Cassé

Regret.

It is something he strives to avoid. Nothing can be gained from hopelessly hoping to take back the past and change outcomes that are set in stone.

What's done is done. You acknowledge it, you learn from it, you grow to be strong enough to recognize how to prevent it next time. In this ambition there is strength. In achieving the goal of not making the same mistake twice, there is comfort.

And yet his lungs quiver beneath ribs that ache as he drags in one ragged breath after another, throat constricting as he works to swallow around the invisible lump that has plagued him for hours. He sits, fully clothed, legs folded, in the center of the futon, arms crossed over his middle as he slides his hands up and down the black sleeves of his shirt, absently wiping away invisible stains from blood that isn't his.

Sometimes, sometimes you can't save everyone.

A shuddering groan escapes him and he raises a hand to his forehead, eyes narrowing as the picture of a bullet reaching the end of its path flashes across his vision, burrowing deep into flesh as he reaches for the girl's arm, his own aim less than steady and his finger shaking on the trigger.

The agony of the fresh memory swallows him, holds him captive within the darkness of the room. His body is numb and unmoving. Each breath burns his lungs. His ears are consumed by the panic stricken cries of confused civilians as the villain on the rooftop opens fire, his confidence bolstered by his first successful kill.

Caught deep within the waves of his own horror, he doesn't see the ripple in the shadow that plays through his parted curtains. Doesn't hear the click as the lock is jimmied or the smooth glide as the window is pushed up, a figure clad in tones as dark as the night itself gliding through the opening and in to the muted warmth of the room, arms folding as it takes in the sight of the man in the center, head cast down, breathing ragged, tears falling from faraway eyes and running down the sharp set of his jaw.

The figure pauses, one hand moving back to the window, gloved palm flat against the glass as it drags down, shutting out the night before moving to the rough beige curtains and drawing them closed. Somehow this action makes the room a bit less dark.

A breath hitches, a strangled cry breaking out and disturbing the silence. Fabric rustles as the figure sweeps from the window, crossing the room in long, steady strides, coming to stand behind him, knees brushing against his back, hands coming to rest protectively on each trembling shoulder.

He doesn't startle, doesn't question, can't even begin to consider the concept that the body pressing against him and looming above would be one of ill intent. He simply twists toward it, crumpling the sheets beneath him as he pivots, burying his face against a leg clad in black slacks, arms reaching up, hands fisting in to whatever fabric they find purchase on.

The figure reaches for him in turn, one hand finding his hair, threading gently through soft, wheat toned blonde, the other his cheek, soft, worn leather stroking away the tears that still spill. His lips part, small, pained groans and shaky gasps the only noise his vocal chords are capable of. A soft "shhhhh" that fades to a hum meets his ears and he clings tighter, heart aching as the visions threaten to reappear.

He presses further in to the figure shrouded in shadow, one Chuuya Nakahara; a ruthless fiend. A man of the mafia, capable of ten times the atrocity he had witnessed that day. Some would say this fact made him ill equipped to bring comfort to such tragic situations. In truth, no statement could have been less accurate.

Who is better equipped to understand than a creature of darkness?

The hand at his cheek moves to his shoulder, the one in his hair leaves it to thread through the fingers on one of his own, extracting it from the grey fabric of the vest covering Chuuya's torso. He breathes deeply, blinking in an attempt to dispel the tears and clear his vision as he forces himself to lean back, chin tilting up as amber meets azure, taking in the furrowed brow beneath the wide brim of the hat that covers the head of the man above him.

Likewise Chuuya peers at him, his heart skipping as he chokes on the flash of anger that rips through him as he takes in the sight of the broken man before him. Doppo Kunikida, a detective so upstanding and courageous he puts most civil servants to shame; who works himself to the bone to protect people who are often of questionable moral compass themselves. He is passion and dedication embodied.

To see such a soul, torn open and brought to his knees...

It takes every ounce of self control to stop Chuuya from tearing away from the desperate cling of those wrecked hands and storming back out in to the night, head full of vengeance and heart set on giving the bastard who inspired such a scene the slowest, most painful death known to humanity. His feelings must have contorted his features into a menacing glare, because the man kneeling below him shakes his head.

"Don't. No more bloodshed. Not at my expense."

It isn't so much that Doppo read his mind as that he knows Chuuya that well. Not so much that he believes Chuuya will be swayed by a plea as that he will respect it out of esteem.

Chuuya breathes in, deep and steady, counting to ten. Doppo breathes out, jagged and forlorn, his hand tightening on Chuuya's as if the other man may dematerialize at any moment and leave him to the darkness of his own mind.

A throat clears. Doppo shifts on the futon and Chuuya folds to the floor beside him. A hat is removed and a head full of orange locks finds a resting place against a broad, quivering shoulder.

"Tell me." It's a whisper, a breathed invitation barely audible over the noise in Doppo's head.

Doppo knows that Chuuya isn't asking him for specific details about the shooting. Indeed, the fact that the other man is here, in his room, at this ungodly hour of the night is enough to assure him that Chuuya knows all about the events of his day. It wouldn't be terribly far fetched to assume that he may have even been present, lurking in the shadows on the sidelines, watching and waiting for the moment that could have been.

No, he isn't asking for details at all. He's pressing his fingers into the cracks of the crumbling walls around Doppo's resolve, encouraging them to buckle and fall. Coaxing him to let everything come down so that he can build a new foundation from the ruins.

"I... I couldn't-" His tongue feels heavy, his mouth is full of too much saliva, and yet his throat is dry. He gulps, bringing his arm to his eyes and burrowing into his sleeve, rubbing them viciously as he tries to find the words he needs to say, struggles to force his mouth to remember the shapes of the letters.

But all he can see are the faces of the civilians caught in the crossfire, panic and horror displayed across their features as vibrant as the blood that gushes from the girl's open wound as her youthful gaze fades to glass in his arms.

His stomach tightens and he leans away from Chuuya, turning his head and lowering his upper body as though he may vomit right then and there. Chuuya's hand finds the center of his back, slow and steady as his palm rubs small circles there.

His hands still feel dirty, so dirty. He rubs them against the khaki fabric of his pants hard enough to burn.

And he breaks.

"Why couldn't I?" He barely recognizes his own voice as it rips from his throat, an inhuman shriek that curdles his own blood as it rushes through his veins, head tossed back, mouth agape as he howls incoherently at the ceiling.

Everything hurts. His head throbs along to each pound of his heart, his hands may be bleeding from the abuse, for all he knows, his lungs are full of fire and ice, each breath pushed in and dragged out a bitter reminder that he is alive and she is not.

"Why wasn't it me?" It was part of his job, to die for innocents if needed. That's how this was supposed to work. "What went wrong?"

Steady hands on his face, feather light, but solid, holding him still and dragging him back from the depths. Pulling him forward so that his aching body meets the mattress of the futon, head burrowing in to the layers of shirt and vest that cover Chuuya's chest as he comes completely undone, wailing endlessly through tears and saliva as they run down his face and bleed through the fabric.

Chuuya doesn't stop him. Not as his nose begins to run. Not as his throat starts to raw. He simply holds him closer, even as the hellish memories of the day run out to blend and blur with the events of now.

There was blood on his face. Now there are lips in his hair.

Panic and gunpowder met his nose on the wind. But Chuuya smells of cigarettes and wintergreen.

"You think you can save them?" The gunman bellowed from the top of the high rise, laughing and sneering as he pulled the pin from the grenade in his hand.

"You think this is failure?" Chuuya croons softly, nuzzling his hair and bringing a finger to his chin.

He couldn't move, couldn't blink, before the detonation ripped apart the roof of the building.

Now he doesn't have to move, Chuuya does it for him, raising his chin to look straight into his eyes, something trapped between sorrow and pride hanging beneath a surface of crystal blue.

He can't understand. Will never understand, as he stumbles forward, throwing his arms around the man closest to him as the rubble begins to fall.

"Amour, vous êtes loin d'une failliure." He doesn't understand, doesn't need to understand, when Chuuya lapses into French.

Why do people like that take and take? What is so awful about their own existences that they never stop to consider the good they could do for the world?

"You give and you give and you give. You never stop to consider that you have the right to receive." He blinks as the words wash over him, amber eyes widening as he takes in the sad curve of Chuuya's mouth.

Frozen amongst the chaos, his mind went to the question he buried a long time ago, deep within his heart.

What is the point of striving for the light, when the darkness can snuff it out on a whim?

"You push yourself too hard. Everything you do is for the good of others, to the point where you're sometimes blind to the hell it brings upon you.

"You aren't responsible for the actions of others, or the effect that those actions have on shared outcomes. In this world, there is darkness and light and they are very much the same. It's what you choose to do while walking in them that makes who you are, not the touch of one or the other."

I wish it had been me.

"I wish you would realize that the death of another doesn't quantify your right to live."

The statement washes over him and crashes against his heart, striking the way waves do against breakers. His mind stutters to a stop, the memories fading from his vision though the clench in his stomach remains.

"W-what?" The word is barely past his lips before Chuuya is bearing down on him, mouth warm and earnest against his own, as if he's trying to repeat the sentence in a simpler language.

When Chuuya pulls back, it is only by an inch or two. His forehead is still close enough for Doppo to feel, his lips ghosting breath over wet cheeks.

"You aren't a pawn to be sacrificed for the greater good. In fact, that good stands in part because of you, so look at it like this:

"If you fall, what happens then?"

Doppo's heart skips, eyes widening as he considers Chuuya's words. It is often that he puts his life on the line, a willing payment for the safety and security of those around him. But if he's being honest, he can't guarantee that it would make a difference, though he'd never considered this fact until now.

"I'm not saying you should change. I would never tell you to put yourself first, and even if I did, you wouldn't listen to me anyway.

"I'm simply saying that, perhaps, each time the life taken isn't yours, it's providence telling you you still have a job to do; that there are others that need your light."

It doesn't take the burn from his lungs or the ache from his eyes. Doesn't overwrite the sorrow he feels. It isn't supposed to.

All it does is plant a seed. One that nestles deep within his aching heart and begins to take root as he finally closes his eyes, hours later, Chuuya's hands in his hair and his arms around Chuuya.

One that grows beneath the shelter of his carefully cultivated Ideals as he throws himself back into his work three days later under the beaming gazes of his colleagues, overjoyed to see him back at work and acting himself.

One that blossoms a beautiful reminder of hope and faith, even as the line he walks becomes blurred beyond recognition. He will not lose heart.

He will not fall.