Mamoru heard knocking.
Or at least, he thought he heard knocking. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa some time ago—he didn't know if the sound was real. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow on the furniture in his otherwise unlit apartment. He strained his ears against the heavy air of the room and waited. He heard no more knocking. It must have been imagined. Mamoru sighed and let his head fall back onto the buoyant leather cushion behind him.
And he heard knocking.
This time he was sure. It was a delicate knock, the knock of soft hands. A sudden panic crept up in his throat. He knew who was there, knocking at his door, he knew what he had to tell her, and he did not want to answer the door.
She knocked again. His panic grew.
"Mamo-chan?" came her muffled call. It was a sweet voice, childish but somehow powerful, and dammit but it did it to him again. Mamoru tried not to think about how this would be the last time he heard her voice. He tried not to think about what he was going to say. He tried not to think about the sick feeling in his stomach, and failed miserably.
More knocking. Why wouldn't she leave? Maybe he could pretend that he wasn't home. If he just sat there long enough on the sofa, not moving, not even breathing, maybe she would think he wasn't home. Then she would leave, and he wouldn't have to say the words at all.
"Chiba Mamoru, I know you're in there," the voice warned. How could she possibly know that? Ah—that's right. He invited her. Five days ago, in the park. She would bring dinner; he was supposed to have bought champagne. Mamoru cursed himself for forgetting to cancel. He stood and went to the door.
Just as the voice was nervously asking, "Are you all right in there?" he opened the door to find Tsukino Usagi standing in the hallway. She was beautiful. He didn't say anything.
"There you are!" she exclaimed with characteristic exuberance. Still, he said nothing. "Is something wrong?" Her perfect, perfect forehead creased a bit with worry. Mamoru smiled instinctively at this, and she relaxed visibly. Immediately he cursed himself again for giving her reason to hope. She had to believe that something had changed. She had to believe that he meant what he was going to say.
With some effort, Mamoru schooled his features into a disinterested frown. "No, nothing wrong. I was sleeping." He was going to go through with it. He couldn't believe it. "I brought dinner, Mamo-chan," the young woman said sheepishly. His expression didn't change. "But don't worry," she hastily added, "I didn't cook it! I went to that restaurant across town—you said you loved that place." That would be forty minutes out of her way by rail. She was so damn thoughtful. Mamoru suddenly felt that he was watching himself from somewhere else. It seemed that he was standing there in the hallway, perhaps a few yards away from his door, a neutral third party, watching some asshole break this beautiful girl's heart. That couldn't be him standing there, looking aloof and distracted. It had to be someone else who said the words. "Usa-ko... Usagi, I can't see you anymore." It was her turn to say nothing. "Things have changed. I don't want to see you." How else could he say it? He'd never been good at lying to her. Already she was crying. He numbly refused her questions, her pleas. He pretended to ignore her tears. It took an unimaginable effort to deny her arms. But deny them he did. He would never forget the way she looked just then, when he would not hold her. Nor would he ever forgive himself for being the cause of her suffering Mamoru backed into his apartment, now dark, and closed the door on her. The weight of all the world seemed to settle on his chest, just above his heart. Only now did he let himself feel what he had just done. He turned and sagged helplessly with his back against the door. He could still hear her there; she was on the ground now, probably on her knees, banging weakly on the door with her perfect soft hands. Her sobs and cries ripped him into pieces. It was more than he could stand. Mamoru stayed there a moment longer, wanting nothing more than to throw the door open, take his Usa-ko in his arms, and swear a thousand times that he would never hurt her again.
Instead, he stumbled through the darkened room to the sofa, where he collapsed. And there, with Usagi's tears as a backdrop, he sank once again into the restless sleep that he had grown so accustomed to in the preceding week. Only a week. It felt like decades had passed since he first saw the future. Just before he slept, two things gave him an odd kind of inner peace. To Mamoru, it seemed fitting that he would be tortured all night by monstrous dreams. He had just destroyed the heart and soul of the only woman that he would ever love; one sleepless night was not one millionth of one percent of the punishment he deserved, but it would suffice to begin his penance. But mostly, his comfort came from remembering why he had done this in the first place. He had seen it in his dreams and in his waking visions; some how she would die, and it would be his fault. Perhaps without him, she would be safe. Perhaps, by breaking her heart, he could save her life and her future. If his own heart and life and future were to be forfeit, then so be it. He would gladly sacrifice them a thousand times, for her.
Or at least, he thought he heard knocking. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa some time ago—he didn't know if the sound was real. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow on the furniture in his otherwise unlit apartment. He strained his ears against the heavy air of the room and waited. He heard no more knocking. It must have been imagined. Mamoru sighed and let his head fall back onto the buoyant leather cushion behind him.
And he heard knocking.
This time he was sure. It was a delicate knock, the knock of soft hands. A sudden panic crept up in his throat. He knew who was there, knocking at his door, he knew what he had to tell her, and he did not want to answer the door.
She knocked again. His panic grew.
"Mamo-chan?" came her muffled call. It was a sweet voice, childish but somehow powerful, and dammit but it did it to him again. Mamoru tried not to think about how this would be the last time he heard her voice. He tried not to think about what he was going to say. He tried not to think about the sick feeling in his stomach, and failed miserably.
More knocking. Why wouldn't she leave? Maybe he could pretend that he wasn't home. If he just sat there long enough on the sofa, not moving, not even breathing, maybe she would think he wasn't home. Then she would leave, and he wouldn't have to say the words at all.
"Chiba Mamoru, I know you're in there," the voice warned. How could she possibly know that? Ah—that's right. He invited her. Five days ago, in the park. She would bring dinner; he was supposed to have bought champagne. Mamoru cursed himself for forgetting to cancel. He stood and went to the door.
Just as the voice was nervously asking, "Are you all right in there?" he opened the door to find Tsukino Usagi standing in the hallway. She was beautiful. He didn't say anything.
"There you are!" she exclaimed with characteristic exuberance. Still, he said nothing. "Is something wrong?" Her perfect, perfect forehead creased a bit with worry. Mamoru smiled instinctively at this, and she relaxed visibly. Immediately he cursed himself again for giving her reason to hope. She had to believe that something had changed. She had to believe that he meant what he was going to say.
With some effort, Mamoru schooled his features into a disinterested frown. "No, nothing wrong. I was sleeping." He was going to go through with it. He couldn't believe it. "I brought dinner, Mamo-chan," the young woman said sheepishly. His expression didn't change. "But don't worry," she hastily added, "I didn't cook it! I went to that restaurant across town—you said you loved that place." That would be forty minutes out of her way by rail. She was so damn thoughtful. Mamoru suddenly felt that he was watching himself from somewhere else. It seemed that he was standing there in the hallway, perhaps a few yards away from his door, a neutral third party, watching some asshole break this beautiful girl's heart. That couldn't be him standing there, looking aloof and distracted. It had to be someone else who said the words. "Usa-ko... Usagi, I can't see you anymore." It was her turn to say nothing. "Things have changed. I don't want to see you." How else could he say it? He'd never been good at lying to her. Already she was crying. He numbly refused her questions, her pleas. He pretended to ignore her tears. It took an unimaginable effort to deny her arms. But deny them he did. He would never forget the way she looked just then, when he would not hold her. Nor would he ever forgive himself for being the cause of her suffering Mamoru backed into his apartment, now dark, and closed the door on her. The weight of all the world seemed to settle on his chest, just above his heart. Only now did he let himself feel what he had just done. He turned and sagged helplessly with his back against the door. He could still hear her there; she was on the ground now, probably on her knees, banging weakly on the door with her perfect soft hands. Her sobs and cries ripped him into pieces. It was more than he could stand. Mamoru stayed there a moment longer, wanting nothing more than to throw the door open, take his Usa-ko in his arms, and swear a thousand times that he would never hurt her again.
Instead, he stumbled through the darkened room to the sofa, where he collapsed. And there, with Usagi's tears as a backdrop, he sank once again into the restless sleep that he had grown so accustomed to in the preceding week. Only a week. It felt like decades had passed since he first saw the future. Just before he slept, two things gave him an odd kind of inner peace. To Mamoru, it seemed fitting that he would be tortured all night by monstrous dreams. He had just destroyed the heart and soul of the only woman that he would ever love; one sleepless night was not one millionth of one percent of the punishment he deserved, but it would suffice to begin his penance. But mostly, his comfort came from remembering why he had done this in the first place. He had seen it in his dreams and in his waking visions; some how she would die, and it would be his fault. Perhaps without him, she would be safe. Perhaps, by breaking her heart, he could save her life and her future. If his own heart and life and future were to be forfeit, then so be it. He would gladly sacrifice them a thousand times, for her.