By: Shima And Tempis
A/N: I was so blown away by Chapter 19 of Rain Water (by Witchyprincess), so I had to write a new fic. For all those waiting on Dear Whoever, I have to reformat it and then I can post it, but for that I have to use my brother's computer, which he's been on about 24/7.
Just so you know, this is a fic that is nothing like my other ones, and really unlike something I would write myself. But it IS my work, and I just fell into a writing trance and let the words flow on my own. It may be as annoying and mixed up as Broken might have been, but I like it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gravitation.
Warning: Rated PG-13 for language, tragic/violent and sexual suggestions.
"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards." –Robert Heinlein
You'll step onto a wet road covered in dirty water puddles, letting that liquid seep into the shoes that aren't meant to get wet, and you'll look about yourself as if nothing at all is wrong. You'll let the raindrop mix with your own salty tears, hearing the hiss of what you know is pollution mixing it's acidity with the emotion coming from your eyes.
You'll recall the people who told you that you could come to their home any time you want and cry on their shoulder—but then you'll remember that they now have their own people to care about that aren't you, and you'll stop your trek. You don't know where to go now, do you? You have no idea where it is you need to be, or where you can go so that you don't have to cry anymore. And sometimes, that's the best place for those concerns. Instead, you ignore the precipitation beating at your face and clothes, and allow your feet to take you where they want.
So you won't be surprised when your feet take you somewhere you rarely go, that you've only been maybe once or twice before, and always unwelcome. The visits have made you either feel worse or consumed with self-doubt, but you believe that is just what you need. You need someone to confirm your own suspicions that maybe you really aren't good for anything. You wouldn't mind someone watching you cry with a condescending look on his or her face, ready to throw you out at any moment. That, you believe, is the exact thing that may make you feel better. That someone agrees with you.
Then you'll ring the doorbell without a second thought, because your feet have already pulled you here and now they've convinced your hands to move of their own accord. You let the sound ring in your ears yet you ignore it, as you ignore the car horns that yelled at you when you didn't get out of the road. As you couldn't ignore the angry words from your parents when you decided to come out of your shell. You realize now, that you can ignore everything except that. Maybe that is why you need someone who dislikes you unconditionally, someone who dislikes you merely because you are, not because of who you are.
"What the hell do you—Shindou? What are you doing here? Did you not notice that is was raining and thought it would be a nice night to come barging down people's doors?" Yes, that is what you need. Sarcasm. Not that hateful, we're-disappointed-in-you tone, just this playful sarcasm that you know means that you're not welcome. This is what people feel when they cut themselves, you guess. It's better to feel this pain than your own.
"N-no. My parents through me out." You look miserable, you sneeze, and your lips are taking on a blue hue. Everything would tell a normal person that you probably can't deal with more hatred, but the man standing before you is blind to any of the pain you feel. You're glad for it, because his own disturbance of the way you need him is exactly what you need. The confidence to get you through the next stay is standing before you in a baggy sweater and sweatpants, his arm against the doorframe and a towel around his neck.
"They get as annoyed with you as I am right now, brat?" Even as he says this, though, he lets you in because he knows you won't leave until you're satisfied, whether it is from constantly being criticized or maybe a sympathetic eye, it doesn't matter to him. He's in the mood to let out some frustration and you're just the person for him to do it. You step in nodding your head, as if confirming a few things at once, letting your clothing drip onto his perfect floor and create a new throng of dirty water puddles. It's funny; they don't create a hiss like your tears did. Instead, it seems that the water you're dripping everywhere as he tosses a towel at your head is really only your tears.
"I though I could stay here until they forgive me." A lie, but you know this will make him angry and frustrated, and more willing to yell at you, maybe throw in some curses to get you to fight back. Even if it ends up getting physical, you're perfectly ready to defend yourself until this addiction of yours is fulfilled and you go back home to face real pain. That will be when you can control your own emotions and stop the stream that's running down your cheeks.
"You obviously thought wrong. Damn it, since when is my home some orphanage for messed up kids like you to stay whenever their parents don't want them?" The bite in his voice is not enough for you, because suddenly it doesn't seem like he's ready for an all out brawl tonight. You, however, are prepared to egg him on until he gives in, and gives you what you want. "Stop looking at me like that, you little shit. Unless you have something important to say, turn yourself around and leave me alone."
That does not suffice as good enough, though the cursing is a step up from where he was before. "I'm not leaving. I can't. I told you, my parents won't let me in the house." You wipe your face, your legs, and remove your shoes and socks, and then your jacket, so you stand there in a dripping wet t-shirt and shorts, looking pathetic. This should be enough, you think, because now you seem dead set on staying. You're not prepared for him to take a few steps closer, eyes narrowed and flames licking at his pupils.
"Kid, you want me to yell at you, don't you? You want me to yell and scream, maybe even throw something at you and get you real riled up. You want me to be so cruel and heartless to you that you start shaking from all of it. Shaking so much you fall to the floor like you're having a heart attack. Maybe you even want to die from it? Well, kid, I suggest you know this: I'm not doing it. You're a wimp, and you have nothing to do with me. I have no intention of performing a sick part in this little play you have running through your head so that you can get rid of whatever is making you break down in my entryway right now."
You're up against the door, your head bumping against the wood. He's got an arm above your head and he's ran the towel in your hand down your face, drying one stream of tears. You look at him angrily, threatening him with your reddening eyes that you need an onslaught of hatred from him that he better give it to you or you're going to get desperate and do something that we'll lead him to doing things he may regret. This look, however, does not penetrate his own, which seems to be stripping your of your own dignity without you being aware of it.
"Th-that's not why I'm here. I need a place to stay!" Your voice rises at the end of that statement, making him smirk knowing that he has you, that he's found out your plot and now he plans on coming in his shining armor and cape to stop it. It's like he's got a knife to your throat now, when in reality all he's got is an arm just above your head and a face dangerously close to your own, so close that you can feel his break on the bridge of your nose. He's looking into your eyes, and you don't even have to see his mouth to know that the smirk is still there. His eyes show all of his own cruelty and suddenly it's not what you want at all.
"I told you, you can't stay here. Why the fuck would you think so? You're not welcome, and I think I made that clear." These words are what you expect to come from his mouth. You can even hear him saying it in your head, every single word distinct and in his exact tone of voice, but that isn't what he says—it isn't even what he does. In fact, he's leaned slowly closer to you and does something more than unexpected, more than unwanted when all you want is pain.
He leans in and nips at your ear.
This is the exact opposite of what you though you needed, what you thought would distract you from the awful things your parents told you. It has had the intended effect, because you can no longer remember what it was that had made your cry in the first place, nor do you notice that you are still in wet clothing. All you can feel now is the warmth that he just sent up and down your spine with a simple touch. Simple as that and now instead of being hated you want to be cherished, you want him to lose the cold look in his eyes, cease them from being so narrow. You want it so badly that you reach up to his face when he pulls away and you run your hand down his cheek.
"I told you, I'm not doing it. I'm not making a little kid cry for his mommy so badly that I start to feel guilty—I don't get guilty, Shindou. So either you leave right now or I get to do what I want." This scares you, but you know it's not the threat it's supposed to be. You even know what he's talking about because by now he's moved his arm from the door, and that hand is pressed on your shoulder so you can move, even if you wanted to. He hasn't pushed your hand from his face, and somehow he's even gotten closer without touching you.
"I'm not going anywhere." You let out a final, lethal statement and that's when it begins, the exact thing your parents were furious with you for, the exact thing that they wanted to disown you for, change their names and leave town with your sister so that they never see you again. You know that it will just lead to more pain, more suffering, but you're living in the moment as he comes in again like a vulture, trailing kisses along your jaw and down your neck, then slowly taking off your wet shirt and tossing it to the floor with your jacket, and then pressing his lips to your own as if he'd done it a million times before. Now this is what you wanted. This is what you imagined him to be doing to you instead of yelling at you so badly that you really can't take it anymore. He grabs your hand, tugging at you and yet still is gentle, and so you actually enter his home.
And then it begins, a rhythmic dance where neither of you are aware of anything else, and maybe neither of you really know what's happening, but the heat of the moment and the fact that he just blatantly told you he wouldn't feel guilty about it have convinced you that this is right. You've decided that whatever happens next happens then, not now, and you'll deal with what your parents want to do to you later—hey, maybe you'll have someone backing you up after all.
A/N: Changed the rating from R to PG-13, hoping that's okay. Do tell if you think I should raise it again.