Warning: Contains some spoilers for Seven's route and countless pieces of my broken heart.
Disclaimer: Cheritz owns Mystic Messenger and my arse.
Catch me, heal me, lift me back up to the sun
(I choose to live, I choose to live)
"Gravity", A Perfect Circle
Please don't bother me.
It's past midnight and she can still hear him, all the way across in her room. The keys are flat, supple, ergonomic, but she can hear him type away furiously anyways, occasionally letting out a low hiss or sigh. It's been hours since she last faced him but the vice in his refusal still stings deeply. At the cruel reminder, her heart wrenches and she curls into herself for just a moment, muscle memory kicking in and demanding protection from something she well knows is far beyond her reach, like a promise of a wound that has not yet been inflicted.
She had never thought much of it before, love. It hadn't seemed necessary and she'd never been particularly sentimental. But there had been something about Luciel that made her heart leap at the thought of speaking with him, always unable to smother that little part of her hoping it was him when someone called. It had been playful, simple, organic. But it had also been polarized and the screen between them stood for so much more than distance - it was clear, because he hated her.
I'm going to come in when you're sleeping, so meanwhile, sort out your emotions.
And she hated him, too.
Abandoning the warmth of her bed, small feet padded softly towards the bathroom. Sort out your emotions, like shedding the wrinkled rose sweater and peeling down to her skin. Like the ritual of lather, rinse, repeat. Like scrubbing down until her skin is raw and pink and her eyes no longer look twice their size and she no longer feels like 'I don't care about your feelings, alright?' and she no longer reeks of loneliness.
He is still awake, still clicking away like the brother she never knew he had hadn't shattered her window, like he hadn't done the same to her heart. Rika's apartment is well-furnished and comfortable, but smaller than what she's used to. And with Luciel here now, she feels as if she's been reduced to a tiny corner, relegated to the back of the flat and — she can't breathe.
Is this how Rika felt, too?
So she stumbles out of the bedroom, out past the living room and the tiny studio where he's been holed up, towards the kitchen. The fridge, the fridge she needs the—
"What are you doing?"
She doesn't answer, head hung inside the freezer, eyes closed. Droplets have collected on her lashes and are slowly freezing up, weighing them down but all she can feel is cold, blessed cold and none of this suffocating anxiety that had threatened to crush her chest moments before.
"Hey—,"
His arm is on her shoulder and then off in seconds and she turns miserably towards him, the reality of it all crashing over her once more. He is stunned by her rejection, stung even, and she wants to laugh or cry at the irony of it all.
"I'm sorry," she says, not insincerely. "I didn't mean to bother you, I just — I need to get out of here."
His answer is automatic, cold and efficient.
"You can't leave."
And she hates it.
"I know," she sighs, letting herself fall on a chair at the small table, face in her hands. Luciel watches her for a moment as though afraid of what she'll do and when she remains unmoving, moves around the kitchen and fills a glass with ice-cold water.
"Drink. It helps," he hesitates, but the look on his face is unmistakable, "—with the panic."
"I'm not panicking," she mumbles quietly, but she takes the glass and drinks, and drinks, and drinks until her throat is raw and her stomach is full and she feels about ready to burst. The tiny iciles on her lashes have melted and her eyes are wet, shining, like she is about to cry.
Luciel doesn't say anything but he watches her intently and, after a moment, removes the glass from the table. With his back turned to her he moves towards the sink and starts scrubbing down all the used plates, glasses and cutlery that, out of respect for his space and work, she hasn't touched.
"You should be," he says, so quietly she may have not heard him if the silent between them wasn't so poignant.
"What?"
"You should be panicking," he answers, voice strained. "I've put you in grave danger Mina and I don't think you understand that."
"There is a bomb in this apartment. A hacker — one who holds a grudge on you, is after the information I came across in the RFA. And now he's after me, too. What don't I understand, Luciel?"
His hands grip the sink tightly for a moment, then he loosens his fingers and shuts the faucets.
"How can you be so calm?"
This time her voice is not nice, not soft, not patient. This time she sighs, tosses her hair back and once again sinks her face into her hands, anguished.
"I have other things to worry about," she answers and when she looks up, he's staring at her, stunned.
"Other things to worry about? Mina, there is a bomb here, for fuck's sake. It could all go to shit in seconds. Do you not get that?!" His hands slam against the table, making her jump and close her eyes, disturbed.
"Luciel, I have no idea what to do about the bomb," she says, and she is surprisingly calm again. "I wouldn't even know what it looks like."
He is still breathing heavily, still rigid, watching.
"But you do. And you said you'd take care of it," her fingers push a lock of damp hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious. "And I trust you."
Her hand is soft, warm, and carefully touches the top of his and his fingers immediately make a fist under her. Luciel is frustrated and scared, but so is she. She is worried about Jumin and his father, about Jaehee and how long and hard her hours can go, about Yoosung's terrible diet and his slipping grades and how lonely and lost Zen seems to be. And she worries about Luciel and how much pressure he's under, how ghastly this all must be for him, how fiercely he fights the touch of another human being. His rejection hurts, but not as much as it pains her to watch him hurt himself instead.
"I'm not lighthearted," she hesitates, mouth curling in distaste. "Or dumb."
There is a flicker of remorse in his eyes but it is gone just as easily and he removes his hand from under hers.
"I'm not so sure of that," he says through gritted teeth, already moving away from the kitchen and her and all the things that they have said, and all the things that they should've said instead. She watches him disappear towards the studio, hears the creaking of her desk chair (Rika's, everything was Rika's), but the familiar sound of his fingers against the keys is gone. Instead, she thinks she can hear the dejected slump in his seat, a sigh, so much exhaustion and defeat in one nonverbal act.
She stands, over-grown t-shirt (it occurs to her then that it might've been V's or someone else's) covering her like a dress, feet padding softly against the floor, like a cat. She finds Luciel prostrate against the desk and her hands grip his shoulders, hard, and when he tenses but doesn't resist her, her arms snake around him and hold him tightly from behind.
After the hacker issue is solved, you'll never see me again.
"After the hacker issue is solved," she says, not realising yet that she's crying, "You're coming home with me."
"Mina..."
"You're coming home with me, Luciel."
"I have no home," he says and her arms go listless around him. He turns around, too gently to be comforting and behind his spectacles she can see he too, wants to cry.
Minako takes his hand, the one he hasn't released and places it, fingers splayed as wide as they can go, in the middle of her chest. His fingers feel cold through the fine fabric of the t-shirt she wears and he is surprised, embarrassed, loathsome to even look at her.
"You do now," she says, so softly. "Here, with me."
It's hard to tell who breaks first but his fingers crush the fabric beneath them pulling her to him and maybe her arms were already hanging from his neck but all she can think of is cold palms, hot mouth and everything is soft, and hard, and warm and wet and he is everything she will ever love. She can hear the distant sounds of cars, and people and lives they will never live but the way he hums contentedly against her breast and how his teeth nip painfully at the soft skin of her neck and how his fingers dig on her hips almost viciously, certainly hard enough to bruise — this is it.
Grab everything, go, take my hand, go, go, go.
This, their house, and all the love they ever starved for.
The ending is already set for us.