I've been feeling miserable. I won't go into detail here since feelings are to be frowned upon in a chan, but let's just say I know how Sniper feels. This was written very quickly just to try and get some of this out of my system. And right now, I don't care if it's rubbish.

Red and Sniper from Cuanta Vida belong to Heiro.

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Sniper didn’t like many people. For the most part they danced around what they meant, never coming out with a straight answer or explanation. Red wasn’t like that. He would say whatever was on his mind – never bluntly or without tact but always with a rogues charm and smile – be it a compliment or difference of opinion. As open as the archway that led into the labyrinth.

Sniper held the body close. He knew it wasn’t his lover anymore. The limp figure he held didn’t have Red’s allure, Red’s wit, Red’s...anything. It was just a shell. But it was all he had. All he had left, aside from raw memories that only stung his eyes, encouraging more tears. He remembered so much and it was all he could think of. Sniper clung to Red’s body, wishing that this wasn’t real. Red’s blood was still warm. Red’s body was too warm for the dead.

But it was real. Sniper gave in to luxurious crying, sobs so deep that they shook his entire body.

**

Everything had became a blur of numbness. At night he lay next to the body, holding it close as he used to when Red was alive. What Sniper would give for Red to turn to him, hold his face, laugh; for Red to come close and brush and kiss away the tears...But he never did, except in petty, mocking dreams. Sniper woke at least three times every night, a fresh stab of heartbreak piercing his chest every time he realised that Red wasn’t there.

Killing the RED Sniper hadn’t helped. If anything, it only made Sniper’s heart feel emptier. He had nothing. He didn’t have any purpose, after getting revenge. It didn’t bring back Red – he still didn’t have Red to love. Because he had loved Red. More than he would have ever said, he had loved that man. And he had never told him so. He knew Red had loved him, he had always known; but had Red known just how much he had been loved too?

Sniper would sometimes get violent. Trapped with only his own grief with nothing but remorse, guilt and misery to break up his apathy, he would thrash out uselessly in hate, attacking the walls and air. So much hate. At Spy for not killing the Sniper. At the Sniper for shooting Red. At Red for taking the bullet.

But mostly, at himself. For not taking the bullet. For not listening to Red when he thought it was a bad idea. For not killing the Sniper sooner. For not realising that the Sniper had been causing trouble for Red. For never telling Red he loved him.

He had taken off Red’s mask and jacket. Sniper had spent a whole day agonising over whether to remove them. Red’s thick locks fell from his mask in a poor imitation of their usual flow, lacking life. Sniper ran his fingers though the mess of hair, over and over, combing it until it resembled the way Red had styled it. As he did this his hand would periodically trail past the strands and stroke Red’s cold face.

He held the jacket. Just held it, like a childhood security item. It smelt of Red. Not just of whatever cologne he had worn, not just of the faint copper of blood, it smelt of him. The scent brought back so many memories. Cold nights spent curled against each other. Gunfire ringing out below them as they stripped off their clothes. Simple talks in his room, sat together on his bed. It brought up fresh tears of longing. He yearned, with all his heart, for those moments to be real again.

**

Sniper was gentle as he could be, carrying Red’s body. He had waited until it was dark, so nobody would be able to interrupt. He knew he couldn’t keep the body forever. It wasn’t Red. He lit a fire so he could see. Every time he glanced at Red fresh tears would creep into his eyes – the firelight danced on Red’s still face, animating it briefly, giving it life - but the tears would no longer fall. It was as if he had no more tears. Sniper couldn’t bear to look at Red's face, trying to do the best he could on providing a good burial.

He had worked on the grave slowly. First digging whenever he could bear to, then more devotedly, whenever his teammates wouldn’t notice. But this was the hardest part. He had to lay Red’s body to rest. It wasn’t right. Red had dreamt of escaping this place. He had talked with him about the two of them staying together, teasing Sniper with the possibility of taking him to see the place Red called home. Now Red would never leave. Not with his body. Not with his life.

Sniper carefully lowered Red’s body into the grave. He stood above it, unsure what to say. Priests and clergymen are meant to say something religious, saying that the deceased has “gone home to God” while the mourners wept. But Sniper wasn’t a religious man and had never been good with words and couldn't weep anymore. He had shown his love as best he could through actions. And now, with Red’s corpse lying at the bottom of a hole, he had to ask if it was enough. It didn't feel like enough. He picked up the shovel, feeling as if it was the heaviest object in the world.

“I love you.”