a / n ;; my first fluffish piece in an unbelievably long time. It's crazy short, but eh. My first NekuEri, even though there are some NekuShiki implications if you squint.
There's a million things wrong with him.
He walks in four-four time and his joints rattle like the inside of spray paint cans. He's quiet and bitter and when his mouth splits to spill sounds, it's usually in rhythm with the pounding in his ears. His wardrobe is a neon-bright eyesore that even her nimble hands can't tame, and every so often when she lies prone beneath his fingertips, his eyes screw shut and a name slips from his lips that isn't hers.
She compiles his imperfections in the margins of her notebook paper and the spaces between firing neurons. It's almost become a game-- him and her and this list.
These kids don't stand a chance, and she knows it, he knows it, but it's a fleeting revelation-- his hand is curled around hers, and it doesn't matter that they're calloused and clumsy, because they fit together so perfectly.
There's a million things wrong with him; a million reasons for her to walk the other way, but she only needs this one to stay.