WARNING!: YAOI/SHOUNEN-AI ALERT! DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ!

Once Upon A Memory

There was a time, lost in the midst of aching and half-forgotten memories, when I used to care. About myself, people I did or did not know, random things, really. Not that they really matter anymore.

There was a time when I used to care for my family, but trying too hard to get them to love me, or to only acknowledge my existence, taught me that I was asking too much.

There was a time when I used to care about my friends. After many failed attempts at trying to make them see me, to make them understand that beneath my stoic exterior shell was a living being, I gave up.

There was a time, after all my efforts remained without results, when I used to care about grades at school. Too bad the company of calculus and advanced biology wasn't even close to equal living beings'.

There was a time when I used to care about my well being, but that also faded away, even more quickly than my caring for others. Probably because I had lost hope in myself long, long ago.

By that time I was now what you could call a robot, although automaton is a more accurate word. The lights are on but no one's home. A zombie, in other terms. You could have predicted the apocalypse for two days forth and I wouldn't even have blinked. But of course, no one would have told me, anyways. No one cared of I died or not; not my family, nor my friends, not my books, nor myself.

No one really cared, until him. The most charming, thoughtful and caring bastard the world has known and will ever know. Ever.

~*~

"'Tachi. Love, wake up."

Every morning, he'd do the exact same thing. He'd sit on the edge of the bed and softly pet my hair to get me awake, whispering warm-hearted "'Tachi"s and "Love"s to my ear.

I blinked my eyes open, smiling as I met with his eyes. His smile widened as I responded with one of my own. "Wake up, Love. Otherwise you'll be late for school" he whispered, kissing my forehead before getting up.

Ah yeah, school. Three more months and it would be over, for good. I couldn't help but smile more at the thought.

I got out of the bedroom a few minutes later, struggling to tie my hair still wet from the shower in a low ponytail. I stepped into the kitchen while fixing my uniform shirt collar, to be greeted with the smell of served breakfast and the background music of the radio.

I saw him standing in front of the sink, washing the dishes while humming the song playing on the radio. I felt a smile tug at my lips. Everything was perfect, it seemed. Nothing was out of place, or different than yesterday. Nothing too extravagant, nor too hard to get. Just... perfect.

I sat down in my usual seat at the kitchen table, a steaming plate set before me. I saw him turn to me from the corners of my eyes, and merely two seconds later he laid a quick kiss on my cheek. "Eat while it's still hot, love" he said before going back to his dirty dishes.

Of course I ignored his advice, just like I would always do. I'd wait for him to be done with the dishes and sit on the other side of the table to begin my meal. Mornings were the only time we could be together, for his job would take him when I was off to school and only release him late at night. And surprisingly, he'd be up before I would be close to regain consciousness, as bright and cheery as a mid-July sun, cooking for the two of us and doing the housework.

In all honesty, I don't know how he managed. Never once had I seen him mope about or seem irritated whatsoever. A bit sad when I had to leave for school, but that must have been it.

But, anyways.

He asked me about the last day, for I was already sleeping when he got back from work. There wasn't much to say; every day seemed exactly the same as the previous one. All, except for today.

We talked about today even more than we had yesterday. He'd been asking his boss for this night off for almost a month now. It was our sixth month anniversary. Six months since I lived with him; six months since I realized someone really did care. Six months since my work-a-holic of a father and my mom living in her own fantasy world decided that two children were too much to afford. Six months since my boyfriend had legal custody over me.

I know, I know. That sounds awfully twisted. But don't get me wrong, it's not as weird as it seems. He was not a day over 21, and I was slowly getting closer to 18, a second at a time. Did I clear things for you, a bit? Not that I care, really; he hasn't changed me that much, yet.

And so a few minutes later I had to leave. That was the second to worst part of the day. What was even worse was to go to bed without knowing if he'd be there in the morning. As time passed by I realized it wasn't a matter to worry over; he'd always wake me up once the sun was up.

He kissed my cheek and handed me my messenger bag, which I swang over my shoulder. Afterwards, he said he loved me and let me go. He knew better than to wait for me to say I returned the feeling. I couldn't quite yet grasp the concept of caring beyond simple attraction. And it's not like if he needed an answer, anyway; he somehow knew I'd do anything for him.

I left and heard a last "I love you" ran down the stairs of the apartment building with me before he closed the door.

...I wish I never left, that morning.

~*~

I got back to his –our– apartment several hours later, flicking the lights on before dropping my bag by the door with a sigh. He wasn't there; work.

I felt a heavy weight settle down in my chest as another was lifted up my shoulders and laid down on the floor with a faint sound. I put a hand over my heart and frowned. It had been a while since I last felt that way. A crushing sensation that kept you from breathing correctly for a second or so, that made your feet feel as heavy as lead and your eyesight hazy.

Seems like I did care, after all.

Once I recovered my senses –or what was left of them– I made my way to the kitchen, tidy as always. I racked it thoroughly, seeking for a note, message of some sort, that could have told me if he'd come back early of if he simply was out for some errand. As I was expecting it all along, I didn't find anything.

The heaviness in my chest returned, worst than before. How strange, that I was panicking over such trivial matters. He was simply gone to work, there wasn't anything abnormal in this. But yet my guts kept telling me otherwise...

I tossed it aside and went over the living room area of the apartment, slumping down on the couch. I sighed. I breathed in. I sighed.

I leaned my head back and rubbed my eyes. There wasn't anything I could do, not in the state I was in; expecting my phone to ring and hear his smooth voice telling me over and over again that he was sorry for not being there, that he loved me, forever and always; waiting for the door to open and let him in, saying that his poor excuse of a boss had let him leave early and that he had ran back like a maniac so we could spend the rest of the evening together...

But none of those blue flower and faerie tale fantasies became true. They wouldn't, and that I knew just too well. Yet, I couldn't stop hoping.

I finished my homework sooner than I thought I would; worst was that I'd taken my sweet time to keep myself busy, to avoid thinking about unnecessary things. Now, there wasn't anything else I could do to kill time. Watching tv wasn't distracting enough, reading wasn't in the least more; there wasn't anything to clean, and I was sure that moving furniture around wouldn't help much.

I was left in front of another choice: cooking. Not even for eating; simply to help me pass time.

...Urgh. I repeat. Urgh.

Although he kept telling me that my cooking was "in fact, pretty good", I was still six feet deep into reality. I couldn't cook for my life. I'm sure not even a starving child would eat something made out of my hands. Long story short, my cooking skills were non-existent. And yet, I got up and made my way to the kitchen. This is how desperate I was to stop thinking about him –about us.

I opened the fridge's door and peered inside, smiling as I pulled a covered plate out. A blue post-it was stuck to the transparent plastic, big bold letters scattered over it. "To 'Tachi. Love," and he signed. I smiled at how cute and yet childish the note was; we were the only ones living in the cramped apartment, besides the spores hanging in the air, and everyday up to this date he had cooked dinner for me, set it in the fridge and left. He should have learned by now that he didn't need to write my name on my meals, anymore.

I nonetheless took the small square of paper and stuffed ut down my pants pocket before removing the plastic and throwing it into the garbage can. It's as I looked down at the plate that an even more ridiculous idea than cooking for no reason revealed itself to me. I'd cook for him, and bring it over to his work.

Wow. I'm definitely insane.

Albeit the fact that I just newly confirmed my fragile state of mind, I set the plate down and got what I needed out. After a few attempts that either left my fingers burnt or cut, I gave up and threw everything out. It would be easier to pick up chinese on my way.

I changed clothes and tucked my wallet into my back pocket before leaving. I made sure that the door was carefully locked, double-checked and left.

I bought his and my favourite from a cheap yet surprisingly good chinese restaurant and resumed my three quarters of an hour walk to my boyfriend's work place. Damn he was lucky I cared about him and our anniversary; if it had been another day, or for someone else entirely, never would I have gone through all the trouble of spending the evening with him.

I finally got to the building he worked in, climbed to the fourth floor by the stairs and went over to his office, only to learn from one of his colleagues that he wasn't there. That he never showed up for work.

~*~

I found him lying in an alley, about two blocks away from our apartment building. On his back, stripped to nearly nothing, a serene look on his face but a thin trail of blood running down his chin and cheek from the corner of his lips and the narrow gash beneath his left rib ruined the illusion of peace about his expression. The faultless armed robbery.

I fell down on my knees next to him for a few quarters of seconds, trying to collect my thoughts and scattered pieces of heart before I finally got myself to call the cops. By the time they got there with the ambulances and medical staff, I was drenched in his blood, trying to stop the haemorrhage myself. Thanks to my uncaring advanced biology books, I was able to keep him alive for five more minutes.

~*~

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. That's all I was taking acknowledgement of while he was in surgery. Because he was still breathing when we all arrived to the hospital in a crash of red and blue lights and impossibly loud sirens. He still had a chance.

I glanced at the clock above the receptionist's head for the nth time that night. I didn't care how many times I had done the same thing anymore. I was focussing that on him.

When a doctor came back into the waiting room and walked up to me, I thought the world was ending. His white smock stained with my dearest's blood, his breathing ragged and pearls of perspiration rolling down his face as though he had been to hell and back, all told me that there wasn't anything to be done. But the fake smile he hid behind his mask had a whole new meaning.

He didn't care about me, didn't care about his patient, but probably cared that he had succeed in yet another life saving surgical operation; either way, the result was the same. The only one who cared about me was alive.

~*~

I think I ran. I think I knocked two or three nurses down while I ran. I also think I tripped over my own feet in my light-headed race and fell. All those thoughts don't matter, though: they all disappeared when I saw him.

I remain motionless for a few seconds, unable to think, blink, breath. There he is, hooked to machines and wires of ill omen, the ceaseless beat of his heart rate emitted by one of the devices filling the white room.

When I finally can breath again and feel my muscles under my skin, I take an unsteady step forward, to his bed where he is sprawled over, a gas mask over his mouth and nose, his face towards mine. I sit down in a chair besides the bed and watch, watch and listen, listen and watch. I seek any sign, any gesture of his part that could indicate that he is alive, and that he, too, watches and listens, listens and watches, for the moment he would open his eyes and see me, by his side.

I wait for a few more hours, my head resting on his bed and his hand in mine, gently rubbing his palm with my thumb, before I do get something out of him. I don't believe it at first, of course; through my hours of waiting, I counted twenty-four times my name spluttering out from his lips, eighty-nine twitches of his hand against my fingers, a hundred and seventeen sighs escaping him. But when his free hand starts to pet my hair softly, I cannot think it another false hope.

I look up and meet with his eyes, sparkling with caring, affection and love. This time he doesn't need to whisper warm-hearted "'Tachi"s and "Love"s to my ear to get me awaken; he had my full attention since I had seen him on his hospital bed.

I immediately sit up, wide eyed and shaking ever so slightly. Stress is finally catching up with me, when I least want it to. But at this moment, I don't care at –freakin'– all.

Before I can even say a word, whisper one, mutter one, he takes my hand and brings it to his lips, softly kissing each knuckle, covered still in his dried blood, but it doesn't seem to matter to him. He smiles at me and lightly squeezes my hand, lovingly. "Morning, Love" he whispers to me, and it's only then that I realize how long I've been waiting for him to wake up.

I feel the weight of the world that had been crushing me ever since I found him in the alley vanish, fade and wither away. I smile back. For the first time of what seems like years, ages and aeons, I smile.

I climb into the bed with him, careful not to get anywhere near the wound. I lean my head against his shoulder, and I feel his arm wrap my shoulders and keep me close. I sigh. I breath in. I sigh.

This is how every morning should be; me and him together, at home or not, stuck in a hospital filled with selfish and uncaring doctors or else where, my face in his neck and my body snuggled deep into his. Nothing too extravagant, nor too hard to get. Just... perfect.

Because he cares, because I care, and that's all that matters.

~Owari~

WARNING!: YAOI/SHOUNEN-AI ALERT! DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own 'Tachi, although I beg the sky every day that I would.... Still trying.

HAPPY B-DAY, 'TACHI-SAN!! 3

Yeah, as the pretty unmissable sentence above says, this is for Itachi's birthday, the 9th of June (5 days after mine XD).

It's the third version of the same story... It was HELL. But I managed, and here it is ^^

You are free to associate Weasel-chan's boyfriend to any character you want (as long as he's male, of course ^^;). But if you read my other stories, you probably know who it really is (the "Love" thing should give it away XD)

Don't forget to review! ^^