A/N: Thank you everybody who reviewed! I'm really glad you're liking it so far (so happy I surprised everyone with Syrisina too!)! So here's a second chapter in the same week! I hope you'll like it!

Angel's Wing: Can't afford one :( Actually, I could've because I got my first job this summer and made enough money to buy the system AND the game… But decided the money was better spent on treating my family to dinner instead :)
Alexxya's Secret: Ooh thanks for making me feel better for not having a PS2 lol. I'm glad you don't notice anything strange. And thanks for your sweet comments :)
Chili-Girl: LOL. I didn't do it on purpose. Aw I feel dumb. ahah But thanks for bringing that up. I didn't realize that :)

Three Stupid Words
Chapter 4: Night Before: Rikku

Well, he doesn't have a mustache.

But he does have that trademark smirk adorned on his face, wobbling from side to side, his eye glinting in cruel mockery. But I can't exactly tell if this time, the teasing expression on his face is actually deliberate or a result of his obvious drunken condition.

He's sitting on my bedroom floor, leaning casually against the foot of the bed, his head lazily resting on the mattress and staring at me with a groggily, bored, somewhat forced all-knowing expression. Around him are empty beer bottles, encircling him like a tribe of angry Ronso.

The dimness of the room, caused by the solely lit lamp on my nightstand, blurs everything in sight accept him. It adores him. Everything adores him. And I can confidently say that it is the light – and only the light – that is softening his face enough to convince me that he's just a little too innocent-looking to be of any real harm.

And then I realize I'm supposed to be scared half to death by the intruder. "What are you – How did you get in here?" I exclaim.

He gives an unusual laugh, snickering and then hiccupping lightly before taking another swig from his bottle. "Are you complaining?" he asks.

I almost growl in frustration at the blatancy of my answer. "Yes!" I gesture towards the bottles littered all over my bedroom floor. This was definitely not how I imagined our confrontation would be. "You break in, steal my fruit juice, and make a total mess of my room!"

He raises his eyebrow, clearly addressing the piles of clothes and random objects already scattered all over the place.

"I mean, you made a bigger mess of my room," I correct and snatch a Shoopuf doll from off my bed and stuff it underneath a pillow. "What are you doing here?"

He gives a flirtatious smile. "Can't I just visit Cid's Little Girl for old time's sake?"

"Not in my home, in my bedroom, and drinking!" I nearly shout.

He shrugs his shoulders uncaringly, completely ignoring my frustration, and instead resides to finishing the last drops of his bottle before discarding it beside him like all the others. Then, he cracks his neck back and leans peacefully against my mattress. "Your room smells nice."

I flinch at the comment and the absurdity of it considering the situation. "Okay…" I say, his statement unfortunately able to achieve its goal of calming me down. "Really, why are you in New Home? You're supposed to be arriving tomorrow, and not actually in here." I throw my arms into the air. "And how did you even get in here in the first place?"

His eyes are closed, as if he's in deep meditation. I notice his fingers drumming against the floor rhythmically, his head bobbing up and down slightly to some soundless song. I just about think that he's ignoring me again when he suddenly says, "Are you complaining?"

This time I do growl, and then march over to him, kicking the bottles aside. "Yes, I am!" I yell, his ignorance getting on my last nerve. He is not going to be my responsibility. He has plenty of other friends with homes in this city that he can go to, including his girlfriend. It doesn't have to be me. "If you want to get drunk, do it somewhere else! I'm not cleaning up after you!" I grab his arm and attempt to pull him up on his feet. "Get out of my house you lazy nincompoop!"

But he doesn't budge. Fatass. And while still in his meditation-like state, I can see the sides of his mouth curl upward in amusement. Then, with the arm I'm trying to pull him up with, he fastens his hand around my wrist and yanks me swiftly forward. I fall like a rock onto his lap. He chuckles. "Still complaining?"

I quickly compose myself and get off of him. "What do you think?" I ask, my voice so cold and deadly I bet Paine'd be jealous. When he doesn't reply and instead continues grinning that stupid grin of his, I reach for his forehead and push his skin up to open his eyeball. I glare at him angrily, daring him to answer.

He immediately narrows his eyebrows in irritation at my action and swats my hand away like a fly. Then, he gets up on his own and walks casually out of my bedroom door.

Satisfied that I got a reaction out of him, but infuriated that he still wasn't answering me, I follow him out and into the kitchen. I watch as he digs through my fridge, grabbing himself another bottle of beer before slamming the fridge door shut.

I can't believe I actually felt anxious to see this jerk again.

He leaves the kitchen and makes his way into my living room, walking with such a cool aura you'd think he owned the place. He then sinks himself into the sofa and stares up at the ceiling with the bottle tightly enclosed in his hands. His aura vanishes instantly and instead he… He's pitiful.

I lean against a shelf, my arms crossed across my chest. I observe him in silence. I don't know whether to continue to be angry at him or begin to feel sorry for him. He looks absolutely pathetic. His eye droopy and dull, his face creased in stress, his fingers gripping around the bottle like it's his lifeline.

There's a reason why he came here of all places tonight. And I'm not going to go with his explanation of simply 'wanting to visit'.

"Gippal –" I start, but then hesitate. What if, for some strange reason, that really is the truth? What if he actually came here to visit me? What if he had a huge, spur-of-the-moment, urgent feeling that he needed to see me and he was compelled by the sheer urgency to break in and well, visit me!

"Brother left your door unlocked."

I glance up at his calm face. "He what?"

He takes another gulp of his bottle, and then places it on the ground. "I saw him come out of your door. He was rushing to go somewhere. He forgot to lock it. I went in." His words are blunt and sharp.

"W-Why?" I can't help but ask. I would assume that if he decided to arrive in New Home early, he'd be at Syrisina's of all places.

He shrugs his shoulders plainly, refusing to answer and instead turning away and staring off down my dark hallway. His face is emotionless. I know he's not telling me everything. He's holding something back.

I'm curious at what happened to him before he came here that made him so dead and serious now. I've never seen his face so set in stone and his voice so detached. I decide that I feel sorry for him.

"Make me a sandwich."

Felt sorry just a little too early, didn't I?

He doesn't spare me a glance. "Make me two."

"What" I breathe out in disbelief.

He glares at me coldly before dragging himself off the couch. "Fine, I'll make it myself." He walks past me, his legs trembling slightly from the excess alcohol in his veins. "You make nasty sandwiches anyway," he mumbles with a snarl.

His bizarre attitude is driving me insane. "What is your problem?" I shout, following him. He's already taken out a jar of jam from the fridge and a half-finished bag of bread. "You don't just break into people's homes and get drunk and - and order them to make sandwiches for you! That's just mean!"

He's not listening to me, thoroughly concentrated on spreading the jam evenly on the slice of bread.

I shove him angrily. "You think I'd welcome you here? You think you can just do whatever you want? I can have you arrested – don't think I won't do it, 'cause I will, Mister – for brea-" My last words come out muffled as he had just stuffed a large piece of the sandwich in my mouth. I gape at him.

He's looking at me simply, almost bored, the other half of his sandwich in his hand, chomping loudly on the bite he just took. He's just staring at me, watching me try to swallow the chunk of bread, as if he's admiring his well-done job of shutting me up.

I chew silently, ignoring his gaze and painfully admitting to myself that he really did make a good sandwich – however simple it was. Then, just as I finally got the last piece down my throat, he forcefully pushed the leftover bit into my mouth and wiped his hands clean of crumbs. I growl, half wanting to spit the sandwich back in his face, and half wanting to actually eat it.

He grabs another couple of bread slices and then the jar and the spoon. He gives me a lopsided smile, nudging me slightly with his elbow. "Thanks for letting me stay, Kid," he says quietly. Then, with the items in his hands, he steadily walks around me and makes his way back into the living room.

"…You're welcome," I find myself whispering, suddenly feeling an odd sense of delight that my ex was visiting me.

Next chapter: Rikku and Gippal confront each other for the first time since he left.

Thank you for reading. Please Review.