I'm Sorry

A/N: Okay, so I was bored and felt we needed a Valentine's fic... I'm having a low period now, when it comes to writing, so that's why this sucks so much. I was listening to Staind and this kind of popped into my head. I've never written CrawfordXNagi before... That's another reason as to why this one sucks so much... -_-;; Um, yeah. And it's set four years after the end of the first TV-series, in Nagi POV, sort of.
And also... Self injury is a very personal issue to me, and I feel it important to get people to recognize that it does happen, and it can be anyone suffering from it; not only the people at the mental wards, but also persons like your co-worker, classmate, sister, nephew... The list goes on. Arrg. Yeah, well, that's part of why I put that whole scene in the fic. Um, yeah.

Warnings: The usual. Aishounen, sort of. My crappy English. Some bad language. Maybe confusion, I guess. Graphic self-injury, so if that's a touchy subject don't read, so you won't get triggered... Getting triggered sucks. :P Hmm and ***SPOILER!!*** character death, though I'm not sure if he really dies or not...

Acknowledgements: The usual people. Lenn-neechan and Omikun. Then to Michelle, Trees and just about everyone else who make my life worth it right now. Love you guys.

Disclaimer: Don't own them. Did I ever? And the song is "It's Been Awhile" by Staind. Don't own that one, either. All I DO own is a copy of "Genki I" and "Genki II" and a Gravitation Drama CD, and no, you can't have them!


I'm Sorry


"It's been awhile
since I could hold my head up high
and it's been awhile since I said
I'm sorry"
-"It's Been Awhile", Staind


He snorted at the timepiece glaring at him from the nightstand. 12.23 AM. Well, at least that day was finally over. Though on the dark side of things, that meant he had another day before him.
Groaning, he racked a hand through sable hair and sat up on the bed, thin legs thrown over the edge of the mattress. His sides hurt, as did his jaw. He really didn't want to look at himself right then. Although it had been a while since he could last look himself in a mirror at all, without feeling nauseous.
Mirrors. These last four years especially had felt as if he was on the wrong side of the mirror. As if he had been standing a few paces away from his own self, watching how his life had changed. First coming back to Japan nearly five years ago. Then ending up stranded and alone one year later. The year that followed had been rough.
Grimacing, both at memories and the ache in his body when he stood up, he made his way to the tiny kitchen and poured himself a glass of juice. Maybe he should brush his teeth, instead, as that would take away that taste from his mouth a lot quicker than drinking juice would. Well, if it hadn't been for that evening and the earlier hours of the night that he was in the middle of now, he wouldn't have felt such a strong need to rid himself of the almost sour taste on his tongue.
"Fucking Valentine's."
A few plates in the cupboard next to him shattered. He didn't bother opening the door to see what damage had been done. Right then it just felt good to know something had broken. He needed some sort of outlet for that unreasonable, intolerable mix of feelings rising in his stomach; a mix that was to him still unknown. He had never been good at identifying with his feelings. It didn't really matter very much.
Before leaving the kitchen he swung his arm in a gesture seeming to mock the one of a baseball pitcher, and watched with satisfaction as the glass shattered against the wall away from him. That felt good, too, to destroy something. He had such an incurable need to destroy something, to purge himself of the feelings he vaguely recognized as hatred and anger now. But he couldn't do that.
"I will not tolerate these kinds of childish acts from you anymore."
"God! Will you get the hell out of my head! You're not even him! Get the fuck out!" He pressed his palms against his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, listening to his heartbeats and the rush of blood through his ears for a moment. It made him feel dizzy, though, so he let his hands drop to his sides and went back into the bedroom, looking for a lighter. With that in one hand, and his trusted pack of white sticks in the other, he trudged out onto the tiny balcony and lit up. Nicotine was one of his later addictions. When they had found him again, after that one year of loneliness, the first thing he had spent his money on was one of those white and blue packs. Of course, the others hadn't approved of his smoking, but no one had moved to stop him, so he failed to see why he should give it up at all.
That one year. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and held his breath for a second before breathing out a trail of gray. He liked to think that he didn't ponder what happened to him too much, but in reality he spent too much time thinking about his life. Well, seeing as there was hardly anything else for him to do, nowadays, he couldn't see why he should do something else. He supposed he led a comfortable life now; his apartment was paid for, as was his food, clothes, furniture, cigarettes… Everything. He didn't feel as if he owned his own life. But then again, had he ever?
Lighting another of the white sticks, he stared at the corner of the street, strangely calm. Two years ago, he had come around that corner. Carrying that despicably neat and clean card in his pocket.
"I am getting married."
Suddenly angry again, he spat from the balcony. "You fucking bastard," he mumbled under his breath, sitting down on the cold floor. He would probably catch a cold, since it was still February, but he didn't particularly care. It was nice to be chilled to the bone like that; it helped him focus on other things than just seeing red.
He remembered that one phone-call about a year and a half ago. That call that had made his heart beat painfully against his ribs. After a year of being tricked into believing his life was normal and would stay that way, he had been robbed of it. And then…
"Will you still be home in two hours? I am coming by."
Out of the blue. It had made him feel a bit dizzy at first. After abandoning him, he was coming back again. Back to him. Coming home to him, and not to her. When he had come by that evening, they had acted as if nothing had happened; as if everything was the way they had been. Only to have that illusion destroyed when he put on his coat and left again.
And that was how his life had been since then. All he ever did was sit around and stare through the television screen, jumping whenever the phone rang. He had had two cats, too, to keep him company, but he had let them out. They came back every now and then, as if to check on him, had a bit to eat and then left again.
A third cigarette was put to his lips. The nicotine made his lip sting a bit, where it had been split earlier. He hardly noticed.
So, the secret lover. That was he. Sometimes he missed how things had been before the whole deal with the marriage and all that came with it. Though at the same time, he didn't want to remember that time at all. He had almost been happy with his life then, and then it had disappeared, ripped away from him. He didn't want to remember that, and know that he had lost it. It was easier this way; at least that was what he tried to convince himself of.
Staring down at his hands, he heaved a sigh and reached to scratch at his left arm. It was funny, he though suddenly, how much such tiny cuts did itch. Almost as if they were asking him, begging him to create more of them. "You're fucked in the head, Nagi," he told himself, breathing in more smoke through the white filter. He had started doing that a lot lately; talking to himself. It wasn't like him; he was supposed to always be quiet and stoic. But lately he didn't give a damn about what others thought of him, because it didn't matter. The reason as to why he had begun to talk to himself at all was probably because hearing someone, even if it was himself, created an illusion of not being all alone and miserable.
Burying a hand in his messy hair, he chuckled at himself. "If you weren't so damned screwed up, maybe he wouldn't have done that to you." And perhaps he really wouldn't have. But the teen wondered, somewhere deep in his subconscious, if he was really the one who was wrong. People had been wrong before, why not now?
He found himself thinking back on that evening. Or rather, yesterday's evening. He had come by, as if there was nothing special going on. He'd brought flowers. Just the thought made the brunette giggle with a strange sort of glee, directed at himself. Flowers. You don't get shallower than that.
/ "I won't be coming around anymore."
"Why? Little missy is suspecting something?"
"That doesn't matter. You can keep the apartment, but I will not come by any more."
"So what do you suggest I do? It's not as if I have a life, you know. Unlike someone I know."
"Nagi… I can't keep doing this anymore. You are a grown man now. You can take care of yourself." /
"Yeah, no fucking shit," he growled at himself. The small mountain of cigarette-butts was quickly growing. It was strange, he thought suddenly, how aggressive he had become lately. Sometimes he hardly recognized himself at all. He just lost control of his feelings and almost always ended up doing harm to something or someone. It didn't matter so much as to who or what, as long as he could see the result, he could calm down.
That was what had happened earlier that night. He had just lost it. He liked to think that there was a lot of shit he could take, seeing as his life had been the way it was, but that night had really been a little too much.
/ "But why? Crawford, come back here, dammit! You're not leaving without giving me a reason, at least. It's the least you can do."
"… I'm going to become a father, Nagi." /
And that was it. He remember how things had fallen out of the bookshelves, how the windows had begun to shake on their hinges, the air around him becoming unreasonably hot. If he had caught a look of himself in the mirror by the front door, he would have noticed how something fierce and red had begun to glow somewhere deep within the dark brownish blue of his eyes. Thinking back on it, he wasn't sure what would have happened had the tall American not slapped him. Touching two fingers to his lower lip, he remembered those last few words before the door closed.
"I will not tolerate these kinds of childish acts from you anymore."
There was something wrong with the world. That was the only thing he could think of. If everything was okay with the world, then why did he have to go through things like that? He couldn't remember ever doing anything that had made him deserve the life he had had. Even though he was Japanese he was neither Buddhist, nor Shinto, and he had never believed in another life or reincarnation or even some sort of karma. When you die, you die. That's it.
"I don't want another life like this one," he whispered to the newly lighted cigarette. "I never wanted this life at all." His arms stung a little right then, as if to remind him of what he was doing to himself. Crawford had been upset, seeing his arms like that. Well fuck him. He never really cared, anyway. The teen was just convenient, and he had gotten the apartment because that too was convenient. Everything was just so wonderfully convenient. And now it was over.
"I wanted someone to care for me."
It was another hour before he got up and moved wearily back into the bedroom. I wanted someone to care for me, dammit! Why the hell does everyone get their happy ever after and leave me in this shit? Yeah sure I'm just a fucking murderer and I've whored out every part of myself but so what? As if I was the only one who did that! It's not fair!
"It's not fair…"
Before he realized what he was doing he was in the bathroom again, pulling down the rolled up towel he kept on the tiny shelf. He nearly lost his temper right then, when it took longer than usual to unroll the navy cotton and get the blades hidden within out. One of them still wore some of his blood from earlier, so he dropped that one into the pristine white sink. Grabbing onto one of the other two, he pulled off his sweater and more or less ripped off the bandages from before. When the sharp blade dug into his arm and blood welled up, he breathed a sigh of relief. He watched the red with satisfaction. I'm still bleeding. Still alive. Still alive…
Then something twisted that thought in his head and made it ugly. How can he do something like that to me? I'm a living person too! Fuck him! Another thick line of red drawn onto his arm. He was running out of space. Dropping onto the tiled floor he stretched his legs just so, and dragged the blade along the length of his right thigh. The pain cut through him, and he lifted the blade to his other leg, carving kana-characters into it, ignoring the scars that spelled out similar words over the surface of his arms. He slipped a little on the 'mi', but that didn't stop him. The adrenaline was kicking in now, making his head spin as he wrote the rest of the word on himself. Then he sat back, breathing slowly, staring up at the white ceiling.
After a few minutes, he came back to himself again. It was a little like waking up from a dream you can only vaguely remember. The floor was getting a little sticky. Looking down at himself, he sighed, his head tilted slightly to the side.
"You overdid it again, idiot." Grabbing one of the fresh towels, he turned carefully to the tub and ran some water over the navy cloth, using it to clean himself. The first-aid box was easily pulled out from under the sink and once he deemed himself patched up okay, he carefully climbed to his legs, leaving the bathroom looking like it did. It didn't really matter, anyway. He wasn't coming back, anyway. In the kitchen, he pulled open every cupboard, every drawer, looking for something, though he wasn't really sure what. All he knew was that he had to do something, anything, to ease himself of that dull throb in the pit of his stomach.
/ "I don't want another life like this one." /
"I don't want this one either," he whispered, still rummaging through drawers.
One of the cats, the black one, smartly named Kuro, came in through the open window in the kitchen. Two tiny yellow eyes watched curiously as the brunette stumbled back through the bedroom and into the bathroom. The two bloodstained blades seemed to glare up at him when his eyes swept across them. There. The third one. Picking it up, he went back into the bedroom and looked around. Then he walked on into the tiny living room, his steps slow and calm, now. He carefully sat down on the soft couch, and stared at the blade in his hand for what felt like and eternity. Kuro leaped gracefully onto the couch, the way only cats can, and sat down, stretching.
The teen lifted the phone by the sofa and put it beside him. Lifting the receiver, he dialed that one number he had been forbidden to use.
One ring. Two. Three. Why didn't anyone answer? Oh, right, it's in the middle of the night. But still, someone should answer.
Six rings, and then a voice on the other end.
"Yes?"
For a moment, he didn't know what to say. What was he doing, anyway? Kuro yawned and that somehow got him going.
"I didn't want us to part like that," he began. He pressed the receiver between his ear and shoulder, fiddling with the blade.
"Nagi," the voice on the other side confirmed, but before it could say anything else, the teen drew breath again.
"I shouldn't have reacted like that. I should've been happy for you. I mean, come on, it's great." He drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth as the sharp metal cut into the inside of his arm. It hurt like hell, but in a way it was what he needed to keep talking. "And you're right. I've been acting like some spoiled kid all along. Shouldn't have done that, either." He couldn't quite manage to hold his shoulder up like that, anymore, but forced himself, either way. He wasn't done just yet.
Shifting the blade to his other hand, he repeated the gesture, though not with as much strength this time.
"What is it that you want?" The voice on the other end of the line sounded tired and irritated.
"I wanted… for you to care about me." He clenched his fists, satisfied to watch as more of that deep crimson rushed out of him. "But hey, I shouldn't ask the impossible. I won't bother you anymore. Have a great life. Live well for me, too. And um… I…" He looked over at Kuro. The cat looked asleep. "…I'm sorry."
Before the other man had a chance to answer him, he dropped the receiver. It bounced off the couch and hit the carpeted floor. If he strained his hearing, he could catch a few words coming from the phone still. He kicked at it before getting up and nearly falling over. His head was fuzzy from the loss of fluid. Cursing softly to himself, he made his way back into the bedroom, and to the bed. Collapsing onto it, he buried his nose in the soft, still somewhat damp covers. Breathing in, they smelled like him.
Curling up, he pulled the sheets up around him, and the smell of him drowned out everything else. The musky scent filled his nostrils and went straight to his brain, intoxicating. Sighing, he closed his eyes, feeling tired, suddenly.
I could die like this. Drawing one last deep breath, he smiled.
"Happy Valentine's day, Brad."


~finis~



Well, okay. The word Nagi is umm writing is minikui, which means that something is ugly... You know, that sort of ugly that you recognize the moment you see the ugly thing. Arrg, I have nothing to say today. Sorry. Happy Valentine's, people.