Disclaimer: Maki Murakami owns Gravitation. I am not Maki Murakami. Therefore, I do not own Gravitation. I'm somewhat saddened by this.
Shatter CH 1. Eiri POV.
Tristesse was still buttoning up her fur-lined velvet coat as she walked, faster than normal, down the sidewalks of Paris, the same sidewalks she'd walked so many times before.
She sighed to herself, hitching her designer purse higher up on her shoulder. There was a breeze tonight, and not a pleasant one. The wind was cold, biting at her delicate features. It was a dark night, even under the obnoxious glaring of the terribly-placed streetlights. Clouds shrouded the almost-full moon, and not a single star bothered wasting the effort to come out and shine.
She did not look back at the gloomy, run-down apartment. She didn't have to. She was leaving nothing behind. Nothing would be waiting for her if she came back.
She would never see him again. She'd never learned his name, and she'd long forgotten his face.
He meant nothing to her, she tried to convince herself, biting her lip to keep herself from shivering and crying as she found her way home.
"That's kind of depressing, Yuki," I hear from behind me, and I almost fall backwards out of my chair.
How long has he been in here?
"And what kind of name is Tristesse?" He rambles on, still out of my sight. "It sounds like a shampoo."
"It's French," I say, pushing my glasses up on my nose. "How did you get in here?"
"Well," he begins loudly, in a way that makes me instantly regret asking. "I came home and was so very overjoyed to be greeted with the scent of cigarettes and alcohol, and the sound of an overworked typewriter, so I decided not to bother you now that you're writing again. But I was really, really curious as to what you were writing, and naturally my curiosity got the better of me, and so, still not wanting to disturb you, I devised a master plan." He does this dramatic-pause thing he's been prone to doing lately. "And I crawled in on my belly."
I have to chuckle at this. In the three years that we've been together, he has become not one iota less of a moron. "How is the story?" I ask, a bit warily.
It's true, I've had a bit of a writer's block recently. Today is actually my first time typing in two months. My editor's about ready to hang herself. Or me.
And as a result of this, I've become so insecure that I've actually resorted to asking Shuichi of his opinion. Maybe I should just retire.
"I liked Tristesse better when her name was Brittany," Shuichi says, taking a few steps and now standing to the side of my chair instead of behind me. He's sucking on a stick of Pocky that he's somehow materialized.
"Brittany wasn't sorrowful enough," I say matter-of-factly.
"Brittany," he says, matching my tone perfectly, "didn't sound like a hair product." He takes a bite of Pocky and smiles down at me triumphantly.
It's almost cute.
Throwing his arms around my neck, he leans in close, and closer, and kisses me on the nose. His bangs tickle my cheek. He really needs a haircut, his purple streaks have almost washed out. He's been experimenting with different colors lately. Blue looked pretty good, red looked okay, and just thinking about green makes me want to vomit.
My favorite color on him though, is pink. And if you tell him that, I'll think of several pointy objects with which to sever your head, and you can tell me which sounds like the most fun.
"Tadaima, Yuki," he says, giggling proudly. He's found his way onto my lap.
I roll my eyes. I can't type like this. He's distracting and heavy. I'm about to push him off, but he wiggles around until he's comfortable and then just melts into me. And he sighs like he's in heaven and he's just been handed an ice cream cone.
He's not going anywhere, I deduce.
And I'm okay with that.
I write and Shuichi reads. I know for a fact that he's never once opened one of my finished novels, but the in-progress ones, the ones that exist only in the dark recesses of my mind and the heavily-guarded files of my laptop, those he is fascinated by. He loves watching the words spill out from my fingers onto the screen, he's said.
It's like magic, he told me.
I don't know about that. Tristesse's eternal heartache, her devastating search for true love, her endless affairs, her giant shoe closet...it's all fluff to me. It's meaningless. Stupid, even.
And the fact that hormonal teenage girls and lonely, ignored housewives eat it up just proves my point.
Shuichi likes it though, and that's enough to keep me writing. Even if the fact that he does like it proves my prose's stupidity even further.
"Hey, Yuki," he says, a bit sleepily, I notice. "I remember why I came home early now."
He came home early? I glance at the clock on my laptop.
So he did.
"I wanted to spend some time with you because tonight I'm gonna meet with this producer for our new album! I mean, Sakano-san's still our producer, but we're gonna try a new, hipper approach too! We're trying to take our music to the next level! Bad Luck's gonna be real cutting edge like BOOM! Exploding onto the charts!"
He's wide awake now, bouncing up and down on my lap as if this serves as some physical exclamation point. It would be cute if it wasn't so uncomfortable.
"And this is all just a roundabout way of saying you won't be home tonight?"
He grins like an idiot, the same way he always does when I refer to our place of dwelling as "home".
"I should be back by eleven," he says, still beaming. "Remember to eat dinner, Yuki. You're losing weight again. You're getting all bony which is definitely not comfortable in–"
I push him onto the floor.
"Owww," he wails, big stupid tears welling up in his eyes. "What was that for? Yuki, you meanie!" He starts punching my shoulder like he actually expects it to hurt.
"Go take a shower," I tell him, smirking. As much as I've come to not hate having him around, I do need a few moments a day with him out of my hair. "You smell like snack food."
He looks slightly hurt by this. It wasn't even an insult. I was simply stating a fact.
"Okay," he says. "Good luck with Tristesse." He gives me a quick kiss on the mouth, tasting sweetly and distinctly of strawberry Pocky.
"You taste like snack food too," I inform him, pretending to grimace.
Hearing him giggle as he walks out the door, I'm almost sad to see him go.
A/N: And so ends the first chapter of my first fanfic! No shattering has happened yet, because I don't believe in diving headfirst into the angst, but don't worry, there will be plenty of angst to come! This chapter actually serves mostly as a prologue.
Thanks so much for reading, and review if you liked it! You can review if you didn't like it too, just go easy on me. -laughs-