Behind every word lies a hypocrisy so deep it makes Hell look like Paradise
The little green-eyed monster. He didn't knew he had it in him. For as long as he was with Sora (and it was a long time) he had not been bitten by that monster. She was always surrounded by guys. When she played tennis, when she played soccer, heck even when she was in class there would always be some Tom, Dick or Harry talking up a storm with her. He never cared (that was what led to her calling him uncaring).
His lips were pursed and fists clenched in his pockets the whole time as he watched his other half brazenly flirting with the men around her. She was modelling for a magazine or some other, so were the men. He did not care. Then came the oh-so-sexy hoarse voice of Carlos or Fido or whatever their international names were, topless and muscles bulging as they swarmed his little flower.
She would giggle at their lame jokes, hands sliding off their shoulders to their chests, one by one. It made his stomach churn. He wanted to hit something, someone. He was patient. He waited until her shoot was over, to talk to her about his discomfort. She was a model. He was proud of her.
"They were just being friendly." She reasoned. "It's how they interact abroad." She reasoned again.
He still did not like it. He wanted her to stay away from the men unless they had to take their shots. She did not like it, his tone. So they argued, like any other day. He was being paranoid, she was being stubborn. He was raised in little ol' Japan, she was Americanised.
Words were thrown back and forth, alarmingly increasing into verbal abuses. He was frustrated. He wanted her to see that he actually cared. Under the heat of the moment, she did not.
"Ugh, no wonder Sora dumped you!"
She paled. His eyes widened. She had said too much, she knew. He knew. Her breath hitched, heart frozen as his eyes dulled and he looked away. Please don't look away. She silently begged.
"Maybe that's why." He chuckled. It was hollow, cold. It was like how he was back then, she remembered. The iciness, it made her shiver.
She wanted to apologize, mouth open, eyes watering. He was hurt. Without saying anything he left her rooted on the spot, still in mid-motion to say her piece. He did not care. She chased after him, would have been successful too, if not for the men from before suddenly grouping around her again. He did not look back. She shouted his name, he still walked away. He did not care. Hell looks like Paradise compared to this.
Hours later she left the studio, tears trailing down her face, mascara ruined and lipstick roughly smudged away. She wanted to see him, badly. She did not mean it, she wanted him to know. To care. She made her way to his apartment, knocking on his door. He did not answer, she knocked again. One, two, turned to hundreds she lost count. She stood there still, crying his name, a small plea to see his blue eyes again and be smothered in his arms.
Hours passed and she was still crying, too long some might say. She had given up on knocking, choosing to sit in front of his doors instead. She knew he had heard her, still waiting. The words replaying in her mind, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Mimi?" That voice, her salvation, came not from behind the locked door. He stood, in front of her, coming out from the elevator. He was drenched, it had been raining outside. His hair a wild mess yet it made him look eerily beautiful still, for a man.
More out of muscle memory, she leapt into his arms, strings of apologies spewing from her mouth as she sobbed into his chest. She did not mean it. She repeated it at least a hundred times over. He was cold. She was warm. He hugged her back, she was glad by it.
"I…I was waiting in front of your house." He said sheepishly. Waited he had. Hours even, late into the night, out in the open storm. He knocked, no answers, he rang the doorbell, no answer still. So he stood outside her window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her visage. He wanted her to see he was sorry.
She cried even more. He was beautiful. She was the ugly one. He hastily denied that. She was in the wrong. He denied her still. He did not care. Not about that anymore.
He kissed her, passionately. She kissed him back, hungrily. They haphazardly made their way into his apartment, bodies in a tangled mess, arms not releasing one another. He did not want to miss her heat, she did not want to leave his chill. They were on his couch, bodies in a tangled mess still, comfortable with each other's presence.
They made up. He would control his jealousy, to a certain degree, she would stop entertaining the men, to a certain degree. It was a compromise both were glad to make. He wanted to show her he cared. She saw it.
In days to come she would come visit his work. Fan-signing, he called it. He was a rockstar. She was proud of him. He welcomed her, eyes shining as she stood to watch him work. He greeted his fans with a smile, a different smile he had reserved for her. She was glad.
Then one of the girls went up and kissed him. Wolf-whistles and flashing cameras all around. He blushed, she (the vixen) was giggling like mad, and he signed on her still.
She felt it, suddenly. She was bit. Something crept up into her, that little green-eyed monster. She walked up the podium, despite protest from the security details (who were they to stop the main event's significant other?), grabbed him by the collars, and kissed him.
She glared into the crowd. Mine. Her eyes warned. Mine, mine, mine, all mine. Both of them cared.