Oh baby, you're a Classic

(You're a faded moon stuck on a little hot mess.)

.

In high school, there was a girl he loved.

A girl with sharp eyes and a sharp jaw and sharply cut hair, a sharp tongue and a sharp mind (sharp enough that just being near her went snip snip snip, until you were covered with small cuts you couldn't see until you were wet, and they would turn white and puff out like some kind of foreign disease).

In high school, he was the boy she loved.

A boy with a warm smile and a warm hand, a warm laugh, warmly lit eyes and a warm voice (so warm that it felt like you were lying in the grass in summer and before you know it, all your ice cream has melted all over your arms in a mess that you can't wash off, a mess that sticks and stays and runs.)

She wasn't the girl he had loved. She was nothing like that girl, quiet and sharp and elegant, kindness hidden under scars and pale skin, petite and delicate. No, she was tall and tanned and decidedly not elegant, instead filled with a sort of country charm—a crooked grin and a lilt in her speech, a distinct accent that no one could quite place. Next to that sharp girl (snip snip snip), she felt awkward and wrong, clumsy, out-of-place, like her hands were too big and her feet were dead weight.

That girl (sharp) and the boy saved the world. She knows because she watched them fight and get closer, the way they gravitated to one another gradually until they were one person, a person she could only smile at, and say, "Congrats, guys. It's about time," to. She watched every slash and splatter, every scream and desperate rush, all the blood drips and hearts beating too fast. She saw and heard and watched all of it, fighting and observing (always watching—because what else could she do?).

They fought until they were dead, brought themselves back and kept on going. She watched with a bitter sort of awe, a wish that she could be sharper (snip), she could be more elegant, more delicate, more intense (snip snip), quieter, kinder, shorter, darker—snip snip snip. She cut her hair and her arms and pulled the brim of her baseball cap down more and more until—and everything fell apart without a sound, falling into a black ocean that made no noise, that didn't ripple or splash. She fell apart without anyone noticing and she stayed in pieces because it was simple.

In the end, that sharp girl had gone away. Far away, where no one knew about her and the odd white cuts, and where no one had ever heard (would ever hear) about the warm boy, his melted ice cream laugh and summer heat eyes (and how he made the air feel humid whenever he touched her, bumped her, slapped her shoulder—). Sharp girl left and country girl stayed, and warm boy shifted, changed subtly every time she saw him.

By the time he was lukewarm, he was a senior, and they had kissed. It wasn't an "I like you" thing, but more of a desperation to be reminded of what he had once had (the shrieking of weapons, the pumping blood, the sharpness—snip snip snip), trying to find everything that had suddenly left him behind without even a goodbye or a see you or even an apology.

She was the closest he could get, someone who had seen everything, spoken with her and been cut by her (microscopic scars, pearly and fading fast), who had screamed and bled with them. His tongue explored every corner and crevice of her mouth, searching and probing, desperate and painful, trying to find something that she couldn't give, memories that she had half-erased, moments she didn't want him to remember. His heat scorched her brain and her throat until she almost choked on the dryness, like a desert, not the humid heat from before.

When he was floundering in his own uncertainty and old memories, he pushed her against a wall (but he was so oddly gentle, and she thought she heard the breathless murmuring of I'm sorry on his lips) and kissed her, ran his hands over her, trying to find every scar and every callus, all the burns and cuts and scrapes and bruises, the places where she might have brushed against her (snip). He moved his lips against hers like he was in pain, like she could tell him the reasons why the girl had just left, like she could heal whatever was hurting (but she couldn't, they both knew that).

His hands were rough from handling his lance, and they slid across her skin awkwardly, because she knew his hands didn't belong on her, because he had been made to smooth over sharp edges, small shoulders and slender arms, feminine curves and the scar on her nose. He wasn't meant to touch tanned skin and long arms, long hair and cracked collarbones and crooked smiles, and edges long since frayed. He was meant to mould that girl into a woman who could smile, to warm and melt her. He shouldn't have to look at a girl who had long since made a mess of herself and had broken into abstract blocks, sunk in a black ocean that never moved.

But she allowed him to touch her and kiss her and call her the wrong name (Tokiko, Tokiko, Tokiko—) because she was selfish. She let herself hit the bricks because she liked the way he sounded when he couldn't breathe, but still wanted to say things she didn't understand. She liked how his hands scraped over her and how wrong it was, the dysfunction and the lies, and the way he filled her with a heat that cracked her throat and dried her stomach. She would tell anyone that. She would tell them and smile, so they would know how much she meant it (how much she was lying).

When they move in together, it isn't unexpected. They're both too young and he doesn't love her but she doesn't say a word when his arms fall around her, even though she doesn't fit and her head on his shoulder feels like a mistake. The first night she spends in silence, with his arms encircling her, lying awake and wondering when the sun is going to rise, how he can sleep so deeply, and why she feels like crying.

The first time he moved inside of her (dry and hot and aching), she bit her lip and tried not to make a sound, because he's still thinking of the fighting and of the girl he lost. He finished with a small cry and collapsed on top of her, and she put her arms around him (tight, because she didn't want to let go and lose him) as he began to breathe deeply, evenly, sleeping. She finds herself biting her lip again, but salt water slipped past her eyelashes and down her scalp, into her hair. She didn't understand it, but she let the tears fall until she managed to sleep.

He takes a year off to think when she starts college. Whenever she leaves the apartment, cap pulled low, he says, "Have fun!" and she nods, gives him a wan smile. When she comes home, he says, "Welcome back!" and she says, "Thanks," pulling her coat off and hanging it by the door. But sometimes his cheeks will be stained red and his smile will be forced, and she knows what he's been thinking about (snip snip).

A year passes and he applies for a community college with no aims or direction. He laughs and says that it'll be fun, but she can see a flicker in his eyes like uncertainty. He skips classes and doesn't seem to take anything seriously, but she can't blame him; can't be angry because of what he is. Just a washed up twenty year old who can't forget what it was like to be a hero (or the sharpness beside him—snip snip snip).

.

I'm not the boy I was;

(what I am is just venting, venting)—

dear gravity, you've kept me down in this (starless)city.

.

They say they only want the best wishes for me;

they only want the best (for me).

Oh, three, two, one, we go live—

and oh baby, you're a classic (like a little black dress),

but you'll be faded soon (like a little hot mess).

.

.

.

.

Good God! I decide to finally write something for one of my most beloved series—'cause I really DO love Busou Renkin; it's just so amazingly perfect how it is that I don't want to write something to mess with it—and it turns out like this! A much more depressingly realistic version! What the hell, me!

Really, guys, I'm so sorry. Like… more sorry than I can express. OTL What makes this semi-AU drabble worse is that I actually really love KazukiTokiko! I honestly do! It's one of the few canon pairings in any series I've ever read that I actually really love! I swear! But I just had the last line "Just a washes up twenty year old who can't forget how it feels to be a hero" stuck in my head, and as I was listening to Tiffany Blews on repeat, this happened! No matter how I try to think about it, the people in my head are Kazuki and this other girl who's been in my mind for years, but still has no name! It's terrible!

But this is definitely just me thinking what it would be like if Tokiko left at the end of Busou Renkin, and if things had all just … happened differently. I know Kazuki is totally an optimist and he's so cheery, but even he can't be strong about everything! And imagine, if you had gone through such a life changing experience—dying, being brought back to life, becoming a hero, finding out you're actually an anti-hero and are going to be killed, and then somehow saving the world? A person can't stay the same after that, and I really believe that one of the only reasons Kazuki got through everything and remained mostly the same is because Tokiko stayed with him. Their love pulled him through! ( -is shot for sappiness- )

So, this all kind of came from the song, the line, and the idea: "Well, what would Kazuki be like if Tokiko wasn't there, and they hadn't actually fallen in love? What if they had never truly gone anywhere?" I tried to express all the hollowness there, and how he's kind of putting up that front like he does, the whole "I'm okay! Really! -smilesmilesmile-" thing he does.

The whole drabble is … actually slightly unnerving to me. The whole feel to it, and how it just feels like, to me, there's something just off about both of them in this piece, something that's not clicking with the overall function of their bodies and minds. There's just one little cog that's slightly off, and it's kind of throwing everything else into chaos.

Mm… sorry, I'm kind of going off, aren't I… Eh. Well. I'm sure I just rambled on about a bunch of things I'm sure all of you could have already put together yourselves.

I'm not sure if this idea will be expanded upon. :C The whole idea of Kazuki being so unwhole and off makes me feel like a) I'm a villain for doing this to him, and b) just totally heart-broken. Seriously. However, I also recognize how strong he is, and I know that he'll be able to pull through losing Tokiko—so I guess the focus here is more on how he could more realistically handle moving on from a life where he was, honestly, the hero and kind of a savior. …Like shounen does.

Okay, I'm done, I'm done! Seriously! (Wow, this AN is almost as long as the story … that's kind of sad…) If any of you trudged through that, I'm truly sorry, but very grateful you'd even take the time to read this. -bows over and over- I appreciate it.

manrii.