"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia."
-E. L. Doctorow
—
There was a tentative knock at the door. He didn't say anything. A long silence followed, and he thought she'd gone. But then he heard rustling against the door and the knock came again, a little louder this time. Usui Takumi heaved a sigh. He was tired and angry and wasn't feeling well—he should have guessed that she would show up at his door, uninvited and out of line. He had stormed off and left the café to cool down a little after that particularly nasty throw down with her earlier.
She stood close to the door, as stubborn and beautiful as ever. Spotless white shirt, black pants with tapered legs. God, she was sexy.
"I brought you something to eat." She held a plastic bag in one hand, but her gaze was fastened to his shoulders and his neck.
Usui blinked. "I'm not really hungry—"
She shrugged and shouldered the door open, strolling in as though it were an everyday thing. She set the bag on the small table and then strode towards the sofa, stubbornly refusing to sit down and meet his gaze.
He's had hours to stew, to formulate arguments, but one look at her, predictable as she was, he knew what she would say.
He waved a hand in a 'stay there' gesture and leaned against a shelf in his small kitchen. He decided to continue their small pow-wow in the safety of a few meters' distance. He opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to the punch, disarming him completely.
"You were right, I was out of line."
He fumbled for a response, slightly gobsmacked, as he tried to act assured in his stance. She could read his hesitance—from her frown he knew that she thought he found her insincere, but any apology from Misaki was never anything but honest and so he gave her a meager smile in thanks.
Things weren't okay though. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and acknowledged that she had treated him badly, and he agreed. She also pointed out that he had been less understanding and had been short-tempered lately.
Usui met her eyes, his face carefully blank, as had served him well, so often.
He knew just how dense the girl was, but sometimes he could not help but wish that she had some modicum of comprehension as to why simply being in her presence was just too much to bear at times. He moved to take a seat on the sofa, ignoring her startled gasp and focused instead on the runway lights outside his window.
She followed suit and sat beside him, not too close but not too far away either. Over the course of ten minutes of companionable silence, the mutual tension began to dissipate and he sighed audibly, causing her to look at him questioningly.
In a gesture he still puzzled over, he felt her hand creep up his back and started rubbing it softly. His head seemed to weigh a thousand pounds as he propped it up with a fist.
He raised his eyebrows, a silent question.
"Obviously, I don't have the hands of a masseuse," said Misaki as she laughed self-consciously.
"No," he said slowly. "You don't."
"Um—well—"she squawked indignantly. "You looked like a puddle of a man-shaped goo when you left the café earlier and I thought you looked ill so I brought you some food, so don't you go thinking weird thoughts, you idiot."
He chuckled in reply.
If only she knew that he didn't like for people to touch his back, that only she could affect him in that way, then she wouldn't make light of the situation. In all honestly, if she really knew, he would have frightened her away long ago because he knew she'd run from the type of feelings he had for her.
She inhaled deeply and met his gaze levelly, looking to Usui as if she were terribly uncertain and more than a little scared. Somehow, he got the feeling that she wasn't nearly as confident of the things she was telling him as she was letting on.
"Come here."
He patted her hand and didn't flinch when she moved it away. Instead, he grabbed her hand and entwined his fingers with hers. She jerked a bit but settled down when he wouldn't let go.
They continued to watch in silence as the night laid a blanket upon them both, quietly quieting their fears.
One day, when she isn't so frightened anymore, he would tell her.
Until then, he'd keep himself together; keep his thoughts and sorrows to himself.
One day, they would get it right.
One day.