Summary: A man returns from the beyond as a demon to finish some unfinished business. He has to find his name and water his flowers. Someone he has to kill and someone he has to seduce… but what if it happens to be the very same person? The world of ghosts, monsters and faceless cats invites you to step in (SLASH)

Warnings: foul language + slash, yaoi, mxm, or whatever you call it. Heh, maybe I should call this ‘Dead in Bed’ after all… :joke: XDD

WOOT: the story has a cover now!!! X3 (not that I’m going to ever publish it XDDD) yay, look!!!

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And now, enjoy the story, my imaginary readers C:

We Must Bury You

Chapter 1

The train crawled across the bridge slowly like a caterpillar. Its steady rattle flushed the ghosts out of the shadows; like a flock of frightened birds they sprung away from above the pile of rubbish and floating fearfully through the trunks of the scorched trees, soon they have once again returned into the brick dusk of the span.

Once upon a time the bridge had been leading through a deep river. One year the river dried up, and a thick forest took its place. But ever since the forest has burnt down, the bridge lead over the quiet cemetery of sad, black, litter-filled bags, haphazardly scattered here and there between the blackened stumps of pines and spruces.

Long ago this bridge has been built on the way between two sleepy towns. On one end it was spat out by a tamped down dirt road - on the other; swallowed back by the heat-cracked asphalt. Now, when only the trains still passed this way, hardly ever did anyone make a stop on the brick bridge.

At least for the reasons other than abandoning one more sad, black, litter-filled bag.

-

In the beginning of this story it was already late in the afternoon. At this time of the day, as well as at any other time, nothing was ever happening here.

Of course, each night, when none of the living ones was looking, the forest burst into flames over and over again. But the inhabitants of the brick bridge have learnt to let this fact slide, treating it like something as obvious as the sunset; and only the tourists that sometimes visited this area, were still happy with the ghostly blaze, merrily burning their stick-impaled litter among the eerie flames.

Apparently they've observed this strange ritual in the gardens of the living, with this one little difference that the living ones have afterwards eaten their burnt trash with relish, usually calling it 'sausages'.

Sometimes a little boy with a pipe would appear under the bridge. He'd drowned here in the times when there was a river still flowing through this place. When the little boy starts to play, even the ever-sleeping-monsters wake up for the shortest while; though, the instant he walks away, the monsters go back to their eternal sleep.

Oh, yes, and obviously there was this one mad living woman too; she has been coming here every winter, spilling finely diced loafs of bread for the ducks, that haven't been here since, like - three hundred years already - over the rusting railing. Later, on the piles of the rotting bread flourished those really picturesque blue mould-flowers, but here all the attractions ended.

Throughout the majority of the year it was very silent under the bridge. The wind sang lullabies to the silent ghosts, while the sad monsters kept telling each other tales of the small living children, quarreling over what they will do, when one of them finally appears under the bridge.

Though, the truth is that no small living child is ever to appear under the brick bridge. The mommies of small living children made the small living children believe that there is a boogeyman living in this place. But mommies have made their children believe in many other things as well.

While all of this – all of this is of course a blatant lie. Everybody knows that after having slept here for the mere few centuries, the boogeyman has long ago moved away to dwell under a different, newly built bridge. And since the time when two years later, the newly built bridge collapsed with a loud thud, no one knows what exactly has happened to the boogeyman.

And surely there was this one good old, deadly boring echo that sincerely loved to accost absolute strangers, providing them with unwanted answers and explanations.

Though now let us return to our story, shall we?

-

A faceless cat mewed bitterly, thrown against the brick wall by a muddy sole of someone's boot. There was a loud snap when the fragile spine cracked for thousandth time this year - the faceless cat scrambled to its four broken feet and wandered off into the shadow, angrily ruffling its shaggy dirt-glued coat.

Somebody bent down to pick a glittering silver ring from amid the waste and withered leaves. Somebody's fingers turned the trinket over a few times and then tossed it into a deep pocket of faded brown jacket. Somebody's voice broke the perfect silence:

"Who the fuck am I?"

"Oh, so you'd like to already know that, now, wouldn't you? Right away! - 'pop' and its here! Just like that?" several curious eyes cracked open in the murk, " Lad, some of us wait whole centuries for the first letter of our former names." a dreary resonance coming from no and every direction at once, to answer his question, had the man jump up slightly, glancing around for the source of the strange voice.

Though, to say the truth, every fucking thing seemed strange to him right now.

"Hello? What the hell?"

Quiet sniggering sounded from around.

"Shhh, go back to sleep," whispered the strange voice, which, as the man now realized, was in fact his very own, and the snicker died out. "Oh, don't let this bother you young man, but you're talking to echo echo echo echo. And as you probably remember... not," laughs and snorting could be heard again "One cannot see the echo echo echo echo." The whisper once again reflected back to him from the surrounding walls.

"Brilliant," snarled the stranger "could you at least tell me, WHY?"

"Why what?" inquired the echo.

"Why bloody everything" replied the man.

This one is quite not like all the others, mused the echo. The newcomers never usually had much of a personality. Though hard to have one, when all your habits - and yes, that includes the vile language too; dreams and recollections, except well, yeah - except that one, are being successfully erased from your memory. He must have been really pissed off the moment he--

"Shit! Talk! What the fuck is going on here?!" shouted the man balling his fists.

"Oh my, kids these days..." sighed the voice "well, all right; but we have to start from somewhere – maybe from where you--"

"I know where I am, for the fuck's sake – under the freaking bridge--"

"Well, yes and no" interrupted the echo "but I guess one could abridge it to that. Oh well well, fine, so maybe let us start from the fact that you're dead. Somehow it does always seem to liven the conversation."

“Oh please, these jokes are older than me!” howled some raspy voice from the gloom.

The newcomer covered his mouth in the mock terror.

"Whaaat? Me? Dead? No! No way! They couldn't! They've only nearly beaten me to death, hanged on the shitting pine tree and buried six feet under!" he jibed.

Six feet under, wailed the stray puff of wind.

"Oh well," spoke echo, distinctly aware that it has been using 'oh well' way too much, "Call it a start. It's so amusing that the only thing we remember after we are born again is our own death, now, isn't it?"

"Hahaha" yawned something from the dark.

"So you already answered yourself 'how'," continued the voice, not even a bit put off by constant disruptions, "Now, we just have to find answers to 'what for', 'why', 'where', 'who', 'whom', 'how long' and – oh, don't worry, surely you'll soon find at least a hundred more questions!" Echo comforted the dead man, "Though, with sorrow I must admit, that our charming conversation--"

"Fucking monologue" snapped the man, shuddering when the cat without the face returned to brush its lithe body against his muddy trouser leg.

“--will soon come to its end, and you'll have to find the answers to all of them on your very very own." Finished the echo with caring parental air to these last words "I'm only here to show you the way--"

"You're only here to lull us to sleep with your talking", growled the shadows.

"--I bet you can find the way back to your grave and this tree?"

The man nodded hesitantly. Wind gently combed his long snowy hair.

"And surely you don't recall any names?"

Another nod.

"Well, so you start like every decent living corpse, my dear. But you wanted to know who you are..."

"Fucking zombie? A ghost?" muttered the man through his teeth.

The echo only laughed in reply. It was an old, dusted and insincerely sounding laugh.

"A ghost? Ever seen a ghost, handsome? Look around! Even in this very moment you're standing on one."

The man hurriedly took his foot off of the spotted spectral pancake-shaped ray that hissed silently and melted into the soft waft of wind. Somewhere near, the litter-filled bags rustled forlornly.

"Right," he admitted slowly, "We're not much alike"

The echo waited for a moment longer, and then approached him once again, "You're a demon, honey. One of the biggest lucky devils and losers at the very same time. You equally belong to both of the worlds; apart from seeing ghosts you can speak, touch and feel, and that means you have a greater than average chance to find your lost name and escape from here"

The demon smirked among the shadows, white bangs of hair hiding his smile behind a curtain. If he can speak, touch and feel, why would he want to escape? "Do you mean I can still reclaim my life?"

The echo made a vague coughing sound, "It’s not a bed-time-story, sugar; I only mean you can reclaim your death," it corrected, "You can simply stop being, like you normally would in this case"

The man laughed bitterly, "So what, they give me the hope, just to send me off into bloody oblivion as soon as I find out who I fucking was? Do I look like a fool to you? Why should I even bother to begin the search for my name in this case?"

"Oh, it's what I meant by counting you among the losers as well. If you think you can cheat the beyond you're sorely mistaken. And if you think that dead cannot suffer then just you wait and see," the echo warned, "And this new 'life'... it's not hope – it's unfinished business."

The man's vanilla eyes widened slightly. The voice continued, "Well, demons basically come back to kill, so show me your wrists,"

The man did. On his right wrist shimmered three thin white lines. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Marks on the wrists signify vengeance. Three lines are three corpses. You'll certainly have some fun before you die again. Now, let's see what more do we have here..." the echo cooed, "Who knows, maybe we can guess some of your unfinished business. White hair—"

"FUCK."

"What?"

"Nothing"

"All right then – a crescent moon around your eye," here the man subconsciously touched his face with his fingertips, "Hmm hmm hmm, moon usually symbolizes a certain date, but the seemingly most vague and sophisticated signs are often to be taken literally, so, who knows – maybe you'd better keep an eye on the moon, sweetie? Watch out for it. Now, take your clothes off, would you?"

The demon gawked, "Excuseme?"

"Take your clothes off" repeated the echo.

"Yeah, and what more? Shall I fucking dance for you too?"

The voice sighed, accompanied by series of quiet giggles coming from the brick shade of the span, "Your tasks are written on your body, there is no other way to discover them," the echo informed him, "Of course you don't have to show me anything, but in that case you'll probably never know what they mean and therefore you'll have the occasion to see firsthand how the true pain feels. But it's all up to you"

"I want to wake up already, it's a fucking nightmare" muttered the man, pulling off a dirt-covered shirt over his head.

"Ha," resounded the echo, when the dark skin glistened in the semi-darkness, "I knew it!"

"What this time?"

"When you’ll leave this place," began the voice visibly self-satisfied, "On your way you'll meet many llike you. You'll meat the dead, ghosts and specters. You'll meet monsters, witches and creatures from fairytales. And then you'll see that not all of them returned from death in the state pleasing to the eye. The beyond never just fling good looks around – if you wish to see what I mean, knock later under the third span – many of such sad cases there. Beauty is a weapon and a tool, allotted by the beyond to help one fulfill their assigned tasks... I bet you didn't look like this before you die--"

"And you're fucking right" grumbled the demon, bowing down to tenderly pat the black cat, which he practically smashed against the wall not even a quarter of an hour ago.

"Look at your chest, what do you see?"

The demon did what he was told, spotting a chalk-white heart on his chocolate skin.

"The heart suggests seduction. Whom you have to seduce, you'll probably find out by yourself. Now take off the rest."

The man had a queer look on his face, "Huh, excuse me, but I think that even as a corpse I still have enough shame not to do it in the public," he said, directing his steps towards the cluster of charred bushes.

The echo sighed.

"Just don't step on Elric!"

-

"And?" insisted the voice, when the demon emerged from the bushes, zipping his fly.

"Phew," sighed the man with discernible relief, "Clean. Well, at least in the most precious parts"

"And elsewhere?"

"Hoops around my ankles and a star on my ass. Someone up there must really have a good laugh."

"Or down there, more probably," stated the echo, "The hoops can be manacles, but these are mere speculations. And it's the first time I hear about stars..."

"Cool, so, I think I'll go now," mumbled the demon, turning around and adjusting his jacket as he walked " 's nice to meet you and blahblah" he said waving his hand towards the brick wall in mock goodbye. A dog's paw flashed in the gloom.

"Wait wait!" the voice followed him, rebounding from the burnt trunks, "Your hand! You have a mark on your hand!"

The demon slowed down and few seconds later completely stopped in his steps, analyzing the inside of his palm. Like a trace of the small white child's toy stamp, a print of an animal's paw could be seen there.

"Indeed I do," he confirmed, "What's with that one?"

"Who knows?" responded the echo, "Most probably you had a dog that you forgot to take for a wal--"

"Quite hard to remember, when you fucking dangle from the branch with a noose around your neck, isn’t it?" snorted the man.

"Sweet,” affirmed the echo wholeheartedly “Now one more thing – show me what you have in your pockets"

"I have nothing in my pockets" parroted the demon, "Mud if any."

"And this ring? You picked it from the ground, didn't you? The first thing to be touched by a returning soul is always a hint..." Not really paying attention to what the voice was telling him, the man examined his pockets – just in case. His face brightened considerably when he finally fished out a crumpled packet of Marlboros.

"Oh fuck, I need those badly" he sighed fumbling with the opening, "SMOKING KILLS," he read aloud the black capital letters, sneering, "Awesome, something just for me. Got fire, anyone?" he asked the shadows, a lighter thrown his way after some grumbling was heard. "T'anks," mumbled the demon with a yet unlit cigarette sticking from between his dark lips. Suddenly he sniffed, grimacing and rising the nearly empty packet to his face.

"Listen to me," spoke the echo, "This ring - it's why you came here in the first place--"

"God it reeks," the man decided, sniffing the box and tugging it back into his pocket. He then smelled the sleeve of his jacket and hem of his mud and blood stained shirt, "Fuck. I reek" he concluded not at all listenning.

"Someone has--"

"You think how long I've been in the bloody ground…?" the demon inquired, lighting the cigarette anyway and taking a deep inhale, letting the smoke twirl and puff out from his nostrils. He sniffed his hand again,"Smells like a month. Fuck, my clothes are rotten."

"--someone has thrown this ring out of the window of the train heading west," the echo didn't want to give up.

"Oh, this little buddy?" chirped the demon fishing the silvery band out of his pocket "Pretty one, you are" he cooed slipping it on his finger, "You're finished yet?" he asked, addressing no one in particular, "Can I go now?"

"Yeah, right, better go. It's not good to talk to the echo for a long time. You can lose your voice, or yourself if you’re not cautious."

"Well, I'm not the one who does the most of the talking here" demon stretched, yawning.

"Take the faceless cat with you," advised the echo "It's more useful than you think – and take care, stiff."

The demon saluted and turned away, grabbing the black cat and stuffing it into his pocket to the accompaniment of breaking bones. Without them it fitted perfectly, the man decided. He started to climb up the high heap of sand, bottles and cans slipping from under his feet.

"I told you all I could!" he heard the echo shout after him, "But I still have no idea why they have given you black skin!"

Jumping up and lifting himself to stand on the rusted railway track, the demon lit yet another fag, a long, dirty, convulsively twitching tail dangling from one of his pockets. He dropped the lighter on the dead cat’s head.

"On the very contrary, this is the only thing they left me," he muttered to himself, leaning his head back and breathing the thick smoke "I was a black man for the fuck's sake!"

Morover, if you happen to notice mistake (I'm, sure I made loads ;-;) please do tell me! I'm still grieving that I'm not native speaker ;-; and I really NEED A BETA:big shineey dead eyes: