Author's Note: Hey guys, this fic's going to be a bit of a long one. If you're up for some angsty romance, this is for you. Please enjoy!
Backwards
The first of August. I'm eighteen today. A legal adult. Noticeably more mature in both manner as well as appearance. Kisuke says I've developed better "toleration" for things, and Shinji, who's gotten his ass out of med school and hit the operating table as an intern, claims that I've gained "a mere spark of a diplomatic touch." Whatever that means. As for maturing physically, I've grown a decent eight inches in the past four years, leaving me at five feet flat. Well, speaking of flat, there's not a lot I can say about that. I really shouldn't be wearing a B-cup, and I've still got that lanky body of a runner.
Kisuke's given me the keys to the new-ish sedan, five hundred bucks, and a Costco-approved package of fifty-four water bottles. "Stay safe," he had told me before I left our little suburban neighborhood. He'd planted a last kiss on the top of my head. "You're all grown up now, but keep in mind that you're still small—" I had whacked him in the gut.
But before I embark on my five-hour drive to Manhattan, I find myself anchored at my regular spot at the counter at the Riverfront Café, sipping my usual double-shot grand caramel macchiato. The Riverfront brings back a shitload of memories both good and bad. Things started and things ended here. Things were broken and things were repaired here.
The chimes jingle. Another customer enters the café. I don't look up, keeping my eyes glued to the word search the Riverfront prints on its napkins. The puzzle hasn't changed for four years; I've practically memorized the entire napkin. Frappé is located smack in the middle of the puzzle, and cocoa bean is lined up vertically on the leftmost column.
"The usual." I freeze. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, the voice is his. That irritatingly cool, collected tone of his that was lightly coated with confidence. I'm panicking. What the fuck do I do? Run? No, I'll look like a wuss.
He slides into the stool beside me, pulling a napkin from the dispenser, as if he doesn't give a shit about what I think. And, like countless times in the past, he sits beside me, mulling over the jumble of letters, straining to find the one word that always screwed him over. Java. He could never find java.
"Hiyori."
What to say? What to fucking say? I stir my macchiato, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see a slight smile turn up at the corners of his mouth. That bastard. Four years ago, I would've snapped immediately. I would've wrung his neck, pinned him to ground, and demanded to know why he messed me up and why he left.
"Don't speak. Just listen."
"Why should I!" My voice comes out as a shout. I whisk around to face the bastard, ready to land a punch into the side of his jaw. But the moment our eyes lock, I forget how to swim. And I drown. Those eyes devour me in a single gulp and whirl me months and months backwards to the time when I'd just stare at him and not feel like a ravaged mess who didn't belong anywhere. I'd feel perfectly in sync with the world. I'd feel at peace.
"We need to talk, Hiyori."
And that's when I fall backwards.
Footnote: It's only the beginning, but I have huge plans in store for this fic. My goal is to make you a HitsuYori shipper, so please stay along for the ride! Also, I'd love to hear some feedback! The good, the bad, criticize away!