His

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I in any way officially affiliated, with the characters and situations in this story. Gravitation is the original creation of Maki Murakami.

A/N: This narrative starts at the concert where Shuichi suddenly shrieks "Yuki is mine!" onstage.


So. I'm his, am I?

That moron. How like him.

No one has claimed me for years. No one. Not my publishers, autocratic as they might be. Not my family, but then, my parents never did. Not Tohma...not even Tohma, though sometimes I wonder if he might have if he weren't so worried. Poor little knight, he's been worried so long. This will hardly make him stop.

You'd think that I would be angry. I'd think that I would be angry. And he definitely thinks I am. I can see it in the way he's slowly sagging under the silence and the lights, in the apprehension creeping in beneath defiance. Now he peers into the crowd, seeking me out. There's something so absurdly pitiful, so idiotically endearing, about that.

Damn. I can't let him see me smile. Hurry up, turn it into the blank, unreadable stare that drives him crazy with confusion. I'm good at blank.

He's found me. I hope no one else does, because now the crowd is murmuring, trying to figure out what's going on, and who this Yuki is. I'm never in the mood to be mobbed, and at the moment, I want some time to think.

Who is this Yuki? I thought I knew. I thought I had life, and all the trappings thereof—like people—figured out. I make my living by that understanding, and by telling people the stories they want to hear. I knew what I wanted, and when I found it, I bought it: house, cars, furniture, women. Women easiest of all, because what they were interested in was the image and the money. It made them so terribly, terribly predictable and easy to control. Veni, vidi, vici.

At 22, I'd achieved what my father hadn't yet, for all his attempts: a well-ordered life. I had exactly as much furniture as I needed and wanted, and not a stick more. I knew what I was doing: write for a couple of months, duck my editor for a couple of weeks, do a couple of the tiresome promos she fished out, repeat. I knew how my world worked...or so I thought.

Now I'm starting to wonder.

It would have been different with anyone else. How many times had I tossed off an insult, a judgment, a criticism? Certainly often enough. It's one of my many failings. Believe me, I know I have them. My short fuse is another, and that night, it had already been lit. Mizuki and I were going through the same damn process we do every time. She asked; I waved her off. She begged; I ignored. She threatened; I yawned. She pursued; I ducked. You'd think by now she'd realize that I always do turn in a manuscript—no false modesty required, I'm quite a prolific author by anyone's standards—and leave me alone to work. But she never does, and so tonight was just another step in the dance we always do.

I hate dancing.

There are a lot of things I hate, in fact. If you're keeping track, that's already Failing #3. When I'm working out my writer's block, I hate to see other people wasting their words. When I'd give anything to find a few more of my own and finish a manuscript, if only to get Mizuki off my back for another couple of months, it irritates me to find that other people have a surfeit of words and think nothing of tossing them off. If you can't use them properly, give them to me. I have a doing-what-I-damn-well-please habit to support.

But I'm wandering from the point much, in fact, as I was wandering through the park that night. My latest piece was close to completion, but the way to the ending eluded me. I'd have to find it tonight. Mizuki had left a chirpy little message in my voicemail, informing me that she'd be "stopping by" in the morning. I hate chirpy people. That cutesy chipper attitude makes me want to shove a chopstick up their left nostril, and that's Failing #4. I could brush her off, but then I'd just have to deal with her again in a week or so. By then, I might have chopsticks.

My readers might frown on that.

No, it would have to be that night, so it would have to be the park. I walk there often before a deadline, always at night. It's a change of atmosphere without being filled with irritations...like people. It cools down, it quiets down, and even the few people around have the good grace to mind their own business; the paths are a different world when lamplight and the moon are all there are. I can walk there and still hear myself think, and I like that.

It took two hours of wandering before the spark of inspiration struck. I paused to light another cigarette and stayed standing there, turning the idea over. Yes, it would fit properly. Now, to just head home and phrase it... More words, dammit.

A rectangle of much-folded paper came flying haphazardly through the night and into my chest, fluttering briefly before it dropped to my feet. I eyed it. That wasn't a request to the Litter Fairy, but thanks. Closely following the paper's arrival, there were footfalls—frantic, graceless, rubber slapping the pavement, sounding immediately like someone I sure as hell didn't want to deal with tonight.

Now there was panting, too. I looked up and saw some kid coming at me full-tilt like some kind of demented lovechild of a windmill and a freight train. His arms and legs were flailing, and as he hit each patch of yellow lamplight, I could see him more clearly. What, in the name of all that's profane, is he wearing? There was an impression of general disarray and wildly clashing colors. Maybe it was a windmill, a freight train, and an acid trip. More people ought to consider wearing fewer colors than there are letters in their names. In any case, the sight confirmed my first opinion. He was definitely someone I didn't want to deal with tonight, but it didn't look like I had much of a choice.

I continued to watch as he pelted toward me. When he got close enough for it to register, I pinned him with a glare. It has not been a nice night, and now there's you. Much to my gratification, he faltered, stopped, even took a step back, looking down. I followed his gaze to the paper that still rested at my feet. Ah. You intrude on me, I intrude on you.

Slowly, deliberately, I bent forward and picked it up. He started to move forward again, reaching out, but I stopped him with another glare and read the messy, disorganized scrawl. Wasted words...but then, I hadn't really expected anything else.

I looked back at him, narrowing my eyes a bit. He was tense, fidgety, clearly a little scared. Good. "Did you write this?"

"Um...y-yeah." The kid squirmed more, clearly restraining both indignation and a hopeful, puppy eagerness for someone to praise him. He let out a nervous little laugh.

Nails. On a bloody. Chalkboard.

"You write like you're on a third-grade reading level," I said scornfully. "Is this drivel really your idea of a love song?" The wind was picking up again, and I let the dingy little scrap slip out of my grasp and flutter far away. "Are you nuts?"

He stared at me, stunned. I started to walk past him, but paused as I drew up level. His mouth was still hanging open slightly. Idiot boy. I glanced at him sidelong and adopted the tone of voice I normally use on Mika: somewhere between icy coldness and casual contempt. "If I were you, I'd consider learning a reliable trade." I resumed the walk back to my apartment. Bestsellers just don't write themselves.

And that was that.


A/N: Obviously to be continued. Whew, this is turning out to be longer than I thought—I originally pictured it as a brief oneshot! This is my first Gravitation fanfic, so some feedback from the veterans (writers and authors both) would be greatly appreciated.