Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation. Maki Murakami does.
A/N: Last installment on this from me. And it's even in 1st-person. ;)
Rating: M for language.
I stand outside the door of peeling green paint, my hands tucked into the pockets of my jeans and damned if I have any intention to withdraw them and knock on that door. Over the course of one mistake I hadn't acknowledged as a mistake at the time of its birth, I was seeing this door for the first time. And that in of itself is enough to make me pause, for my eyes to squint to near non-sight and take in every last decaying detail of the man-made obstacle that separates me from what I had come here seeking.
Yeah. I am well-aware of the poetic symbolism of my fucked up life.
The note I wrote is in my hands, and even though it's three days old – even though I am the one who wrote its words – I still have a difficult time believing what it says. Because I don't think it says anything … anything that makes sense. Just a jumbled bunch of half-truths and hidden lies and probably more than a few heart-felt confessions I'm not ready to expose just yet. But even after the Tylenol and the Ibuprofen and a few sips of beer that have served as my diet for the past three days … I still haven't put the fucking thing down. And I'm here with every intention of throwing it in its target's face and taking off. Like the coward I apparently am.
I've never been to his apartment before. He's lived inside of mine, shared almost every aspect of my life since then, and knows more about me than I comfortable with, but I had to ask Touma Seguchi, his boss, where his fucking apartment was. Even though I know he's told me countless times how to get there, described the foundation with a writer's eye, and practically handed me his neighbor's security codes. I had to ask.
A sharp jolt across my skull reminds me of the gash on the side of my head, and on reflex to the pain no drug seems willing to take away, I reach up to massage my forehead. And hit his door at the same time. Hard, as all accidental hits usually are.
There's no cry of welcome in response – no assurance that the knock was heard. Maybe he isn't home. Maybe he's off with that band and they're at the studio or at a radio interview or hell, on tour. And maybe I can just leave the letter on the clip on his door and be gone. Back to New York, if I can. Far away, and he can go off with that friend of his, or that other flamboyant idiot and I really don't think I like that idea.
And then the door creaks open, and I'm greeted with familiar amethyst eyes that go from wide to slanted with anger and distrust that I've only seen one time before.
"Yuki?" Even his voice is raspier than I remember.
And I can only stare at him. I'm not a romantic – I don't believe in deep, soul-searing kisses that make your foot pop or touches that leave you faint just because it has been ages since you have seen your lover. But I can't take my eyes away from him, noticing the differences and the familiarities and the way his chin as his breath catches in disbelief.
"Yuki?" He prods again, and leans out a bit. My head throbs. I step back, and the letter falls to the ground.
I hate him with every fucking inch of my soul. And I try to convey this thought with my eyes even as my mouth forms different words that make him shrink back with wide eyes.
"You're too much."
It hurts us both.
I … couldn't decide between a bittersweet ending or happy ending. So yeah.
And now it's finished! If anyone is still even interested in reading it. :) Reviews are loved, reviewers more so.
Trying to get back in the swing of writing fanfiction. Wonder what else will come out next. O.o