Author's Note: This chapter originally was not in the story but was really needed. There lacked a fluidity to the progression from the plot and perfectionist that I am, refuse to accept this.
Thanks to anjali-chan (I went more for the legitimacy of a false form as the theme), CreatiStar, nightshadow, Dr Megalomania (better call in the police).
So this is dedicated to MorganD whose words propelled me to make this fic better.
Disclaimer: The inspector bent low, gloved fingers prying away burnt wood and ashes. The coal bin threw its dirt over the marble floor, but he kept searching. With a triumphant 'aha' he extracted a singed scrap of paper. Slowly in his mind he read Syrupjunkie's words. 'Soon, CCS will be mine.'
Sweet Surrender
Chapter 4: Surrender
And I
don't understand
by the touch of your hand
I would be the one to fall
I miss
the little things
I miss everything
I move to close the door, the hinges breaking themselves against the force of this decision. In the end, after all that has been exchanged between us, nothing remains. A sudden opposition meets the door, Touya pushing inward, overcoming my efforts to shut him out. I reluctantly release my hold on the door, stepping back, the door swinging a wide arc as Touya falls into the apartment.
He stumbles a few steps, close faced and for the most part expressionless, only the engraving of stubbornness that I know dwells within him. "I'm not going."
I reply flatly, almost coldly. "I can see that."
He turns to slam the front door shut, then whipping back around to face me accusingly. His softness falls off like a layer, fully baring the strain and frustration that peaked through moments before. "I'm not leaving. Not until I convince you you're wrong."
This conversation is not a new one; it's one that's been played intermittently, always in my head. Always on the phone, always with me hanging up without hesitation. There wasn't indecision in my scenarios, no flesh and blood Touya burning a gaze through me. It's not the same as the disembodied voice at the end of miles of wire. There's a rawness in the air, the knowledge of his unmincing words, the ferocity of his determination. "But I'm not wrong."
"You are!" He flings the words out, two words that seemed to take up the entire apartment.
I hold stubbornly to myself, strangling the indecision that wants to flicker in my eyes. "No, I'm not. Touya, you need to go. I've made up my mind. This is something that I've decided, something that I've struggled to believe in fully, something that you can't change."
"Yes. I will." A deceptive tone of calmness wraps around his speech, another angle, another ploy, but with an added undertone of confidence. "You think that everything I said in the doorway didn't matter? That it was all lies? You're wrong. I believe in it. Everyone believes in it. I took a risk and let myself love you. And I don't regret it…"
I interject, bitingly. "But I do. I regret it. I regret falling in love with you. I was weak and foolish and in denial. You can say what you want, but it won't change anything. I'm not willing to let myself take the chance. Can't you see that it's for your own good? This isn't something that I want to do, it's something that I have to do."
A laugh, loud and disbelieving. His hands find themselves clamped on my shoulders again, two pinchers. "For me? For my own good? What kind of denial are you in now? I'll tell right now just to break up that fantasy in your head that this is not the best for me. I hate loving you but not having you. I hate the fact that we're separated by doubt of all things. A stupid fear."
Something is slipping, something is leaving my control. "It's not stupid. Don't you realize what it can mean? Years later, after we've built ourselves a life. I wake up and there's nothing there. You don't mean anything to me. Everything breaks apart. How would you feel then?"
He shakes me violently, jarringly. "You know what'd I feel? I'd feel devastated. But you know what else I'd feel? I'd feel consoled that we had those good years, instead of what we have now, this pointless uncertainty. I don't believe for an instant that you're not human. So what if you're made from magic? You're real. Our memories are real. Our love is real, and you know it. You're just afraid of it."
"I'm afraid of nothing! This is my decision, and I've made it and I'm not abandoning it."
He drops his hands from my shoulders, instead pulling me against him. A fierce hug, his arms wrapping me close, tight. "You're lying to yourself. You're afraid." His face breathes near my ear, his words harsh and tantalizing. "You're afraid that it feels right to have me close to you, to have me tell you I love you." I pull at his grip, but am trapped in his hold. His words are powerful, truthful. I feel the fear and pleasure of him against me.
"Touya…I can't. I just can't." I wrench unsuccessfully. "You don't know." He doesn't know the power of this fear, the unwillingness of it to disappear. But the more I want to keep it strong, keep it solid, it gets less substantial, brittle, childish even. Am I lying to myself?
His chin digs into my skin, his head resting on my shoulder. "Yuki…you're right. I don't know. I'm not scared of this. I'm not reaching for excuses to give me an escape."
Reaching for excuses? This is valid, my reasons are valid. But the more I say it, the more he's right. It's only an excuse. Only an excuse. "It's not an excuse." How pitiful I sound, muffled against his shirt, small voice. But I've worked too hard to prove myself right to give up. I lift my head up, pushing us slightly apart. "Prove to me that I'm real, Touya. Prove to me that these emotions you say I have are mine. If you can, I'll stop fighting you." It sounds impossible, maybe it is, but it's what I need.
His gaze is unfoundedly determined, success certain. "Sit down." I obey, collapsing into the sofa, looking up at his looming figure. "How are you?"
The question's so off base that I sputter mentally, a dozen half starts wrenching through my consciousness. "I'm fine. What are you doing?"
"Exactly what you asked me to do." He takes a seat across from me, smiling in a halfhearted anxious way. "I'm not asking if you're fine or not. I want to know exactly how are you."
"I'm fine." I try to stare through him, but I can't because of the intensity of his look. We sit in silence, the change in the air from hostility to strained comfort slightly more accommodating.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "How's school? New friends?"
Reluctantly, I let myself play his game, follow along. "School's good. Same classes, different teachers. Some new friends, but mostly acquaintances, I guess."
"No clubs or sports either, I'm guessing. You're too antisocial for your own good."
I mock scowl, stripping my face of the emotion suddenly when I notice it. "Maybe; things haven't been the best the past few months."
He absorbs the pointed statement, face still hidden underneath the mask of artificial good humour. "Mine too. A lot of people miss you. We need you to come back to finish the leftovers."
The foreign sound of laughter rings from my throat. "What am I, a dog?"
"No, more like a garbage disposal."
"Baka." I roll my eyes. "It's not my fault; I'm made that way."
He laughs, taking the fact as a joke. And I can't help but realize it is rather funny. The conversation moves on from there, his family, my jobs, work. It's easy to forget all the drama and have it all back to normal. Anything and everything is passed between us, digesting and rehashing each topic again and again when one of us remembers some little trivial side note we forgot.
"You know what?" He looks abruptly triumphant, beaming, leaning even more forward.
I look at him skeptically, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
"I've just proven you're real."
Face hardening, the dark cloud passing over us again like an impending storm. "You haven't."
"Well, tell me honestly how you felt during our conversation."
A mix of emotions, sometimes glad, sometimes regretful, sometimes amused. "Happy, sad, a lot of things. What are you getting at?"
"I'm getting at the fact that you've changed moods and feelings randomly throughout our conversation. You're not programmed with answers. You let yourself react as anyone does."
True, the feelings flow one into the other, independent of thought, instinctual. "That's hardly promising evidence."
"But you know it's true."
It is, I suppose. But's it's also true that the clock overhead strikes four. Simply, I just didn't have the energy to resist, not when it was something I wanted that badly. After all this rigmarole, all this back and forth debate, after trying to live with the loneliness of having destroyed your own life, it was a chance that I was just finally ready to accept. "I think I do."
A long, tenuous, shaky sigh, tired but victorious. He clutches one of my hands, squeezing hard. "Do you mean it?"
"I do."
He gets up, sitting next to me. I watch him lean in, sealing the deal with a kiss, as the cliché goes. Tired of fighting and denial, I let myself drop closer to him, a fleeting touch before a yawn overtakes me. "I'm tired."
He tugs me up, smiling softly. "Where's your bed?"
I murmur an answer, dragging my feet in the direction of the bedroom. Too much has happened in too little time, and I'm exhausted. But in the end, there's certainty, not that constant need to be justified rightness when I left. This is what I want and what I should've done in the first place. I can barely make out my own speech but I think I tell him I love him.
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Author's Notes: That's it. Nothing to fancy schmancy. I hope this makes sense, the progression from no to yes I mean.
