breath, he flicked it on. He was confronted by a stranger.

He looked at this person with shocked amazement. Who was this? Who was this? Black hair, dull blue eyes. Skin tainted by a past scar. Scrawny. Weak. Lanky. Feminine? Masculine? It was decidedly in-between. What a strange, freakish creature it was.

"Oh God." He thought as an anxious, panicking fear swelled within him. He was unable to tear his eyes from his own reflection. "No." He ran his hand along the sides of his frame, shuddering to the softness there. Softness everywhere. "No." Down the tops of black pants that came just above his hips. They could not sit comfortably there, as there was too much of a curvature in reference to them and his waist. That's why nothing fit right. "No." He passed his hands between his legs...

His head bowed low, eyes clenching shut. He couldn't bear it...Couldn't bear to look or feel for another second longer. It was there, an unrelenting knot in his throat choking him. It strangled, constricted like a snake for his breath, bringing tears to brim behind closed eyelids. The young man tried his best to swallow the knot, but to no avail as his shoulders dropped weakly. The harsh reality was drowning him, pulling him down into the furthest depths that he could not escape from. Frame jerking harshly, he shook his head and opened his eyes as tears began to roll freely down his ugly cheeks. They were great, hulking sobs that rendered him sore. It had been so real...so detailed. Such a pleasant dream, misleading him only for him to wake and spot this beast. Monster.

To be honest, sometimes he felt okay. Sometimes he felt like he'd lived a complete life. Miharu was there, holding his hand. Other times...

'God, please...tear me to pieces and start over...start over and do it right. Make me complete! Whole! So the world can see the man I truly am!'

He fell to his side, curled upon the tile with his knees pulled to his chest. A thousand thoughts were running through his mind, thousands of memories. 'Sora'. That name that taunted him, tore at him, caused so much pain to him in the past. It poisoned and drown him, tearing away his promise, his potential. The scar upon his neck burned deep and harsh and pulled the tears from his tired eyes more. Suddenly he was a little boy again, cowering with hands held desperately over his face to shield the beatings by the one he called 'father'.


"You okay?" There was a knock on the door, and he scrambled to his feet so the other would not see him this way. He couldn't let him see this. Not again.

"Yes." He responded hoarsely. It was like someone driving a stake through his ear. "I'm washing my face."

After a drawn-out moment that felt like hours, he could hear the padding of footsteps and the rustling of covers.

Most of the time he was okay...or pretended as such. It didn't matter. It didn't. Dreams were dreams. Reality was reality.

Miharu was always there for him, but at times, he couldn't help but to feel that he was dragging the younger male down. Time and time again, he'd touched him with such dirty hands...impure...vile.. Perhaps the thought would someday devour him. It was uncertain.

He wiped his face with his sleeve as he took in a deep breath, trembling hand moving back to the light switch. He did not look at himself again as he left the small room.

There he was, met by the moon, too bright for his eyes to handle. He stood there to gaze upon the figure sat upright in the bed waiting. Always waiting. Always there.

"Yoite, come back to bed." The voice was soothing and called to his every sense. His legs moved of his own accord.

Dreams may be dreams, the past the past, but this was his present and his future.

Miharu would always take his hand.