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Rarely, if ever, is he allowed outside the walls. They say that his health will decline even more if he is exposed to such an atmosphere, but today is special. He had begged and pleaded with his parents, the King and Queen, to allow him one day in the town. They could not refuse, and he knew so. Even so, he is not prepared for the heavy bustle of people and the smells emitting from various buildings. People of all kinds mill about around him, all focused on their daily routine. A trained guard stands at his side, posing as an older sister, her hand constantly resting on his elbow.
In a large crowd, he slips away from her. Later, he'll feel bad for almost jeopardizing her job, but at the moment all he feels is excitement. There are so many different people of all shapes and sizes, so many different sounds and smells; it's all so loud and lively. He squeezes out of the way of a large woman swinging a tray full of delicious smelling breads, loudly calling out to others on the street, and narrowly avoids a man stocking fish on a wooden stand for display. Although it feels as though he barely avoided a disaster, he can feel his cheeks begin to ache from his ever widening grin.
He's turning to observe the stands on this side of the road and their boisterous owners when he catches a glimpse of a slender woman hollering out to those passing by with a small, woven basket of fresh fruit in her hand. He weaves his way clumsily through the throng of people to where the woman's stand is. The woman side-eyes him as he approaches and then turns her full attention to him.
"Oi, boy," she calls out, resting the basket on the stand, "how 'boutcha buy some apples?"
He watches as she leans against the stand, folding her arms beneath her breasts, and debates whether to spend the money he brought or not. The woman tilts her head towards him, looking him over with her startling golden eyes.
"You look well off," she continues. "I'm sure you could buy a whole basket or two and still have some pretty pennies left."
He looks down at his clothes, sure they were clean, but his parents had assured him that these were what most of the townsfolk wore. The woman is about to speak again when a basket is plunked unceremoniously on the top of her head. A boy stands behind her, holding the basket in his arms. His arms are almost as pale as his snowy hair.
"Imomushi," the boy says, glaring at her slightly; his eyes are a shade of russet he's never seen before. "Stop harassing potential customers."
The woman pouts at this and straightens up; she's a good three inches taller than the boy.
"I wasn't harassing nobody," 'Imomushi' defends.
The boys perches the basket on his hip and plucks an apple from the woman's basket, ignoring her indignant mutters, and tosses it to him. He barely catches it because his attention is so focused on the boy; his pale, pale skin, his slightly rounded face, his long white eyelashes... He jolts in surprise when he realises he's being addressed.
The boy has his other hand on his free hip now, brows furrowed, staring at him in mild exasperation.
"Free," the boy says, and by the tone of his voice he gets the feeling this has already been said once, "you know what that means, right?"
He looks down at the small, golden apple in his hands and then back up at the boy and the woman, who is leaning against the stand once again, an amused look on her delicate features.
He nods and the boy sighs, "Good. But, don't get any ideas, this is just to teach Imomushi a lesson about attempting to seduce customers."
Imomushi sticks her tongue out childishly at the boy's back, and he's about to giggle when a hand grabs his wrist, making him jump. He sees the boy and Imomushi tense, waiting for another negative reaction. He looks behind him to see the female guard he had abandoned. She looks angry, but from the dirt and grime sticking to her dress and the way her hair is mussed, he can tell she had been extremely worried. He immediately turns to begin an onslaught of apologies, as does the guard, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the two shopkeepers return to their jobs, Imomushi glancing over her shoulder to eye them every few seconds.
The guard eventually persuades him to return to the castle and they walk back in silence.
That night, he lies in bed, curled up on his side, and stares at the window. His gaze rests on the many juniper plants littering the window sill and nearby floor, but he doesn't really see them. He's lost in thought, thinking about the day; the lively atmosphere of the town, the sounds and smells and sights, deep russet eyes and colorless hair. He pulls a plump pillow into his embrace and buries his nose in it's seafoam cover, the quickened pulse of his heart not unfamiliar, but slightly more pleasant. He doesn't know why, but he can't seem to shake the image of that pale, pale body from his mind.
~*~*~*~
At first, he barely remembers the strange boy with the tousled, girlish, brown hair and jade eyes; he's one face among hundreds. However, three days later, the image of the boy appears much more vividly in his mind when, in the gap between a woman hunched over a wailing child and a man with his head cast down, he catches sight of a slight figure with eerie jade eyes observing their small stand from across the road. The next time he glances over the colour is nowhere to be seen; he shakes his head and goes back to lining plums on the display cart.
A week later, the colour is back. He doesn't see it from a distance, this time he sees it up close. The boy is standing off to the left side of their stand, engaged in a jovial conversation with Imomushi. It's almost twilight, so many of the townsfolk are already at home-- he would be too, if Imomushi wasn't so busy that she couldn't dismiss him. As he tidies the stand and organises the fruit into their appropriate take home baskets, he gets the feeling of being watched. However, when he looks over his shoulder, Imomushi and the boy are still talking, attention completely fixed on the other.
When he's finished his task, Imomushi takes notice of him.
"I'll take the leftovers with me, so head on home,” she says.
He nods in reply and walks away. He doesn't get far before he begins to hear horribly concealed footsteps behind him. When he whirls around he comes face to face with jade and brown, and the boy from before lets out a humiliating squeal of surprise.
"What do ya think you're doin'?" Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.
The boy fiddles with the hem of his shirt and glances to the side before locking eyes with him.
"I'm Mitsuki," is the boy's reply, and he feels a vein in his forehead pulse.
"So what?" he says and 'Mitsuki' scrunches his nose in a childish manner.
"So, tell me your name," comes the equally childish response.
He clicks his tongue and stares Mitsuki down with narrowed eyes, "Hah? No way."
Mitsuki throws his clenched fists against his hips, angrily puffing out his cheeks, "Why not?"
He waves a hand around the empty vicinity and then between them, "'Coz you're stalkin' me, and I don't got no obligation to."
Mitsuki seems to fumble for words, and his arms wave in an irritated manner by his sides.
"But I told you my name, so it's only fair," Mitsuki finally says, looking him dead in the eye. He sighs, because honestly he's too tired to deal with anymore, and turns his back to Mitsuki.
As he walks away, he calls over his shoulder, "It's Shiro."
And later, he'll be torn between deciding whether that was the best or worst decision of his life, but at the moment he's too exhausted to care.
Mitsuki comes back again. He pesters Shiro all day until he feels the urge to slam his head against a wall. Imomushi makes it known that she enjoys his exasperation with her sly smiles and the way she continuously gives the brunet more reasons to bother him. Shiro is relieved when the green eyed boy finally leaves for the day, but two days later he's back again.
Mitsuki's visits are sporadic. Sometimes he leaves only to come back the next day, others he's gone for a week at a time. Often he only stays for an hour or so, but occasionally he finds time to be around from morning to evening. Shiro finds himself feeling less exasperated with the boy, and even catches himself thinking that it wouldn't be too bad if he came by more often.
That is, until the day a carriage bearing the royal family's crest arrived in front of their stand, and Mitsuki merrily hopped out with the proclamation, "Shiro, I'm... oh, what's that word... ah! kidnapping you! Yes, that's it. So, come with me."
Shiro had responded with the most eloquence he could muster in such a situation, "Like heck I will."
Imomushi had ended up doubled over, unable to contain her laughter as Mitsuki had unleashed the most pathetic pout Shiro had ever seen.
And that's how Shiro finds himself sitting on a plush bench next to the convivial brunet, Mitsuki gaily swinging his legs in the open space, beaming at him. Shiro sighs and leans his head against the door, feeling a headache coming on.
~*~*~*~
Mitsuki couldn't keep his excitement in. For weeks he had begged and bargained and pleaded with his parents to allow Shiro to stay at the palace, and now it was finally happening. He drags Shiro from the carriage before it's stopped, oblivious to the white haired boy's obvious discomfort, and to the large steps at the base of the palace. He's so happy that he forgets he's been told not to run, and pulls Shiro as fast as he can up the steps and to the doors.
He doesn't think much of the castle's lavish interior, so he gets impatient when Shiro digs his heels into the ground and stands gaping in the doorway. He shows Shiro around the entire palace, even introduces him to his parents; this time though, he understands why Shiro stutters and gapes and pales. Mitsuki makes sure Shiro's room is close to his before leaving him for the night and returning to his own room.
He flops down heavily onto the silky sheets of his bed and buries his face in them, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.
~*~*~*~
The first time he realises it, he doesn't think much of it. He's been at this place for almost a month now(he's still grappling with the fact that he's in the palace, that Mitsuki is a prince), but he's noticed that Mitsuki never eats around him. He knows the boy eats, he's heard the cook complain about the boy's seemingly abyss of a stomach, only, he's never seen him eat. According to a maid, Mitsuki doesn't eat with his parents either.
Shiro doesn't find this odd enough to warrant an inquisition in the beginning, but after seeing a maid rush from the brunet's room with extreme urgency, he corners Mitsuki the next time he sees him.
"Come eat with me," he says, uncaring of his lowly position before the prince.
Mitsuki crosses his arms, casting his eyes downwards, avoiding Shiro’s gaze, "I don't want to."
That's the second indicator that something is wrong, because the brunet has never once turned down an opportunity to be near him.
He feels his eyes narrow, "Why not?"
Mitsuki tugs at the sleeves of his ivory robes(Shiro is still unused to the sight, too familiar with the old blue tunic the boy used to wear) and turns his face away from him.
"I don't want to," he repeats. Shiro frowns at him, too quickly forced to turn to his last resort.
"Mitsuki," jade eyes snap in his direction, "'M lonely."
He can see on his face the moment Mitsuki caves, knows that he would very much like to eat with him, but the boy pulls a new tactic, "You wouldn't enjoy it."
Shiro just shrugs, "It ain't like you can do worse than those first couple'a days at the market."
Mitsuki flinches at that and a tiny part of Shiro regrets it, but the brunet relents and the two head to the kitchen where one of the maids hands them each a plate. Mitsuki stares at his food in disdain, but brightens up immediately when Shiro asks where he wants to eat.
Mitsuki leads them outside and to the top of a small hill within the castle's walls. Browning, ivory flowers cover the hill; Mitsuki smooths a patch of them down before sitting beneath the large black mulberry tree towering from the centre of the hill. Shiro sits across from him and lays the plate across his lap. They eat in silence.
He can tell Mitsuki is hungry, but the boy only picks at his food, taking the smallest of bites. Before he can stop himself he says, "Stop it."
Mitsuki looks up at him, nearly dropping his utensil. "Stop what?"
"Just eat. I can tell you're holdin' back, so stop it."
At his words, Mitsuki gives a shaky breath and within seconds, half of his food is gone. Shiro forgoes his food in favour of watching the smaller boy. Mitsuki begins to cough and makes a strange rasping noise, but he doesn't stop eating. Shiro bites the inside of his cheek as the brunet continues to show signs of near choking, but doesn't say anything. When Mitsuki finishes, he takes a deep, ragged breath and lays back in the flowers.
Shiro watches his chest rise and fall with heavy breaths, and thinks, for one horrible second, that Mitsuki resembles the fading blossoms.
~*~*~*~
The air becomes colder with each passing day. Often, they sit beneath the big tree on the hill, and Mitsuki finds himself lost in thought while watching the leaves slowly drift to the ground. It makes him sad to know that the leaves are dying, though he does not rejoice in the fact that they will be reborn in the spring. Shiro says something to him about the beautiful colours of the falling leaves and turns to him, smiling a rare smile; he only clenches the fabric of his sleeves and digs his heel into a golden leaflet, draws his foot back, and watches as it breaks.
~*~*~*~
Snow flutters idly outside the large windows of the palace, occasionally sticking and leaving trails of tears on the glass. Shiro had known something was wrong with the other for awhile, but hadn't thought much of it, for other than his way of eating, Mitsuki had seemed perfectly fine. The weather is too cold from them to be outside, so they sit in the library, a stack of books piled between them where they lie on the floor.
Mitsuki is oddly quiet, so, unused to it, Shiro turns onto his side and pokes the brunet's arm.
"What's up with ya today?" he asks, rolling to sit on his knees.
Mitsuki glances up at him, and his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He stares at Shiro for a few moments before his features scrunch up and his arms curl to wrap around himself to tug at long lavender sleeves.
"Cold," Mitsuki replies simply, minutes later.
Shiro raises an eyebrow, "Do ya not like the cold?"
Slowly, Mitsuki shakes his head 'no', and Shiro finds himself even more confused. "Then, what about the cold?" he says, sighing almost inaudibly.
It takes less time for Mitsuki to answer, but the reply is short, and almost as confusing as the last, "Hurts."
Shiro resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and instead shuffles closer to Mitsuki, "What hurts?"
The prince is silent, jade orbs downcast as he stares at the words on the pages of the book in his lap, and one arm reaches out. Shiro's gaze follows his arm, watches as Mitsuki's finger twitch, still curled from grasping his sleeves. Mitsuki lamely pushes at a page in an attempt to turn it, but his fingers don't uncurl to grip the page.
Shiro takes the hand in his and with the other attempts to straighten Mitsuki's fingers. The fingers move effortlessly when he pulls at them, and hang limp when he releases them. Mitsuki's gaze hasn't left the book.
Shiro pushes the hand into Mitsuki's sight, "What's this about?"
The boy doesn't answer, so Shiro roughly takes his chin in his free hand and forces Mitsuki to look at him. The brunet is smiling.
"I'm okay," he says, and the fingers in his hand begin to wiggle stiffly.
"You're not," Shiro says, his grip tightening on the other's hand.
"I'll be okay," Mitsuki says again, a smile still on his lips. And Shiro stands and leaves.
He questions everyone he sees, but they all dismiss him with the same smile and the same hopeful words of denial. Except for one. A petite maid with curls of soft rose clenches her fists when she speaks, her words come out barely a whisper, and he feels his chest constrict. She glances up at him and her maroon eyes waver as she apologises and reaches out to give his hand a squeeze before she walks away, leaving him standing alone in the lavish hallway, fingers curled tightly and trembling by his sides.
~*~*~*~
The leaves slowly grow back on the bare branches of the tall tree as the frigid air warms. Ivory flowers once again creep along the grass and climb the outer layers of the stone walls. He finds Mitsuki lying among them, absently plucking blades of grass from the dirt and scattering them across his stomach. He sits next to him, and Mitsuki turns his head to see him, beaming when their eyes meet.
They don't speak, only sit in comfortable silence, until Mitsuki sits up and wraps his arms around his knees.
Shiro tilts his head in confusion, "Is something botherin' ya?"
He's fully prepared to run inside for anything the other might need, but Mitsuki only presses a finger to his lips and leans forward. It's then that he hears a feeble chirp that makes him stand. Mitsuki is on his knees, gazing at the grass beneath the tree, so he slowly makes his way in that direction.
Sprawled on the ground, writhing helplessly, is a small, newly feathered robin.
Carefully, he lifts the bird into his hands. The bird's tiny wing bends awkwardly, and he cradles it protectively as he makes his way back to the brunet, who is now standing as well. Shiro crouches, and places the bird between them in the grass. He's about to rise when a rock strikes the bird. Cold and heavy, it rolls a few centimetres after impact, leaving a small trail of blood in its wake. The bird's skull dips in awkwardly on one side, and it falls in its place, red staining the ivory flowers beneath it. Shiro rises, eyes wide, and grabs the young prince's wrist.
"Why would ya do that?" He asks, and his grip tightens ever so slightly as Mitsuki stares at the broken creature.
The boy blinks owlishly and lets his arm hang limp in Shiro's grasp. He gazes up at the white haired boy and Shiro feels his grasp slacken as those serene jade orbs lock onto his.
"It was suffering," comes the reply as Mitsuki's gaze drifts back to the small, disfigured body.
Although his fingers begin to quiver, Shiro's voice remains steady, "It woulda healed eventually, we coulda helped it; there was no reason to kill it."
That petrifying gaze is lifted back to him, "You couldn't have helped it. It was too small and broken."
And at that, Shiro feels something inside him snap, and his grip tightens to the point that Mitsuki begins clawing at his clenched fist with his free hand, muttering words of pain.
Shiro cannot stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth, "You're sufferin' now; should I return the favour in place of the one who can't?"
He feels his nails digging into delicate flesh, and a sharp hiss of discomfort only further prompts him to continue, "Accordin' to your logic, if you are in pain, I gotta end it. Do you want that? Should I kill ya, Mitsuki?"
Mitsuki remains silent, attempting to pry Shiro's fingers from his wrist. Shiro only grasps harder in response.
"Is that what you want?" He repeats, his voice slightly louder, though it wavers almost imperceptibly.
"Stop it," is the mumbled reply, the words a bit slurred.
Tears have gathered in Mitsuki's eyes and Shiro blanches as he notices the small beads of red beneath his fingers. He releases his hold immediately, flinching at the sight of Mitsuki's reddened and purple wrist. The smaller boy cradles his hand to his chest and Shiro finds himself reaching out; Mitsuki recoils from his touch and he feels his chest clench.
"'M sorry," Shiro murmurs, gently prying Mitsuki's hand from his chest and bringing it to his bowed head. He presses the back of Mitsuki's hand to his forehead, fingers resting against the other's curled ones.
"'M sorry," he says again, shaking his head against the hand in his grasp.
Mitsuki doesn't say anything, only lifts his other hand and runs his unblemished fingers through the pale strands of Shiro’s hair.
~*~*~*~
"You speak horribly," Mitsuki says randomly as they lay on the floor of Shiro's room, books and plates scattered around them; Shiro's the only one reading though.
Shiro looks up at him, an eyebrow raised and the telltale pulse of a vein on his forehead.
Mitsuki ignores the look he's receiving and continues, "You speak with bad grammar, and your reading and writing have plenty of room for improvement." He emphasizes this by pointing at the children's book in Shiro's hands.
"I don't need to 'improve'," Shiro says back. "An' besides, you're the one that talks weird."
But Mitsuki isn't having any of it. He sits on his knees and pulls the book from the white haired boy's hands and sets it on the bed.
He then stands and puts his hands on his hips, staring down at Shiro with the most determined look he can muster, "We're going to spend the rest of the summer teaching you the proper ways to read, speak, and write!"
Shiro sighs in that way he does when he doesn't want to bother arguing because it's exasperating, and Mitsuki already knows he's won.
Mitsuki thinks himself a bad teacher, so he has someone hired to teach the other. It's a long, hard (amusing) process, but eventually Shiro begins to grasp some of the concepts. Mitsuki loves to sit and watch him during the lessons, loves watching the faces he makes, the way he grumbles to himself when he doesn't do something right; the way he pinches his right earlobe when he's thinking, and especially the embarrassed grins he tries to hide when Mitsuki or the teacher compliment him.
He beams happily when Shiro shows him his latest writing attempt, and when the other smiles back at him, it doesn't matter that he can't understand most of the words anymore.
~*~*~*~
The leaves are dying again, slowly gathering in a multitude of colours beneath the large tree. One drifts past them, and Mitsuki reaches up to catch it from where he lies with his head in Shiro's lap. Shiro glances down at him, watches him toy with the red leaflet for a moment, before going back to tying the sprouting scabiosas in the brunet's hair.
Mitsuki shifts and nudges Shiro's abdomen with his shoulder.
"What?" Shiro asks absent-mindedly, focused on weaving the currant flowers through Mitsuki's tangled mop of hair.
Mitsuki reaches up to intercept one of his hands, bringing it back down to rest it on his chest, intertwining their fingers. Shiro sighs and looks down at the brunet, starting at the glassy look in his eyes.
"Mitsuki," he says, giving their connected hands a gentle shake.
Mitsuki's gaze drifts up to him, mouth opening and closing for a moment with no words, and it reminds Shiro of that horrible day in the library all those months ago; his grip tightens on Mitsuki's hand.
Mitsuki finally looks like he knows what he wants to say, and he gets out, "Hey, Shiro," before apparently changing his mind and turning his head away.
Shiro runs his fingers through the flowers and tangles and hums in a way that shows he's listening in an attempt to prompt him to continue.
Mitsuki looks up again, and his fingers nearly crush Shiro's when he squeezes them. He stares straight into Shiro's eyes, and Shiro finds himself a little distracted by the intensity of his jade gaze.
Mitsuki's words, however, snap him out of his daze, "Would you marry me?"
Shiro's eyes widen, but he just turns his head away and resumes running his fingers through the brunet's messy hair, "Ask me again when you turn nineteen."
Mitsuki frowns at his response, and his fingers uncurl and lay limp in Shiro's hand, "I'm being serious."
Shiro pulls a blade of dry grass from Mitsuki's hair, twisting to drop it behind him in an attempt to hide the spreading heat on his cheeks. "So am I," he says.
He can hear Mitsuki's frown deepen in the way he says, "That's almost two years from now."
Shiro sighs and turns back to look at him, ignoring the way his cheeks ache, "It's barely over a year."
Mitsuki mumbles something like, "Feels like two," before he's smiling from ear to ear and rolling to press his face against Shiro's stomach, plucking a lone althaea and twirling it between his fingers.
They stay in that position until the sun begins to set. Shiro hesitates to tell Mitsuki, as the brunet has fallen asleep, the flower nestled in his grasp. He looks so peaceful and comfortable that Shiro can't help but smile. He gently brushes a lock of hair from the prince's face and lets his fingers linger on his cheek. Mitsuki stirs and opens his eyes, blinking them before staring at Shiro and burying his face in Shiro's stomach again.
Shiro chuckles and gives his shoulder a shake, "It's getting late, why don't we head inside?"
Mitsuki rolls off his lap and into the grass. Shiro sighs and stands, offering him a hand. Mitsuki takes it and lets Shiro pull him to his feet. Mitsuki stands, looking small and sickeningly fragile beneath the withering black mulberry tree, and smiles sleepily at him. And, for a moment, it's painful to breathe.
~*~*~*~
They're inside, sitting in front of the fireplace, cheeks and noses red and cold from playing outside in the snow, when Mitsuki brings it up.
"At first, I thought your birthday was in the spring, like mine," he says, blowing into his warm tea. Shiro glances up at him, in the middle of downing his own drink. "But, you never brought it up this year," he continues, "so, when exactly is your birthday?"
Shiro places his glass on the table behind them and stares at Mitsuki.
"I don't know," he replies, shrugging and leaning back against the table. Mitsuki's eyes widen almost comically, and Shiro would laugh, but the prince looks horrified.
"You don't know?" he echoes, setting his drink next to Shiro's and leaning over on his hands and knees. "How old are you then?" he asks this time, crawling closer into Shiro's personal space.
Shiro pinches his ear and looks up at the ceiling, then back at Mitsuki, "Probably not much older than you."
Mitsuki looks as though he's taken offense to Shiro's answers, and suddenly he has a face full of green and brown.
"This is not acceptable," Mitsuki says, and Shiro spares a moment to think about how his breath smells lemony like the tea.
Then, Mitsuki is clambering away, leaving Shiro even more confused. Mitsuki stands and motions for him to follow, so, with a groan, he lifts himself up and follows the brunet to the stairs. Mitsuki's steps are slightly clumsy as they walk, and he tries not to focus on it, but there's something gnawing at his mind, forcing him to notice.
A door opening brings him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see Mitsuki standing in the doorway of his own room, looking impatient. Shiro sighs again, and walks in behind him.
Mitsuki seems happy enough that he's in the room now, and he grins and says, "Wait here. Oh, and close your eyes."
Knowing better than to argue with the prince, Shiro puts a hand over his eyes and leans back against the wall, letting the thick scent of juniper overwhelm him as he waits. Something soft on his nose startles him, and he peeks through the gap of his fingers to find his vision filled with dull white.
"What?" he says, brows furrowing.
A giggle prompts him to remove his hand from his eyes and he sees little red dots among the white. Mitsuki moves the object to where he can see it in its entirety. A small, sewn rabbit doll hangs from his hands. A purple bow is tied around its neck, contrasting nicely with it's pale fur; it looks well loved. Shiro stares at it and then at Mitsuki when he places it in his hands.
Mitsuki smiles up at him, "Happy birthday, Shiro."
He feels a fluttering sensation in his stomach as he leans down to press a kiss against Mitsuki's forehead.
~*~*~*~
The quill clatters against the desk, ink splattering across the wood. The parchment beneath the quill contains only unrecognizable scribbles; he can't even write his own name anymore. With shaking fingers he grips the parchment and crumbles it into a loose ball and throws it. It hits the floor, hardly two feet away, with barely a sound.
He swings his arm over the desk, knocking the ink to the floor, where it lands with a sharp, shattering sound, black liquid splaying out over the rugs. He crouches and crosses his arms, tugging weakly at the fabric of his sleeves. He doesn't cry. He can't cry.
He stands and stumbles his way to the door, fumbling with the lock. When he gets it open, he trips outside and slams the door shut. He leans back against it and sinks to the floor. He rests his head against his knees and lets his arms hang limp by his sides. He stays like that until a shadow covers his view. The shadow mimics its owner's movements, crouching down and placing a hand on his face.
"Mitsuki, look at me, please," it says, fingers curling at his cheeks.
He lifts his head and smiles at it, his breaths coming out slow and ragged.
"I'm okay," he says, though this time, it's not enough to convince himself.
~*~*~*~
Cicadas cry out in the sweltering heat as the sun rises higher in the sky. The trek to the hill seems to take longer than usual. Beside him, Mitsuki is silent as they walk. He can feel the anxiety gripping his heart, but attempts to ignore it, instead opting to fill the silence with empty chatter. He doesn't notice when Mitsuki stops walking, only hears the sickening sound of a body hitting the ground, and his heart nearly stops. He doesn't want to turn around, because he knows if he does, he won't be able to unsee what lay behind him.
Mitsuki sleeps for two days. Shiro spends a day of it stuck curled against the outside of the door, not allowed to enter his room. When he's granted entrance, his hand immediately finds Mitsuki's, and he kneels by the bed, praying for the first time in his life.
When Mitsuki wakes, Shiro has the massive urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, but he refrains from doing so because when Mitsuki wakes he smiles at him. His anger remains repressed because of that smile and he leans his head against Mitsuki's, pressing their foreheads together.
"Why didn't you say anything?" He asks, clenching the bedsheets tightly.
Mitsuki tilts his head up slightly, rubbing his forehead against Shiro’s, "I didn't want to see you sad."
Shiro chuckles, but it's empty, and his knuckles have gone white from the force of his grip.
"I didn't want to think about it," Mitsuki says, and one of his hands reaches out for Shiro's. Shiro meets him halfway and intertwines their fingers. Neither of them speak.
~*~*~*~
Mitsuki remains in bed for the next month, unable to find the strength to move his legs. Shiro notices that as the days go by, Mitsuki's breathing becomes more and more laboured. Shiro spends as much time as he can with him, and Mitsuki begins to smile more. It's one of those days that they spend just trying to find comfort in the other's presence that Shiro caves.
He kneels by the seafoam coloured bed, watching Mitsuki. His chest rises and falls heavily, his eyes are closed peacefully, though he's not sleeping. Shiro rests his head on the soft silk of the blanket and closes his eyes as he feels Mitsuki's fingers move to gently comb through his hair.
"I love you," Shiro says, fingers curling where they lay on the plush mattress to grasp the blanket. He feels Mitsuki's fingers pause, then resume softly raking through the pale white strands, even gentler than before.
Shiro turns his face slightly, pressing his cheek against the other boy's thigh. He grips the blanket tightly with trembling fists.
"I love you," he repeats, and even he can hear the way his voice wavers. He clenches his teeth, jaw locked, as he feels a shudder rack his body. Mitsuki's hand stills in his hair and trails its way down to his back where it begins tracing soothing circles. His knuckles have gone pale from the force of his grip, and Shiro surprises himself with the strangled breath that escapes his lips.
"I love you so, so much," his voice cracks, and he buries his face against the prince's upper thigh.
Mitsuki shifts beneath him, and then he's cradling the white haired boy's head in his lap, one arm wrapped tightly around his shoulder blades, the other resting in his hair once again. Mitsuki bends forward to rest his forehead on the top of Shiro's head. Even though he knows it's impossible, he wants to remain this way, holding the older boy close, forever. He chokes on his own breath when he hears Shiro utter those three words again, sounding so lost and broken; his chest, already painfully tight, constricts more, but he bows further, tightening his grip on Shiro's shoulders as much as he can, burying his face in the boy's hair to hide his own tears. The room echoes nothing but Shiro's muffled cries.
After what feels like hours, which in truth is only a few short minutes, Shiro feels his sobs residing into hiccups and the weight on his head lifts. He feels those familiar, small hands cradle his face and raise it so that jade and russet meet. Mitsuki smiles tiredly at him and rubs his left thumb against Shiro's right cheek.
"Shiro," he whispers, and Shiro tunes everything out to listen to that soft voice, "tomorrow, let's go to the hill again and have a picnic, just the two of us."
And he smiles that dazzling smile, the one Shiro loves with every fibre of his being, the one that makes him believe everything will be okay. So, Shiro nods, and lets a smile grace his lips for the first time in hours. Mitsuki's smile softens and he reaches down to pry Shiro's fingers from the blanket. He intertwines their fingers and closes his eyes.
~*~*~*~
Mitsuki’s heart gives out in his sleep that night.
Shiro remembers crying when his parents died, remembers long nights of endless whimpers when his only friend, Marianne, was taken off the streets by suspicious looking men, but when he wakes to a cold hand in his, he does not shed a tear. He doesn't cry when the guards roughly pull him from the room. He doesn't cry when he's brought before the King and Queen, Mitsuki's grieving parents, to decide what his fate will be. He doesn't cry when he's thrown back onto the streets. Nor does he cry when the young maid with the soft rose curls approaches him as he walks away from the large gates, a small, white rabbit doll in her hands. He doesn't cry when he sees Imomushi for the first time in years, or when she wraps him in a motherly, bone crushing hug.
He lapses back into the life he once had, as if he'd only been gone a week. He wakes up, he works with Imomushi, he eats, he sleeps; a vicious cycle that never ends. He gets thinner and thinner, albeit never to his notice. He doesn't notice anything about himself anymore. He doesn't remember the last time he spoke, or ate, or even slept for that matter; he does a lot more of that now though, sleeping that is.
Autumn and winter pass by in a haze, and before he knows it, it's spring again. Shiro still doesn't know how old he would be, but he knows that Mitsuki would have turned nineteen this spring. Shiro finds himself spending more and more time at work during the spring. Imomushi never says anything, but he can see the worry in her eyes, her movements, the way she talks with him.
It's one of those days, where he's been at the market for nearly fourteen hours, when a young boy comes to his stand. Shiro responds to the boy's request numbly, eyes downcast and voice low. The boy thanks him as Shiro reaches down to place the worn, woven basket in his small hands. As he does so, he glances up for the briefest of seconds, yet it's enough to catch a glimpse of the shining jade of the boy's eyes, and enough for the world to come crashing down before him.
The basket in his hands falls heavily to the ground, and the boy makes a surprised sound of concern. Shiro feels his knees buckle, and then cold gravel on his hands. The boy reaches out his hand to shake Shiro's shoulder, but the man curls in on himself, fingers buried in his hair, pulling harshly at the pale strands; his elbows scrape against the hard ground and he leans his forehead against it as well. Many people wander over to see what the commotion is all about, Imomushi reaches out and cradles his face in her hands, trying to speak to him, but Shiro doesn't notice. He can't hear anything but his own ravaged voice as he wails for the first time in two seasons.
Two weeks later, the boy comes by his stand again. He tugs at his faded shirt and shifts from foot to foot, eyes darting every which way, as he relays what is written on his torn shopping list to Shiro. The boy reaches up with shaky hands to retrieve the basket from the man and jolts in surprise when he sees the faint upturning of the man’s lips. The boy grins back as he receives the basket with steadier hands and waves as he scampers off.
Shiro watches as he merrily joins with a girl a few years older and walks away with her, hand in hand. From behind him, Imomushi gently places a hand on his shoulder. He turns to her, leaning against her smaller frame, and rests his head in the crook of her neck. She combs a hand through his hair, and he can hear his breath hitch.
~*~*~*~
On a day where the sun barely peeks out from behind the clouds, and the air is humid with the scent of rain, a young girl kneels in the damp grass of a small hill. She twirls a pink carnation plucked from the flora suffocating the hill between her fingers, imagining a face she's never met. The leaves of the green locust tree towering from the crown of the hill rustle in the light breeze and her hair flutters in her eyes; the small headstone wading in a sea of everlastings remains stationary.
A shadow falls over her and she lifts her head to meet the russet eyes of a man.
“Hello,” she says.
The man smiles softly at her, “Hello.”
She doesn't let her gaze stray from the man as he kneels beside her in the dewy green; his eyes remain on the grave before them. A comfortable silence falls over them, the sighs of the flowers the only noise to be heard. She sees the man brush a finger over the cold stone of the grave marker, so she rests her small hand next to his fingers.
“Were you friends?” the question rolls off her tongue innocently.
The man’s expression softens, his fingers trailing down the stone, “Yes… And you?”
She can feel her eyebrows scrunch up, feels the frown form; she glances away, “I never knew him.”
A hand on her head prompts her to face the man once again. He's smiling at her like she's something he dearly treasures, and it enkindles an odd feeling of safety and warmth within her chest.
“He was amazing,” the man says, and she's heard it many, many times.
She's never known what to think of those words, but hearing them from this man, who looks at the grave of the brother she had never had the chance to know like it's something precious to his heart, makes her want to believe them.
The man removes his hand from her head and reaches into his pocket.
“Here,” he says, placing the small object in her tiny hands, closing her fingers around it, “take care of this for him, okay?”
The flowers shudder as the man stands. He brushes his fingers over the gravestone once more before he turns and disappears into the haze of the afternoon.
She bides before the grave and gazes down at the worn rabbit doll in her hands. She brings it to her chest, hugging it against herself tightly, and listens to the breeze whisper through the tree.