A/N: Edited again. This was for "The Best Kiss Portrayal Challenge". It was a good opportunity to explore a different writing style, so here I am with this oneshot. Slight OOCs. Dialogues and inner thoughts are in italics, but you'll be able to tell the difference, anyway. I also tweaked the ending a bit to make it more concise. Enjoy reading!
Disclaimer: I don't own Gakuen Alice. The image isn't mine, either. It's from the site eslbee.
Shrouded in Regret
He's here.
He looked older and he had stubble under his chin, but no amount of facial lines or facial hair could keep her from recognizing his handsome, angular features and his red, red eyes.
He's here.
When he stepped in the café, she did a double-take and almost dropped the tray she was holding; when Sumire asked her if she was alright, she tripped over a customer's briefcase and knocked over a Styrofoam cup of coffee in response. She apologized mechanically and told the customer that she would replace the coffee and that she was fine. Though the hot liquid scalded her skin and left an ugly red burn on her arm, all she felt was the cold sweat on her hands and the chill running up her neck.
He's here.
With all the commotion she caused, she was surprised that he still hadn't noticed her. But she didn't know what she'd do if he did — would she avoid him? Would she talk to him? Would hetalk to her?
Would he even remember her?
She took deep, steadying breaths and made her way back to the counter, where she asked Anna to prepare another cup of coffee for the customer before she headed to the bathroom to wash away the stain on her apron. Once she closed the door, her knees collapsed beneath her, the weight of the past nine years crushing her shoulders and stealing the oxygen from her lungs. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe.
Inhale.
Memories of them flashed on her closed lids. She hadn't thought of him for a long, long time, yet now the memories seemed as vivid to her as they first happened all those years ago.
Exhale.
And then he was there again, standing right in front of her the night they first met, looking at her with his piercing, red, red eyes. He wore a black, long-sleeved sweater appropriate for the winter cold, and Mikan, being helplessly female, couldn't help but notice how well his lean, muscular frame filled it in. He smelled intoxicating, too, like spices and aftershave — she was a sucker for guys who smelled of aftershave, perhaps because it reminded her of her father.
He leaned over the counter and gestured to her. She smiled and set the glass she was wiping down on the counter.
What'll you have, sir?
Five shots of margarita.
Coming right up!
They were at a bar her cousin Tsubasa owned and managed. She was 17, working part-time so she could support herself through college. Her father was a high school teacher and her mother a secretary; their jobs didn't pay well enough to support her education. She tried for scholarships, but her grades didn't impress the colleges she applied to. Nevertheless she was determined to get into a good college and graduate: she wanted to be a playwright in the future, a female version of Shakespeare. But to get there, she had to go the hard way — and that was by working. With her experience, though, the only job she could get was here, and she had to bribe Tsubasa with a lifetime supply of her mother's macaroons before he relented to hire her.
Red-Eyes (the name that she had unconsciously dubbed him as) didn't wait for her to finish the drinks. He turned away and returned to his table with his friends, who were sending winks and kisses her way. She ignored them — for all their shameless flirting, they were wary of Tsubasa's protectiveness of her and never dared to make a pass on her — and she glanced furtively again at Red-Eyes. Definitely a new face, but apparently not to Koko, Ruka and the others in their group. They seemed like old friends, judging from the way the teased him—
She's a cutie, isn't she?
She's got legs.
Wait—were they teasing him about her? She frowned.
And a hot ass.
And long hair.
The boys all stared at Koko in confusion. Even Mikan had to look at him, much as she tried tune out their noisy commentary on her assets.
What? Don't you like girls with long hair? You used to like Koizumi in fifth grade, and the only good thing about her was her long hair.
The bar music was briefly drowned out by the raucous laughter of the boys. Even Red-Eyes, who hadn't smiled all evening, cracked a smirk.
See! I'm right, right? Koko grinned.
No. But you're right about this one,came the reply of Red-Eyes.
Wait, Ruka said, So you're really...
She'll do, I suppose, but we'll see.
Mikan had already lost interest in the conversation; she worked quickly finished up their margaritas and set them on the counter. Five margaritas for table one!
To her surprise, Red-Eyes came over to the counter himself to get them, waving the waiter off.
Did you make these? he asked.
She raised a brow. You see any other bartender here?
His eyes travelled briefly to Tsubasa, who was busy counting cash at the far end of the counter, and then back to her face again. Oh, she said, in response to his silent query, he's the owner. Doesn't do a thing, really. He just counts cash and bosses us around.
Red-Eyes looked amused. Well, he said, taking a shotglass and swirling the margarita around, I've never had a drink made by a woman before.
Yeah? Try it. I make the best margaritas around.
And if I don't like it?
That's not possible.
We'll see about that.
He downed the margarita in small amounts, making a great show of tasting it. If she hadn't known better, she would've thought that he was doing it on purpose to irk her.
Well?
He set the shotglass down with grim resolve. It lacks flavor.
What did you say?
It lacks flavor, he repeated.
She crossed her arms and pursed her lips. What sort of flavor?
He thought about it. Something sweet, maybe.
Did he take her for a fool? Margarita and 'something sweet' just didn't mix, for god's sakes.
She rolled her eyes at him. Sweet like what? Sugar?
No, not quite. I was thinking — he placed his hands on the counter and leaned towards her with a devastating smile — of something — their noses almost touched; she could see that his eyes were indeed red, the flecks of gold in them mesmerizing her, rooting her to the spot — like — his warm breath grazed her cheeks like feathers on skin and his aftershave clouded her senses, banishing all logic from her mind — this.
And then he kissed her.
For the millisecond that her brain still functioned after his lips touched hers, she registered that he was a complete stranger and that she really wasn't the kind of girl that just let strangers (even sexy strangers) kiss her in public. But that was only a millisecond of rational thought. After that her eyes fluttered close and she couldn't think; she could only feel, and all she felt was his lips on hers, gentle enough to weaken her knees but still charged with enough desire to make the fine hairs on her skin rise in anticipation for more. She'd had so many awkward kisses before that this one in comparison just felt so right and so...
Perfect.
Her eyes flew open when he completed her trail of thought for her. He gave her a devilish grin.
Just the kind of sweet I was looking for.
She could only gape at his well-muscled back as he walked away with the drinks, the loud hooting of his friends a mere faint buzzing in her ears.
That night, when she arrived home and changed out of her bartender uniform, a slip of paper fell from the apron's pocket. Written on it in cramped script was: I look forward to meeting you again.
It wasn't signed, but somehow she knew that it was from Red-Eyes.
Besides, she realized with a shock, even if he did sign his name, she wouldn't recognize it; she didn't even know his name. It finally dawned on her that she let a complete and utter stranger kiss her on the lips, and that she actually...
...Enjoyed it.
Inhale.
She finally did get to slap him the next day, but their relationship only escalated from there — the attraction between them was just too magnetic and the sexual tension too maddening for them to ignore.
Exhale.
She remembered the first time they made love. It was only a week after they met, yet it felt like they had known each other for years—it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
The day started out innocently enough. A little after lunch at a nearby café, they headed to the deserted park (most of the folks were out-of-town for the holidays) and she started a snowball war. The next hour was a flurry of frantic hiding and snowball-throwing, and since they couldn't seem to take the other down with snowballs, he ambushed her instead. The next thing they knew, they were tangled up on the white blanket of snow beneath them, him on top of her, kissing passionately, oblivious to the world around them. When they pulled apart for air, he leaned his forehead against hers, and with his eyes he sought her permission.
She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing; instead she raised her gloved hands to trace his jaw, taking in his handsome features. He smirked when he realized what she was doing and he caught her hand in his, his eyes still searching hers. He seemed to sense her indecision, because he bent down and tugged her scarf off to kiss her neck, his lips leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses down her cold skin. She whimpered and laced her fingers in his coal-black hair. He wasn't playing fair — he knew that she couldn't possibly resist him when he worked wonders on her with those lips of his.
She knew right then and there that she couldn't refuse him even if she tried.
Where? she asked. They couldn't use her room — her parents were home — and she didn't know where he lived. It bothered her that he never told her anything about his family or his background, but she didn't dwell on it. He would tell her when he decided to, and that was that.
Well, he breathed into her ear, sending pleasant shivers down her spine, there's an abandoned gazebo somewhere in the woods...
Sounds kinky.
He smiled wolfishly. Just the way we like it.
He lifted her off her feet and she squealed. Somehow, she gasped between giggles, I knew you weren't going to suggest a bed.
Good thing she wasn't a virgin anymore, because if she had been, she would've wanted a bed and a cozy room. But then again, Natsume had a way of wheedling her into doing the craziest things — just yesterday, they had set themselves on fire and rolled in the snow to put it out; and two days ago, they had planked at the edge of the highest building in town. His thirst for thrill and adventure rubbed off on her, and she was sure that even if she had been a virgin, she'd agree to his gazebo idea — if only because it was him she'd be with.
Are you sure we won't freeze to death? she asked him.
I don't know, he replied. I've never tried this before.
He smirked at her and she smacked him playfully on the arm.
After a few moments, the gazebo he spoke of came into view, hidden behind the thick, gnarled branches of an oak tree. It was made of wood with intricate vines and orange blossoms carved on its facade, and its pillars were wound with broken Christmas lights and decorated with torn cut-outs of snowflakes and candy canes — perhaps someone tried to make it look cheerier for the holidays but gave up on it in the end — and though it looked desolate and in desperate need of a new coat of paint, she thought that it was perfect.
But she sensed his hesitation. You're sure about this?
She knew what he meant, and in response she teased, Don't tell me you're scared.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
Later on, when the sun had begun to set over the horizon, she curled up next to him on his thick overcoat spread over the icy floor of the gazebo, her cheeks flushed and her smile dreamy. He smiled at her, too — a small, tender smile that she hadn't seen on him yet — and he wrapped a strong, lean arm around her and held her close.
And there, sheltered in his arms, she marvelled at how her surroundings could be so cold while her heart was filled with so much warmth.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The next memory that came to mind was day he left.
He stood her up on their supposed breakfast date that day; and when she tried to call him, he never answered his phone. All his friends seemed to be evasive, too; even all-around-nice-guy Ruka couldn't look at her in the eye when he told her that he didn't know where Natsume was. Finally, at six in the evening, she couldn't take the suspense anymore. She left him a voicemail. Hyuuga, if you don't answer me right now and tell me you're alright, I'll hunt you down and fry your balls for dinner.
He called three minutes later.
Yukihira.
Her plan of frying his balls for dinner was out the window the moment she heard his voice. Natsume! Damn you! I've been calling you all day and you haven't answered one call! Where are you? Are you alright? Ruka told me that he couldn't tell me where you are... Are you in the hospital? Are you—
I'm fine.
She finally noticed his tone — curt and hardly polite, as if he didn't want to talk to her — and his use of her surname. He never, ever called her by her surname, not even when they first met.
A sense of foreboding pooled in the pit of her stomach.
Natsume, what's wrong?
There was a long pause on his end of the line. She almost thought that he had hung up on her. But just as she was about to hang up herself and redial, he said, We can't be together anymore.
What? What? She didn't even realize that they were together. Sure, they held hands and kissed and had sex like any other couple, but he never told her that he loved her, or asked her to be his girlfriend. He explained to her once that he didn't believe in true love and that he didn't do long-term relationships, but she wasn't really listening to him then, because at that time, he was massaging her back and she had been enjoying it too much to care about anything else.
We can't be together. I'm leaving tomorrow.
Her heart stopped. You're leaving?
Yes. I'm going back to New York.
New York?
She heard him muttering to himself in the background. I don't live here. I came here for the holidays to get away from my family, but I have to go back. They're looking for me.
So you're just...leaving me?
His silence was a loud, resounding 'yes' in her ears. A sob tore through her chest, and silent tears began to fall. So what was I to you? What were we? Just...a fling?
Were we ever anything more?
Her world came to a shuddering stop.
Did...my feelings mean nothing to you? Did those two weeks mean nothing to you?
Her voice edged on hysterical, but his response was as cool as the winter draft coming in from her window.
Should it have?
She let out an exasperated, dismayed, disgruntled shriek. Stop answering my questions with questions, Natsume! Why? Why are you doing this? Did you think that you could just walk into my life, knock me up, and just walk out like nothing happened?
Yes.
You — but I thought —
I have to pack. Goodbye.
The line went dead.
That night, she cried and cried, and she couldn't even find comfort in sleep, for sleep, like him, eluded her.
There was a knock on the door the next morning, way before sunrise. Since she was the only one awake in the house, she plodded down the stairs to open the door, cursing the ungodly hour and not caring if she looked like crap in her polka-dotted pajamas and bed hair.
When she pulled it open, though, a pair of red eyes pierced through the haze of her sleep-deprived mind. Immediately a burst of vigilance and adrenaline coursed through her veins and she slammed the door shut, leaning against the cold wood, her heart racing.
Pol—Mikan, wait! Please hear me out.
Part of her wanted to leave him there, talking to a wooden door alone. He deserved it. He used her and took advantage of her; he tore her heart out of her chest and shattered it to pieces, then crushed those pieces under his shoe. But a much, much larger part of her wanted to hear him out — or even just hear his voice one last time. A small part of her even dared to hope that he came here to apologize and that everything he said last night was a joke, and what he really meant to say was that he loved her and that he wanted to marry her—
The lack of sleep really was getting to her head.
She heard him curse on the other side of the door. She wondered if she should open it, but decided not to when he started speaking.
I — I'm sorry.
He paused. She could tell how hard this was for him — he was such an arrogant ass that she never imagined him apologizing to anyone, let alone her.
Just — sorry. I shouldn't have told you over the phone.
His voice was only a little over a murmur now. She gulped in deep breaths of air to keep the tears at bay, but they fell anyway.
And for all it's worth... You weren't just a fling. What we had... it was... I don't know. It was the closest thing I ever had to a real relationship.
She couldn't take it anymore. She pulled the door open, just a little bit so she saw only half of him. He looked like he hadn't slept, either, and the sadistic part of her was glad to see that he had suffered as much as she had. Do you mean that?
No. It was obviously scripted. His use of sarcasm made her smile through the tears — it was so hard to tell sometimes if he was being sarcastic or not — and she pulled the door open now so she could see him in full view. He wore a gray sweatshirt this time, paired with dark blue pants, and beside him was a black leather suitcase.
He really was leaving.
Her eyes filled with fresh tears and she flung herself at him, clutching him tightly and inhaling his scent. She realized she would never banter with him again, or snuggle against him again, or smell his perfume of spices and aftershave again. He held onto her just as tightly, and she fancied thinking that he felt the same.
Come back, she whispered. Please come back.
His voice was hoarse. I can't.
Why not?
I...have responsibilities to fulfill. I have my own life there, and you have your own here.
After a moment of silence, he said again, I'm sorry.
I know, she said. But "sorry" doesn't make this any easier.
I know. He brought up a hand to her face and caught the tears that were falling with his fingers. Don't cry. Please.
She cried even harder, and she stifled her sobs, because every sound echoed eerily in the white expanse of the bleak morning. He leaned his forehead against hers and ran his hands through her hair in rhythmic movements — he knew how much she loved it when he did that, and she knew how much he loved doing it (he really did like girls with long hair, after all) — and then he planted a soft kiss on her hairline. His fingers travelled down her face to trace the contours of her cheekbones before it cupped her chin, and he gently lifted it up so that she could look into his eyes. He kissed her brow, and her eyes fluttered close when his lips proceeded to kiss away her tears.
She stopped whimpering and she encircled her arms around his neck, drawing him close, basking in this rare moment of tenderness. He tightened his other arm's grip around her waist and, after kissing the tip of her nose, he kissed her full on the lips.
It was a slow, thorough kiss — in that one kiss she explored again the recesses of his mouth, the taste that was uniquely him, and she engraved it on her mind. She wanted to remember him, to remember what they had, even if everything between them was brief and bittersweet.
When they pulled apart, he gave her a gentle peck on the lips, lingering, painfully lingering.
She didn't care if he thought that true love doesn't exist. As he kissed her tears away, as he kissed her goodbye with all the tenderness of summer rains, she believed, even for just that moment, that he truly and deeply loved her.
When he disappeared from her line of vision, sunrise came, bathing the gray morning in the soft light of a new day. She marvelled at how her surroundings could be flooded with so much light while her world was still plunged in a cold, wintry darkness.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Mommy! Look what I drawed!
Mikan smiled despite her fatigue, having just finished the move to their new home, as a small child of four bounced towards her, her very own ball of sunshine in a life of perpetual night. Mikan had to sacrifice her college funds and her dreams of becoming a playwright for the future of this child, but never did she regret it, no matter how many times the child's eerie red eyes and coal-black hair reminded her of the only man she ever truly loved.
LookwhatIdrew,she corrected with a smile. What is it, Aiko?
She had named the child herself — ai for love, and ko for child. With that name she tried to convince herself that this child was a product of love, and that through this child, she would be able to open her heart up again to love.
Look what I drew! Aiko parroted. I got a shiny star for it!
Let me see, darling.
Aiko thrust the crumpled paper into her hands. On it was a drawing of a house, and written in black was the title "My Family" with the letter 'y' inverted. Mikan made a mental note to correct Aiko on that later.
See, you're in it, Aiko said, pointing at a stick figure of a woman with long brown hair, wearing a triangular orange dress. And there's grandma and grandpa. Her finger moved to two stick figures, one with short brown hair and another with spiky yellow hair. And there's me!
Mikan could feel the pride radiating off her daughter, and she smiled and nodded approvingly. But she noticed that there was one figure whom her daughter didn't introduce to her. It was a stick figure, like everyone else, but instead of eyes, nose, and a smile, it had a large, red question mark on its face.
Who's this? she asked.
Oh, that's a daddy, Aiko replied. Emi and Kiku and Shiro have a daddy in their drawings, and they told me all people have daddies, so I put one in mine. But I don't know what a daddy is so I put a que...—she struggled with the word—que-ques-ques-tion mark on his face.
It was as if a layer of ice clenched Mikan's heart.
Aiko looked up at her with her innocent, red, red eyes. Mommy, what's a daddy?
Mikan's mouth went dry, and her hands shook. She should've seen this coming.
Do I have a daddy?
Mikan took a deep breath.
...Yes, darling, but he's not...living with us. He's...somewhere else.
Thank the heavens that her daughter didn't ask the dreaded why. She merely scrunched up her nose.
My drawing's not right.Aiko set her backpack down on the ground and took her pack of crayons out. With a black crayon, she blotted out the stick figure with a question mark on his face, and then she redrew him outside the house, squeezing him into the little white space left there.
Unconsciously, she had already dismissed the presence of her father in her life.
Inhale.
Exhale.
That last memory tore at Mikan's heart. Her child would never know the love of a father; she would never know the happiness of a complete family. Now that he was here in this very café in the flesh, she had to take a chance for her — for their — daughter's sake.
With renewed determination, she stood up from her crouched position on the floor and proceeded to wash the stain off her apron until it faded to a pale brown. She washed her hands and fixed her hair and mustered all her guts to face him.
Here goes everything.
She slipped out the comfort room. The aroma of coffee and cakes assaulted her senses again, and the flurry of activity disoriented her for a moment; but recollecting herself, she sought him out from the crowd, half hoping he still hadn't left, and half hoping that he did.
When he stood up, her eyes immediately focused on him as if he were the only one in that café with her.
Her heart thundered in her chest. She took a step towards him. He shuffled through his pockets for spare change. She took another step towards him, rehearsing what she would tell him, how she would greet him, in her mind. He finally found a handful of coins, and he placed it on the table as a tip for one of the waitresses. She was so close — maybe two meters away — when he brought his expensive and sleek BlackBerry out, one that looked like her whole year's worth of salary.
She froze in place.
She suddenly remembered what he told her all those years ago: I have my own life there, and you have your own here.
They were too different. No matter what she'd tell him, he'd never leave his luxurious lifestyle for a child he never knew of and for a lowly waitress without a college degree. And even if by some miracle he still wanted to be with her, she didn't want to go to New York with him and leave all her friends and her family behind — they were the people who supported her all the way when he just disappeared from her life.
Besides, there was still the chance that he had already moved on from her, that he'd forgotten her already and replaced her with someone else...
Just the thought of that killed the little courage she had mustered back in the comfort room. She couldn't do it. She couldn't face him without remembering how his hands felt on her skin and how his lips felt on hers. She couldn't talk to him without breaking down and telling him about their daughter. She couldn't ask how he was without blurting out that she missed him terribly and that there was — and would be — no other man who could take his place in her life.
If he didn't recognize her, if he rejected her, she didn't think that her heart can take that second blow without completely shattering itself beyond repair.
He walked towards the door, his hand on its handle. For the briefest moment, he looked back, and it seemed like he was looking right at her with his piercing red, red eyes; but there was no glimmer of recognition there, and so he turned the knob and walked out of the door.
Out of her life.
The bell tinkled to signal his departure, and the sound brought her back to her senses. A tear trickled down her cheek.
"Hey, Mikan! You okay now? We need some extra help with the orders..."
She hastily wiped the moisture from her eyes and grabbed a tray from the counter. "Yeah. I'm fine."
She could've still dashed out that door to chase him — could've still called him back to tell him all the things she'd been meaning to say — but for some reason, she decided not to. She resumed waiting tables instead, like she did when she first met him, and put on a smile for her next customer.
END