Schizo: Okay. So, this idea came to me in my chemistry class, so... uh, I have no idea why this is being made. Either way, yes, it's another TakeshixSatoshi fic, but it's more of a reeeeeally long drabble. And it's not a happy one, so be warned.

Also keep in mind that it's supposed to sound vague. And I put it as "Friendship/Angst" for a reason. You'll understand why.

I do not own D N Angel

Takeshi

Click

Okay. So I turned on the tape recorder to begin telling you what I want to say you, but I’m not exactly sure of what I want to say. It’s really hard to just start talking to air, and especially to an object that can’t even talk back unless you press a button. Even then, it only says what I’ve said or what other people have said, so it never really says anything new and original. So I guess—

I’m getting off topic.

Sorry.

I tend to do that.

Anyways, um… Hi, I guess. Why is this so hard? I didn’t always have a problem talking to you. I didn’t always… have to try. You changed, you know. I guess I did too, but you’re definitely not the same when I first met you and first got to know you, which is really the reason why I’m doing this in the first place.

Remember how we met?

Dad was getting some award for one of his major cases that he solved and I was just walking around the ballroom with my camera because at the time, I didn’t have a tape recorder and I definitely couldn’t write as fast—or as well—as I can now. I was like… what? Ten maybe? Yeah. We were ten. I was just beginning to watch the news and I thought the people looked so cool with the microphone in their hands as they told me what was going on. Sometimes I didn’t understand, but it was fine.

And then I saw you standing next to your father and you looked so uncomfortable, remember? You looked shy and worried, but not in that way that was bashful or cute, but more of anxiety and irritability. I tried to be nice to you, but you were always a bastard, you know. You couldn’t even try to be nice to me on our first few minutes talking.

Remember when I took your picture anyway even though you told me so many times not to?

Man, you used to hate that.

I don’t think we had the same school.

No. No, we didn’t.

I only saw you when I went to the police station after school. You were doing paperwork, lots of homework. You were studying for middle school, then for high school. We did talk. Remember talking to me? I would tease you for being too smart, you would tease me for being too average, and I would joke, Who me? Average? Yeah right. I’m about as average as you.

And you never disagreed…

I liked to listen to you though. I liked hearing all the things you knew. It was like watching the news. I mean, sure, I didn’t understand half of the things you were saying at the time, but I always liked to hear and learn the things you used to tell me. I still remember some of the facts too and some of your thoughts.

With accordance to basic knowledge, it is fairly obvious that everything will end at some point, whether it be right now this very second or in a millennia’s worth of time. And once that ending point has been reached, there is nothing.

We used to talk a lot at the station. I never got to introduce you to Daisuke, but at the same time, I never wanted to. Daisuke was loved by pretty much… everyone. And I had this fear that if I introduced him to you, you’d love him more than you loved me. When I say that, I know you didn’t love me, but… You paid attention to me. Sure, you might have looked a little annoyed—okay, very annoyed—but you still listened.

I didn’t want to loose you to a boy who would only just take your ears for granted.

Daisuke doesn’t listen much. He doesn’t pay attention.

That’s why he’s so clumsy.

I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but… Daisuke wasn’t always my best friend. At one point, when we were ten, I trusted you more than I had ever trusted in Daisuke. Whenever you and I would sit on the stair steps in front of the police station just to talk, I never wanted to stop talking. And I don’t think I… did. I don’t even know why I valued the conversations so much since it’s not like we opened up to each other. We were too young for that. I just knew a few things about your past. You were an orphan who got adopted. I was an only child who barely saw his father. It seemed good to me.

I remember when you turned eleven and I brought you a cake I made. We didn’t even finish that cake, we were so full. You still didn’t have friends and I was still just the boy who spoke to you after school, but it was that kind of orthodox relationship that put me through all sorts of emotions. By that time, you were used to me and I was used to you.

And then we turned twelve.

I remember you took my hand to take me to this room in the station to show me some newspaper clippings of my favorite journalist, Hiroshi Jackson, but I was too busy noticing that your hand was cold and smooth. I was too busy trying to hide the fact that I liked it when you held my hand, especially when you didn’t even ask. You just did. And when I saw the clippings, I wasn’t happy because they were Jackson’s. I knew I would eventually get them from the paper, even if they weren’t the authentic ones. I was happy because you actually wanted to give me something.

I hope you didn’t notice when I accidentally leaned forward to kiss your cheek.

I hope you didn’t hear me curse under my breath when I caught myself and turned around, muttering a thank you.

And I especially hope you didn’t mistake that as an ungrateful move.

Is that how this all changed? When I messed up?

Boys don’t like other boys. Or at least, they shouldn’t.

You have no idea how hurt I was when you told me you were going to go to the United States for college, and you have no idea how hard it was to hear that right after, you’d be attending Oxford. You didn’t write. Was I supposed to be fine with this? Was I supposed to just forget who you were? We didn’t do anything, but… I could at least say that we were friends, right?

Or was I being delusional?

Just like how I was being delusional when you came back to our middle school, two years later. You were an Oxford man, graduated two schools within two years and now joining our academic world for kicks. I saw you and I didn’t know how to feel. I was happy, but I was cautious. I got better in journalism—much better—and I picked up more knowledge in politics by the time you came back, but you had gotten a degree.

Oh, and a whole new personality.

You forgot who I was, didn’t you?

And you met Daisuke.

And yeah, you paid much more attention to him.

You watched him, you talked to him, you laughed with him…

You completely forgot who I was.

Who I am.

So now to you, I’m just that obnoxious reporter-wannabe.

What happened to you while you were away? Why did you suddenly change? You’re constantly writing things down and you never seem to be relaxed anymore. You’re working at the police agency for reasons only you and possibly the officers know why. Yet, why are you so different?

And why am I so afraid to tell you all this?

I haven’t said anything to this tape recorder. I’ve just been sitting here wanting to tell you all of this, wanting to tell you that I hate the fact that I can’t have you listen to me anymore but instead have you constantly tell me that my “ideas” are stupid and that my whole career choice is a waste of time.

Remember when you actually liked the fact that I wanted to be a reporter, Satoshi?

Do you remember anything?

“Never mind.”

You probably don’t.

Click.

Schizo: Not spectacular, I know, but I had to get it out of my system... And no, I don't hate Daisuke. I like the little fluff just fine. It was just for dramatic effect everything Takeshi said about Daisuke.

Please review.

Cheers -Steph