Disclaimer: Gravitation is the brainchild and property Maki Murakami. By her grace, I'm just playing in the sandbox.

Summary: What if Yuki kept a diary of the fateful events, just for his therapist? Manga-based.

Warnings: Language. Really bad, Yuki at his worst, language. And probably graphic sex. Yuki's uncensored VP all the way, so I'm making no guesses how that will go!

A/N: I decided to eliminate the "feeler" first chapter. Hope that doesn't zap the reviews! I wanted to keep these chapters corresponding to the actual manga books. Just for the record, this is actually four times longer than the initial post.

✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴
My GDF Diary: Book One
By Vindaloo
✴✴ ✴✴✴ ✴✴

Hey, there, Diary. I still hate you. I don't care what my therapist says, this isn't doing squat for my screwed up head. Headaches continue and the medication still makes my stomach heave, so piss on you both.

Shit, what a weird day. Writing sucked. Damned characters just sat there and stared at one another. Hate it when they do that. The bastards sat until two in the fucking morning. So I chucked the day's so-called work and went for a walk.

I should have stayed the fuck at home.

A fucking-fan-wannabe invaded my park.

Or maybe it was an alien from the planet Odd.

There I was, walking along, soothing my shattered nerves with one of the gods' own wonder drugs (that's nicotine, Di! Damn right I'm still smoking. Hell if I care about the ulcers or cancer. I don't intend to survive long enough for it to matter, cuz I'm going to LIVE exactly how I want! So...ptl-ptl-ptl.)

(Fuck. How juvenile. Knew I'd been infected with stupid the moment I touched that paper.)

As I was saying, walking, minding my own business, listening to the wind in the trees, and damned if the characters weren't right there with me, ready to spill their guts—

And then this alien sneezed. I mean, shit. How dare he invade my precious communion with my characters? Sneezed, and then his damned snot-filled kleenex attacked me.

Aw, y'got me, Di. It wasn't his kleenex, it was worse. Worse I tell you. He's a damned stalker, out to get my input on some damned poem he'd written.

I hate poetry.

And this thing was worse than usual. Worse because damned if it didn't have a line or two worth the waste of paper.

At least I think, maybe they were. The writing was damned near illegible. But I read it. I mean, I'm compulsive, right? I fucking hate to shop because I get mesmerized into reading the damned labels on everything I pick up.

Thank the gods for home delivery.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the alien. And his shit poetry.

At least, I think it was a him. It might have been a really weird broad. Skinny runt in a hoody and shorts. Choppy mop of hair, and eyes ...shit, those eyes glowed in the dark. Big eyes. Pretty—ARGH! Did I say pretty? No, they weren't pretty. Big. Bulgy, like a damned frog. Glowing space-alien eyes.

Except, they weren't green. They were dark. Kinda purple. Shit. Who has purple eyes? Definitely an alien. 'Specially the way they seemed to pierce right through you and stab you in your soul. 'Specially when the wuss started to cry.

Oh, yeah, I forgot. I told him exactly what I thought of his shit poem. Lyrics he called that crap. Told him he wrote like a lovesick third grader. That he should get a real job.

And he started to cry. Worse, he wailed. Gods, that voice was piercing. Screeched something about how I could be so mean?

Hell, it's easy.


Hey, there, Di. Miss me? Well, fuck you. Nothing's been happening...except the characters have been talking, and you, damn you, will never, ever steal time from them.

Besides...the book's taken a really odd turn. I think...I think both the lovers are actually going to survive. Possibly even together. And happy.

Shit. Happy. Where the hell did a happy ending come from?

The bad news is, the alien appeared again. Bang! Right in front of my damned car. Out for a peaceful dinner, and that idiot just appeared out of the rain and if I weren't such a superb driver, he'd have made a mess all over the front of the Merc.

I brought him home...I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? He jumps out in front of my car, screeches at me to stop and won't move—hell if I know why. Damned brat. Insisted he wasn't trying to commit suicide, but I have my doubts. Said he just wanted to see me again.

See me. Hah.

Idiot. Wannabe. And a damned fairy.

Oh, yeah...he is a he, no question. How do I know? The wet tee-shirt look sorta gave it away. Nice little body—

Dammit! No. I mean: skinny body. And male. Definitely male. Not nice. Not nice at all.

(Fuck. I hate this no-erase program. Fuck you, sensei!)

Well, I nipped his bedroom fantasies in the bud. Sent him packing with another blistering assessment. God, I'm good. If they can be discouraged, they should be. Damn right. Writing of any sort's no place for self-delusional whiners.

Damn right.


I suppose, now the manuscript is done, I should write something in this thing. Damned useless exercise that it is.

Yeah, the book's done, and yeah, everyone survives. Yippee. Except the asshole who raped Shumisa. Everybody's all lovey-dovey...enough saccharine to make you puke. But that's the way the damned story went, and who'm I to argue with the characters? I suppose you, oh expensive and annoyingly ineffectual sensei, will insist this new twist is significant. That it's my hindbrain doing something productive.

Whatever. Done is done. I just hope it sells.

There was something else...oh, yeah, the alien showed up again—on my fucking doorstep! Mizuki damned near ran the moron over as she left.

Evidently the idiot saw my picture on his sister's copy of "Teardrops," and finally figured out who I am. Which actually kinda surprised me. I thought he knew, considering he never asked. Thought he was a wannabe out to get some free advice. But he really didn't know. Seemed kinda pissed at me for leading him on.

(He's actually kinda cute, in a weird way, when he's pissed. His lower lip goes all pouty and his eyes positively glitter. Rather than go all narrow and wicked, they widen beneath lowered brows. And they cross, ever-so-slightly. Next he starts to quiver and hiss like an over-excited kitten, then his arms start waving as he shouts a bunch of incoherent nonsense. And, no, I'm not interested, just observant! Give me a break. I'm a novelist. Noticing details of bizarro behavior is what I do.)

Anyway, if he didn't know (who I was, in case you've lost my drift, thanks to this stupid program), it puts a weird twist on his last visit, doesn't it? He said he just wanted to see me again...which I'd chalked up to the fantasy of a fairy-fan-wannabe. Me thinks I'm right on the first and last counts, which actually is something of a relief. I'd hate to think someone like that had the brains to understand one of my books.

And don't tell me I'm being judgmental until you've met him! No, dammit, I'm not bringing him in! I never intend to see that twerp again.

Except...damn...I might...the alien's excuse to invade this time was a ticket to a concert. His, so he says, though the name of the band on the ticket is "Ask" and the members listed don't include him. I suspect he's part of the listed warm-up band, "Bad Luck." Appropriate nom de plume, if you ask me. I saw right through him, of course. He plans to inflict that song on an audience just to prove my assessment wrong.

Which is, when you think about it, kinda ballsy on his part, considering he now knows who and what I am.

I told him I had a date that night; I didn't tell him it was with my sister. Then, for some weird reason I changed my mind and said I'd go.

At which point, he immediately about-faced and said he didn't want me there!?!?! what the hell was that all about? Damned if I won't go just to spite him.

Besides, it would be an excellent excuse to avoid dinner with Sis.

With the totally delicious added benny of pissing her off royally.

Hell, yeah...Why not? I'll go listen to the idiot alien.


Well, I have to admit, the brat's concert was...not as terrible as I expected. The lyrics, yeah, they weren't anything to write home about, but they were...better. There's a spark of talent, no doubt, but a major factor's missing.


If he asked, I'd tell him he's going down a blind alley. Writing about something he fucking well doesn't understand. I can do that. I'm a professional liar, my life's a lie. But him? Hell, he's as open as a kitten.

He needs to get laid. Often. Needs to find the bitter, shallow truth behind the fantasy of romance.

Either that, or start writing songs about idiot aliens.

WTF? What was all that about? Do I actually give a fuck about the alien's stupid fantasies about life and love?

Hell, no. Whew. I just turned in a ms. Editorial-mode out of control, that's all. Whew. Still in it. I'll just start a new book; that'll cure me. I don't give a flying fuck. I don't give a flying fucking fuck. I don't give an f-to the fourth power! The concert's over. The alien's gone forever. I even avoided a conversation with Touma...I could see his curiosity rising. Why was I there? Why was I leaving before the Main Event? How could he interfere in my life tonight?

Goddamn meddler. Now, he'll probably call that wife of his and tell him my "emergency" was going to a lousy, second rate J-pop concert. The two of them are determined to make me into an angst-ridden teenager.

Well, I'm not a fucking teenager. I'm not even angst-ridden. I'm just—annoyed.

Anyway...the meddling brother-in-law was there so there goes my alibi...not to mention my reputation. I'll be hearing from Mika tomorrow for sure. Not tonight cuz my phone's unplugged! Heh heh heh. Never mess with an author, Sis. I'm always a jump ahead of any tack you set your sails to.

Except...not him. He continually manages to surprise me.

Damn...why can't I get that idiot out of my head?!?!?!?!?

Why'd he give me the ticket; then, after he'd won, tell me not to come? WHY?!!?!?!?

Why'd he freeze when he saw me tonight? Dammit. You'd think it was my fault for showing. I told him I was coming.

Why couldn't I take my eyes off him when he did? Damn, the volumes I could write exploring the possibilities behind those subtly shifting, frozen-in-time expressions.

Every one more mesmerizing then the next.

Of course, that would be my mistake...assuming there was anything remotely thought-like behind those expressions. This idiot is pure, unadulterated emotion, action and reaction.

That's why he changed the music. He'd been going to sing something else. Then, he started that song. The snotty-napkin song. Startled hell out of his buddy...who did a hell of a job improving to that recorded cacophony.

Except...I have to admit...the music wasn't bad. Pretty even. And when that idiot-with-a-death-wish opened his mouth and began to actually sing...damned if, just for a minute, I didn't give a rat's ass what the lyrics were. I've never heard such a—

what the hell am I babbling about? Sure, he held an audience filled with other idiot teenagers mesmerized. They have the excuse of a vocabulary consisting of three, maybe four words. Sure that skinny body of his swayed...distractingly...as he fucking made love to the stupid microphone and I couldn't take my eyes off him, either, but...it's like the damned labels in the supermarket. He's an...interesting read. That's it.

An interesting read.

That's my story, sensei, and I'm sticking to it.

Fuck...I need a new plot.

I'm outta here.


I...can't believe I kissed the fucker. Yes...kissed. It was a slip. He was just there. Challenging. Asking why. Always asking Why? Why? Why? Why? So I kissed him. To shut him up.

Hell if I fucking know WHY? Why's the sun rise? The world is dark and gloomy and depressing. Why's the sun got to come up and spoil the perfection?

Why does he exist? Why does he keep coming to my door looking so fucking kissable?

Yes, he does. Tits or no, those lips just beg...and damn...how he looked on stage...

Fuck, no. It was the challenge. The constant challenge. Mika-rin challenging my excuse, challenging my decision to go see the alien idiot rather than go to a dinner interrogation with her. A dinner I couldn't have kept down if I'd gone. A dinner that would only have pissed me off as she asked WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY. Why was I such an unappreciative son? Why didn't I go placate the old man with a fake smile? Why didn't I go attend to my duties as a fucking priest in that moldering old temple?

Shit, Sis, wake up and smell the coffee. I'm not fucking going back. There is no going back. I am what I am. DEAL.

So...why'd I kiss him? I'm no fairy. I'm not even bi. What is it about the way he keeps showing up on my doorstep, and I somehow keep opening the door, hoping to see his wide-eyed idiocy staring back at me? Why was I absolutely delighted to see him there when Sis opened the door, leaving in a huff when I refused to admit I was using a rotten high school kid to avoid her?

Why do I enjoy torturing him? Am I truly that fundamentally cruel?

Or is it the fact he looks sooo (I did not just do that!) (Ahem) so damned cute, hissing and spitting like a kitten? Why the hell did I touch him in the first place?

Fuck. Now I'm doing it! WHY WHY WHY. Deep breaths, fool. Think this out.

She opens the door. There he is, leaning on the damned doorbell—hell, I was so pissed at Sis, I hadn't even heard it—there he is, leaning, eyes squeezed shut. Took all his courage to face me again...after last night. That's what it was. Sis comes, all accusatory, and there he is, a kitten ready to face a tiger.

Could it possibly be he really wanted to see me again that much? Hell, he doesn't even know me? Wouldn't like me if he did, let alone...love me. Yeah, he claims he does. Not the first time I've heard that. Money, exotic looks, fame...I've got it all and the chicks flock. I've even had my share of offers from guys. The chicks, hell, I'll bed them, if their tits are big enough, but the guys...they've all gotten a clue. Usually the glare of death scares them off.

Not him. What is he, blind? Or just oblivious? Or just that...stupid. Or that...

Shit...he's a romantic, looking for love. I kissed him to wake him up. That's it. That's all.

So...why'd I keep kissing him?

All right. This is a fucking journal. This is recording events.

1. Sis came over to drill me a new one for standing her up.

2. I used the brat's fascination with myself as an excuse to her. Told her I was striking while that fire was stoked. That...set me up. That's it. I was one of my damned characters. Playing a role, that was all.

3. Doorbell rang.

4. Sis opened the door and there he was.

5. Sis didn't believe me when she saw how young he truly was.

6. I had to convince her.

7. Invited him in.

8. He stood there like a lump.

9. I brushed past Mika to loll all over him and threaten his life if he didn't play the game...hah! Another step toward destruction. Aggression.

But...damned if that little body didn't feel—

LITTLE. That's what it felt. Little. That's all. Weakling could barely stand up under my weight.

10. Mika left. Pissed.

11. The brat fought back, calling me an ass for how I treated my "girl friend." Berated me for hurting her.


Another step. Attack. Riposte. Testosterone was rampant in the air.

Now...we're getting somewhere.

12. I went inside and told him to come in or go away.

13. He followed me in.

14. I attacked his interest in me head-on.

15. After one of his hissing kitten denials of any romantic interest, he immediately about-faced and admitted...shouted, actually...that yes, he was in love and couldn't help it.

Like hell. He's an idiot who couldn't make up his mind about what ice cream flavors he wanted in his cone, and would have a major angst-fest deciding which to put on the bottom. He was pissed at my assessment of his lyrics and was going to keep coming back until I lied and said they were great.

Ain't gonna happen, brat.

And yet...that would get rid of him. Easily. So...why didn't I just do that? Why'd I keep getting more and more angry?

Why'd I ...kiss him?

Worse, why'd I keep kissing him?

I shut my eyes, that was why. I shut my eyes and that pout went all soft and sweet and opened like a flower.

Shit...he tasted like chocolate. That was my real downfall. I love chocolate. Not as much as strawberries, mind you, but I do love it. Dammit. He should have tasted like yesterday's beer and pizza and instead, he tasted like ...chocolate.

And I hadn't eaten for two days. I was hungry, that was all. Mad and hungry and he tasted like chocolate—

And that mouth was intoxicating in its sincerity. I never...I never felt anything like it. And his skin, underneath that three-sizes too large shirt felt so damned wonderf—

ARGH! So he has nice skin. So what. He had no tits and I rapidly came to my senses.

Though if I'm honest, the shock of falling on my butt had something to do with it, too.

I made a smooth escape from the moment and put it all into perspective...for both of us. Being a noble sod, I endeavored to take the blame for taking advantage of his obvious weakness, but he insisted on trying to make it something more, a fantasy I quickly and smoothly squelched. As I told him, if I were to cross over to guys, it wouldn't be for a dirty little punk like him.

No matter the chocolate.

No matter the delicious skin.

No matter the voice that—

Fucking hell. I told him he was free to use me in his bedroom fantasies. I just hope to hell he doesn't start to figure in mine, dirt, stupidity, mini-cock and all.


Goddamn, it's funny how his eyes cross when he's pissed. Yeah, he came back again.

Are you pleased, Di, that the idiot has entered my life? You almost never heard from me, now, I've got a near-daily report. Why? Because my life was gratifyingly predictable. I went from book to book, chick to chick, car to car, cigarette to cigarette. Then he comes along, just to give me something to talk to you about.

Somewhere, some god is splitting a gizzard.

That's it. He's proof god has a (sick) sense of humor. Which god? Take your pick. Hell if I care which one is ruling my quadrant this month.

Guess what his excuse was this time? He came to do Mika's dirty work. My idiot sister decided my new boy toy could convince me to go see my poor, dying parental unit.

If only the old bastard would ever come through on the promise to die, I might actually go back home...just to spit on his grave.

What? You think I'm irreverent? Think I owe him more respect? It was, after all, thanks to him and his damned bigotry that I turned into the charming individual I am today.

And I thank him. Daily. From a safe distance. God, just the thought of him makes my stomach churn.

I need a cigarette...

Aw. That's better. Had to go after a new pack. I'm stocked and ready to rumble. Where was I? Oh, yeah. The whore.

Yup. Turns out the alien is a whore. Not for money, that would be too common. No, he's a whore for his so-called art. Came over to use his wide-eyed wiles on me, all for the sake of a crap demo tape. Yup. He does this for Mika; she gets Touma to officially inform him his band's a bust.

Wow. Can't beat that with a stick, now can we?

Life would have been good. I'd have called his bluff successfully and kicked him out for good, but he had to go and turn the tables on me again. Damn those alien eyes. Damn the tears that made his kiss all salty and trembly.

Yeah, you heard me, Di. Kiss. Not my fault this time. This time, this time, he kissed me.

I didn't kiss back.

I don't think.

I know I wasn't stupid enough to close my eyes this time.

And I kept my hands in my pockets. No smooth skin to confuse the issue. A whore is a whore, no matter how much he tries to white wash it, no matter how much he claims just to have used it as an excuse to see me again, no matter how much he claims he was just worried about my relationship with my "poor dying father", no matter he claims Seguchi doesn't matter.

He can protest all he wants. He still gets his prize, just for trying. Hell only knows what he gets if I actually go.

I just wish he hadn't cried. It...hurts when he cries.



He turned it down. He told Mika the deal was off, that he didn't want Touma to listen to the tape.

That he wanted nothing for talking to me.

Damn that little runt. Was he...could he have been...telling the truth? He doesn't lie for shit, and...fuck, I did, at first, fall for his act.

If it was an act.

Can someone love if they know nothing about the other person?

But is that actually true? What's he know about me?

I feel another list coming on, Di. Think I'll use the alphabet this time.

A. I walk in the park at two in the morning. So what. So does he.

B. I look like a foreign movie star, or so all the chicks claim. Thanks to pop, I only see a rich, ugly sod, but ah, well. Maybe he likes the rich, ugly sod look.

C. I trashed his crap lyrics. Maybe that's the key. Maybe he knew they were crap and I was the first person who ever gave him the truth, square between those gorgeous eyes. He can't, constitutionally can't lie. He had to know someone had lied to him about those lyrics. I...damn, did I just provide something he needed so desperately, he was willing to look beyond everything else?

He's chosen now to record his songs on his own, to...as Touma put it, "bring his songs up to snuff" on his own. He wasn't willing to take the easy route. And I know Touma. The kid has something. Something even I couldn't help responding to on stage. Touma thinks he made the right decision.

Damned if he didn't. Faith in himself. If he'd taken this opportunity, it would have been too soon. That's what Touma's saying. Not that the kid hasn't a chance, just that he's not ready yet.

And how could he be? Will he ever be? And to make the grade...will he have to lose that...precious innocence? Damn, I'd hate to see—

What am I saying? What does any of this matter to me?

It just seems so...unfair, somehow, for someone so...full of life to sacrifice his dream because of—

Don't even go there, Uesugi. Don't even go there. All he wants is for me to love him in return and that's simply never going to happen. He's got to accept that. Period, end report. Tears or no tears. He can't make me love him. I fuck women. I don't love...anyone.

Still...Touma said there was something I could do for him. I wonder...

Oh, sweet Buddha in heaven...he couldn't mean...not that. Not even for him...


Okay, Di, have your laugh and be done with it. Yeah, I came "home," good little eldest son that I am. Whoopie. Touma said there was something I could do for him...hope I guessed right.

Pop's fine, of course. Oh, joy. Bastard will probably live to be 110. One thing's for sure, I'll be pushing up the old daisies long before he is.

Know what all the fuss was about? My wedding. Oh, yeah. The family's still planning to super-glue me to the daughter of the Old Bastard's best temple-running buddy. Gotta keep those contacts with heaven within the family, now don't we?


And Sis, of course, is determined to blame my sudden, uncharacteristic cooperation on the power of Luh-hove.

Double Whoop.

Love has nothing to do with it. I just hate those stupid tears messing up my image of the brat. I kid myself, of course, that I'll never see him and that said mental image is all I have to worry about. Somehow, I suspect he'll be waiting on my doorstep when I get home.

Damn brat.

All...sunny smiles and happiness that I went to see my poor dying dad.

Damn brat.

Wonder what would happen to that smile if I told him I was getting married?

Fuck. Damned if I will. I don't need my whole place flooded with salt water. They made the arrangements; they can damnwell unmake them.

Then maybe, just maybe, I'll see what that smile tastes like. I've had the chocolate, I've had the salt...what's the sun taste like?

Fuck. Never mind that shit. I'm bored and fantasizing, that's all. No more brat-kissing for me. Nosir.

I came down yesterday morning. I've spent all day doing my priestly duty in between arguments with the OB. Tomorrow's the third day. YAYAYAYAY I never stay more than three days.

It's a sanity thing.

And so, with the chorus of "Tomorrow" echoing in my head in a screeching twelve year old voice...that somehow isn't screeching or twelve...I mean...shit all. Fuck it. Good night, Diary. Good, fucking night!


A/N: Glad you all are enjoying this. It's really fun to write.