Three years ago.
Summer, 2010.
Day 1.1
.
White flashes. She moans loudly. Their bodies shudder. Release. Collapse.
His chest is pressed against her back as he pulls his head out of the clouds of lust. He looks down at her—at her tussled pink locks, at her naked back, at the sweet arch of her back and her sinful curves. He can't help himself; he wants more.
His hands slide over her butt, grabbing and squeezing, and then over her thighs, between them, feeling the heat of their friction. His tongue—his oh-so perfect tongue—licks a trail from her shoulder to her neck, where he kisses and sucks and turns her on all over again. She moans as she runs a hand through her hair. From there she glances at him from over her shoulder, amber eyes alive with sensations. She licks her lips, pulls away, falls onto her back, and spreads her legs.
She welcomes him in again.
She breathes in his ear the incantation that keeps him going—Don'tstopdon'tstop, yesrightthereplease—and he does just that. Too well maybe. The edge is coming fast. She can feel the orgasmic bliss befalling over her, washing over her. Her head lolls back; the waves rocket through her; she cries out his name and grips at the pillows as he pushes through the whitewashed euphoria. He attacks and attacks at her bruised neck, her sensitive breasts—NagihikoNagihikoyesyesyes!
He's deep. Her insides clench onto him. He grins and keeps going. This is too good to end so soon. He's going to torture her with pleasure.
Their bodies are slick with sweat. The summer is hot, but his tongue, her insides, is hotter.
This is as close as they'll ever get.
.
Amu's arm falls from shielding her eyes to falling onto his chest. It's rising evenly beneath her palm; at some point, it even matches the rhythm of her heart. Her hair is a mess; her skin is sticky from the heat and their other activities. She's wearing her panties and nothing more and it feels good when the breeze blows into his room. She smiles somewhat. Her eyes drift down the length of his toned body, landing on the edge of the sheet that covers his hips.
There's a lot left to be desired.
And desire she does.
Forcing herself out of her perverted thoughts, Amu inhales and gets out of the bed. She grabs her bra, her tank top, and her jean shorts off the floor. Against her will she's redressing, removing herself from a place of utter peace and destruction and everything she thinks she wants.
As she makes a face at herself in the mirror—mostly at the disarray called her hair—her eyes watch Nagihiko rise out of the bed and pull his boxers on. Afterwards he fans his face and grabs a hairband from off the floor.
He turns to face her. Amu grins and buttons her shorts. "Are you going to Mitsura Chihiro's party tonight?" Somewhere inside of her, she wants him to go. She wants to dance with him, eat with him, pull them away and make out in a place not so private. She wants him to push her chest against the wall, pound into her, have him—
"Did you hear me?"
Amu's eyes snap open and she blames the hot weather for the reddening of her cheeks. "No, can you repeat that?"
"I said I'm not going. I have to clean the house today and some other stuff to work on." He pulls on his shirt. Amu expects that. Still.
"Well, I'll see you later then."
"Have fun."
She leaves. Nagihiko takes his hair out of the ponytail and sighs. He walks to the bathroom, showers, remembers Amu's warm lips, and feels his lips twitch.
.
If someone asked Nagihiko what his favorite color is, he'd say white. Because white is blank and free of the painful blemishes called memory.
.
If someone asked Amu what her favorite color is, she'd say black. Because black is dark and nothing is able to escape its heavy color. Because everything she wants to forget is suddenly hidden.
.
Amu shouldn't be watching them—because, gosh, it's creepy—but her eyes are focused on the illicit couple making out in Mitsura-san's pool. Their hair is wet and his hands are large and his lips look soft and—
And.
And it reminds of her the way they almost had it. It reminds of her the things that were almost there—the kiss, a relationship, her declaration.
She walks back into the midst of the crowd and grabs another drink from the punch bowl. There's definitely alcohol in it—Watanabe, that meat-head, thought he was slick with sneaking sake into the punch—but that's okay. Because it's okay. Because she's going to get nice and happy and then her throat won't be so tight and she won't feel the open void anymore.
She drinks.
And drinks.
And another.
One more.
Halfway.
Oops.
The punch bowl has been knocked over to the side and she is dancing amongst the girls, laughing and giggling, and hands running over bodies. Her skin is warm, her cheeks are warm, but her mind is clear and this is fucking fantastic.
.
I never want to ask a lot of you, and maybe it's too late to be saying that, but I need you to tell me. Tell me, please, what the color of forgetting is.
I'll try to remember.
.
She's sitting at the base of the swing set, her sandals knocked over in the sand and a half-eaten onigiri in her hand. Her head hurts, and not in the good way. Her stomach is empty after all the vomiting she's been doing. Somewhere off in the bushes some animals will be the unfortunate witnesses of the greenish mess. Just thinking about it—Amu covers her mouth and swallows the acidic bile back down.
Nagihiko shakes his head. "Don't hold it down. Let it come up."
No, no, no. Don't say those words.
"Honestly, Amu, a little drunk is fine, but you were totally smacked."
She chuckles dryly. "The 'cool and spicy' Hinamori Amu doesn't get shit-face drunk. She knows how to handle it."
"Not tonight she didn't."
"Whatever, shut up already—your voice hurts my head." But that's mean. She opens her lips to take it back but Nagihiko stops talking and Amu feels like a terrible person.
It starts to rain. Amu looks up at the summer night sky, blinking rapidly as raindrops fall onto her face. They're soaked in moments but it doesn't matter. Around them is thunder and lightning and the world is showing its secrets to them and only them.
She wants to tell him that she wishes the rain would seep into her and clean out the ache, but he has her hand and they're off towards his house.
She doesn't mind. She can't mind when she's there.
.
He returns to his bedroom with a sandwich and iced tea. Amu is sitting on his bed, wearing a shirt of his and eating ramen he bought for her on their way back. They're dry again.
He asks, "Besides the vomiting, how was the party?"
"Pretty cool." A moment of silence later, she laughs awkwardly. "I watched his couple…make out and I was kind of…I kind of wanted…." She can't finish her sentence. She isn't sure what's supposed to come after that. What words will fit?
Lonely isn't it; but free isn't either.
"Ah. Well, after I cleaned and took care of my other errands, I watched this cool movie about this guy who met his clone. The clone was trying to kill the original guy to become him, become the perfect him."
"If only some of us were so lucky to be remade in the perfect image."
"Not really. The clone succeeded, but I was surprised at how hard the clone had it. He couldn't adjust to the original guy's life because…it wasn't a life anyone would want to live. He was poor and his girlfriend was dying and he was alone. It kind of opened your eyes about the subject."
Amu frowns. "Let's not talk about this anymore."
"Why not? I think you should see it."
Amu wants to shout out at him—"Stop being the Nagihiko that I need!"—but she doesn't. She just eats the rest of the ramen.
"It's an eye-opening movie. It touches on the idea of perfection—we are willing to go so far to become perfect but destroy ourselves in the process." His jaw is tight because that movie wasn't easy for him to watch. But he braved through it.
He just wishes….
"Well I don't want to be perfect and I never tried to be." He wonders about that, but leaves it alone. Amu stands and claps her hands twice. The room goes dark and suddenly she can breathe again. Her fingers pull the shirt upwards and off of her body until she is in nothing but her panties.
She wants Nagihiko to look her way.
She doesn't know. She doesn't know anymore.
She doesn't want to know anymore.
"Nagihiko." She says his name huskily, dripping with want. As she walks over to him, she thinks about how this is what they want. She does want this. Because this is the only thing in her life that she's certain of.
"I love you, Amu."
She pulls him out of his chair and onto the tatami floor. She doesn't allow him to have the time to think or tell her to stop, because he's never going to. She straddles him, making sure the warmth between her legs is very noticeable.
"I'll be back for you."
This is what she can be certain off—the feel of his muscles, his skin, his manhood, his tongue swirling around hers.
Memory is an unreliable bastard.
"Just wait for me."
She can feel the tears trying to break through to the surface. But she won't let him. She kisses him harder, grinds her bottom against his hips and grins when his body rises to the occasion.
She pulls away for a faint moment and sits up, letting his brown eyes drink in her slim build and round breasts.
"Feel me, Nagihiko."
He meets her command tenfold.
They're lost in those red clouds of lust, of animalistic need to release.
But reality is still under their feet.
.
She watches him sleep. Her fingers skim over his jaw, over his parted lips. They're a little dry but still so warm. His hair is splayed across the pillow and his lean chest rises and falls. Her eyes drink in the way the summer moon illuminates the sinewy muscles of his body; a dancer's body. His lashes are long, his boyish features surely gone.
Crickets hum in the background.
If an outsider were looking at them, Amu thinks, they'd see two lovers sleeping after a night of passion. They'd think they'd have a complex history of a boy and a girl that overcame hardships to be with one another.
Surely they couldn't understands. Lovers—never.
There are a few things Amu is certain of—the gods, the sensation of touch (oh, yes, she was certain of that), and Ami's divine right to annoy the hell out of her.
But love was uncertain and fickle and always chose the wrong people.
She's in love.
Amu rolls onto her side so her back is pressed to his side. She shuts her eyes. She is in love, but not with Nagihiko. He is just that—nothing more, nothing less. And maybe everything, because this is what she wants. Correction—what they want. He can't be the Nagihiko she needs because that will break her.
She's already cracked.
Amu can't stand the way her heart throbs. It's suffocating; it hurts.
The rain pours, and her cheeks grow wet.
"Ikuto…"
.
Nagihiko peeks open an eye, then the other, and listens to the beetles and Amu's cries. It's early morning. The sun is beginning to rise—he can see the light orange hues casting over his home.
They're close friends (that's kind of an understatement) and maybe he should roll over and hug her close. Because that's the Nagihiko he truly is.
But not the Nagihiko she wants.
That would jeopardize the boundaries of their relationship—nothing more, nothing less.
He closes his eyes and pretends like he doesn't hear her.
.
Brown orbs open wide as he shoots up in the bed. He can't breathe—or rather, he can't catch his breath. His chest heaves, lungs burning. A fine sheen of sweat covers his face and torso, his indigo hair strayed this way and that. Surely from the eyes of others he's worthy—but this is not the look of seduction.
His eyes are wide and wild. Fear overflows in them. A fear of his demons, his nightmares, his reality. He grips at his hair, hands shaking, and shuts his eyes to catch his breath.
He needs to hold onto reality.
Once he can breathe again, he notices that the side of the bed that once contained Amu is empty. There's a folded piece of pastel blue paper on the pillow. He runs a hand through his knotted locks as he grabs the paper. A note is scribbled out in her handwriting.
Nagihiko,
I went back home. I didn't want my parents worrying, although I could've easily lied my way out of it. I'll be back over later.
Also…thanks.
Amu
He stares at the "also…thanks" for quite a while. He wonders what that can possibly mean. He shakes his head, crumples the paper, and throws it into the trash.
He shuts his eyes. He needs release. He needs to forget. And Amu isn't here to help him.
.
Ask Nagihiko what color he hates and he will hesitate. Because he hates black and he hates red. Because red is too bright, too harsh like pain. And black is an array of that pain, darkened and ugly just like him.
.
If Amu hated a color the most, it will be white and it will be blue. Because white is so pure, nothing like she'll ever be. And blue—
Well. It's self-explanatory.
.
It must be a blessing to have amnesia, he thinks as he enters the grocery store. Nagihiko is wise beyond his years but pain is pain and he wants an out. He smiles at Mrs. Takama, the wife of the store's owner, and grabs a shopping basket from the rack.
"Alright, let's see…" He looks at his list and heads towards the last aisle. He'll work from the back to the front, as he always does.
He grabs a bag of rice, miso, shredded beef and vegetables. He twists the cord of his headphones around his finger, staring at his crimson fingertip as the blood collects there, as he waits for his salmon to be gutted and cleaned. He gets a half-pound of cheese and ground pork. He grabs cooking wine, seasonings, and then some bread. When flour falls onto the ground and spills out, he hastily leaves the aisle. After that he gets milk and eggs and smiles at the women whose eyes undress him.
He's never been one for stares.
As he walks down the aisle to the checkout lines, he catches a lingering scent of blossoms. It's light but pungent, noticeable. It reminds him of when the cherry blossoms are in blooming season and how the air always smells fresh and light.
He proceeds to the self-checkout. A girl is already there. She swipes food across the scanner, the automatic voice repeating what she scanned and the price. She's nearly done; all that's left is to manually pay for the fruits she's picked up.
Nagihiko looks at the screen of his cell phone. Mother will be home in three hours. He still has to prepare dinner as well as continue practicing the Fujisaki traditional dance. He looks back at the girl. She's standing there, a paper in her hand.
The fruits still haven't been paid for.
He sucks in a breath and lightly taps her shoulder. She gives him a side glance, her wheat-colored curls shielding the majority of her face. But her eyes are large and golden even if they are glaring at him with frozen intensity. Nagihiko swallows but puts on his best smile. "Are you having trouble? Would you like some help?
She doesn't answer. She just looks back at the fruits and then, hesitantly, punches them in. Soon she is paying for them and bagging the groceries. Nagihiko puts his basket onto the table.
She's walking away. Her dress is white. She's rather small, he notices.
She stops. She looks back at him. He's taken aback by the way she's staring but doesn't let it show. He smiles.
She asks, "What's the name of this grocery store again?"
"Ah…Takama's. Didn't you see it outside?"
"I can't remember."
He can understand. He knows that people don't really pay attention to certain details. That's how things end up sloppy. That's how guys get their heart broken when their girlfriends call them "adequate." He chuckles.
"Well, it's called Takama's."
Suddenly she puts down the groceries and reaches into her purse to pull out a notepad and a phone. She scribbles down what he said with intense focus. She puts it away and walks out of the store.
Nagihiko stares at her groceries in disbelief. "Did she…?"
He runs after her.
"Miss! Miss!" She looks back at him, glaring. The wind blows her curls and the light scent is stronger now that he's closer to her. She's so small. "You forgot your groceries!" And hopefully his won't be taken.
"What groceries?"
Nagihiko must think it's a blessing to have amnesia. He stares at her long and hard, brows coming together in frustration.
"The groceries I saw you bag and pay for."
"Oh…I don't remember that."
A/N: I'm going to let you all know in on a little secret—Rima has amnesia. But a specific type. What type? Well, you'll find out as the story continues. I also hope this chapter shed some light on the relationship between Nagihiko and Amu. More will come to light about them individually and together, as well as Rima and, maybe, Ikuto. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
~Meme