Trigger Warning: Panic attack after Satoru meets Nana.
:)
The bookstore is nice and silent with a small café on one side. He files through the astronomy section, looking for something appealing to read that he hasn't read already. He thumbs through a couple of eye-catching ones with unfamiliar titles and stacks two of them in the crook of his elbow. He also takes a newly released magazine. As he strolls through the aisles, he stumbles over the poetry section. The anthology he read now sits in one of the shelves in his living room, proudly displayed. He did end up liking some of the poems.
He runs his fingers over some of the covers, looking through the names. He reaches out to grab one of the titles that appear promising.
"Miya, did you really have to come all the way to this bookstore?"
"Nana," Oh no. No, not him. "I cannot find this book at any of the other wards. This is my only hope. I tried looking online but they're all sold out and they haven't restocked it." That's him alright. His voice is as melodious—stop! The male doesn't seem to speak any more and for a moment, Satoru thinks they walked past.
Red fills his peripheral vision, shifting slightly as if unsure of its movements.
"Miya," sighs the other in the same monotonous voice from before. There is no emotion, no cheer in his voice. How can anyone sound like that when speaking to Miyako? It's so strange to hear. How can anyone be monotonous around the redhead? Even Satoru has some form of emotion. "Miya, speak." His companion pauses and then, "Miya, use your words." Glancing to his right, he sees Miyako fidgeting and looking anywhere but him. A blond man stands beside him with an expressionless face, looking at the redhead. The blond nudges the redhead forward. "Say what you need to say."
"Why don't you?" he hisses, his voice nervous and almost desperate and so very unlike him that he can't help but wonder if something's wrong.
"Me? Interact with other people? No," he drawls monotonously. He adjusts his rounded glasses, looking away from his friend. His eyes roaming over the books as to avoid eye contact.
Satoru glances at the books and then at the redhead, momentarily debating that he needs something from him. "Do—Do you need me to move?" Satoru watches as Miyako startles, face flushing and looking at the books. His red gaze barely lands on him longer than a few seconds before flitting away, not even making it up to his face. How does one even act in such a situation? "Miyako-san?"
His gaze snaps towards him and instead of a glare that usually meets him, a nervous smile flits onto his face. This is getting really strange. The air is filled with awkward energy and he isn't sure how to deal with this. "Ka-Kanoichi-san! H-Hi."
That—that didn't really answer his question.
The blond—Nana?—seems to perk up a bit, his interest obviously piqued. "Oh, you two know each other?"
"He's my coworker," he whispers, nervously fidgeting. "Nana, this is Kanoichi-san. Kanoichi-san, this is my best friend Nanahira." He just sounds so awkward and out of place. And wow, that's really adorable. His lips are bitten and licked, constantly beckoning for his attention. He's never seen Miyako anything but confidant, so seeing him like this is so strange even if it is cute. "I—I didn't know you liked poetry."
Satoru glances down at the book in his hand. "Oh, Akane-san, gave me one on an Indonesian poet. I—I kind of want to branch out my tastes in books."
Hearing this, the nervousness seems to fade slightly as he perks up. Again, so different from before and a warmth spreads through his chest. "Oh, well, I do recommend that book but not any of the poet's other works. I made the mistake of buying some of their other works in bulk and I didn't like any of it, so they just sit on my shelves collecting dust. If you're interested, I can lend them over." He reaches up and scratches his cheek, glancing away. "I—I mean . . ."
"I'd like that," he cuts through, seeing his rambling will only worsen his state. "Thank you." He gives him a ghost of a smile, the corners of his lips lifting just enough. He hopes it's as reassuring as he wants it to be, to help the younger man calm down. Satoru's heart beats furiously in its cage, threatening to burst at the sight of Miyako's softening expression. How can he keep this? How can he keep the redhead looking at him this way? He steps away from the shelves, allowing the redhead passage.
Satoru watches him, trying to not make it obvious. He doubts it worked, judging from the blond's probing gaze. Miyako's awkward in his movements, too stiff and so not like him. While he finds it adorable, it sparks a pain in his chest at seeing him so nervous around him. "Miyako-san, how—how have you been?" Maybe talking to him will help him calm down? To ease the tension? He hopes. When he looks closer, he can see a pale, thin scar winding over his cheekbone. He also takes note of the red locks, they are a lot longer than he remembered them being as they skim the tops of his shoulders, framing his face.
"Ah, I'm doing well. Just can't move too quickly or suddenly." His gaze drops to his leg. For a moment, he can see an unreadable expression flit pass his face before melting away. "What about you? How's the leg?"
"Just a slight limp and have to do therapy. The doctors said that if you hadn't acted as quickly, I would have lost my leg." He turns his head, rubbing the side of his neck as he continues, "Thank you, Miyako-san."
Miyako Arata's eyes widen, staring in disbelief at the exorcist and presuming to be at loss for words. The blond shuffles his weight at the start of a conversation and sends Satoru a glare as he hugs Miyako from behind and rests his chin on his shoulder. This small action causes his chest to ache. "Miya," he whispers, dropping his voice even lower so that the exorcist can't hear him.
Satoru shuffles his weight, looking down at his books. He glances back towards the shelves as he decides to return to browsing. He doesn't realize he's clenching his teeth until he parts his lips to yawn.
"What do you want with Miya?"
Satoru jolts, turning back towards the blond who now stands alone. His dark gaze slides to see the redhead heading to the cafe, watching him weave into the small crowd. He averts his attention back to the blond, frowning. "I'm sorry? I don't seem to understand what you mean."
Rolling his eyes behind his rounded spectacles, Nanahira crosses his arms. Even if he seems to appear to be weak, the exorcist does not like the intimidating aura he's emitting. "You like to act quite clueless, dontcha? What do you want with my best friend? I heard unsavory things about you, Kanoichi Satoru. Miya has the worst taste in guys and you better not be one of those, I do not want to see him making the same mistake. So, I'll ask once more, what do you want with Arata?"
"Nothing. I don't want anything with him."
"You expect me to believe that when you kept staring at him as if he hung the stars and moon?"
That—is that how he's been looking at the annoying pest? Is that how Akane and Shimizu found out? Has he been so obvious? "I have no—"
"And you're a in denial? I'm honestly not surprised." He shakes his head, leaning back on his heel. Annoyance blooms, how dare he interrupt him? "You know exactly what you want, how you feel. Either stay away from Miya or tell him, but do not play with his feelings."
What the hell? What feelings? Yes, he knows how he feels for Miyako, has known for a while now and no matter what, he still wants to deny it. "Me? Play with his feelings? He hates me! What feelings are there to even play?" His grip tightens on the books in his hands, glaring icily at the man. "Do you even know how much it fucking hurts? How much it hurts when he glares at me as if I burned his world to the ground? As if I betrayed him?
"I love him! Okay? Is that what you want to hear? I fucking love Miyako Arata. And it hurts to know that he doesn't love me back. It hurts because I screwed up any chance of being with him. Yet, you come here and have the fucking audacity to accuse me of playing with his feelings? How dare you?" His throat burns with the fire of a thousand suns. His eyes sting and his vision grows blurry. Dammit. Fuck. He shouldn't have said that. He shouldn't have let this even get to him. This is not a conversation to be done in public, in the middle of a bookstore. "You only know one side of the story and you—?" he trails off, turning away as he grits his teeth.
"Is that so?" Glancing at the blond, he notices the wide smile. It looks strange and out of place. The smile lessens and he sighs. "You two are the worst communicators I have ever met. Talk to each other and stop making assumptions about one other. You love him, tell him. He's not going to think less of you. Stop hurting yourself by acting like this. Miya deserves a lot, especially someone who cares about him. Don't be a dick like the others and we," he points between them, "won't have a problem."
Satoru reels back as if he had been burned. "What are you talking about?"
Nanahira sighs, pressing a hand against his forehead as if questioning his life. "Miya is not a hateful person. He doesn't hate anyone unless they do something to hurt those he cares about. He does like and respect you, but he hates that you don't try to understand him. You're right, I don't know the full story because Miya doesn't tell me everything. I do not know what's going on between you two and I hate it. Miya hates that you don't like him, that he did something wrong and doesn't know how to fix it. He hates that whenever you two are in the same vicinity, you two start to argue. Not once, has he told me that he hates you."
"He—?" He doesn't hate me? But, all those times—? He stares at the blond with complete disbelief. He has to be wrong. He has to—
His chest constricts as denial seeps into his body. He grips the books as his breathing seems to fail him. He opens and closes his mouth, trying to speak, trying to argue with him. His throat betrays him.
"Kanoichi-san?" Miyako returns, looking paler as he shakily hands the steaming cup to his friend. Nervous. Why is Miyako nervous? Did—Did he hear? "Is—is everything okay?"
Satoru forgets how to speak. The words never fully form, choking him as they die immediately in his throat. Miyako must have heard. He had to have heard him profess his love for him. That must be it. "He hates that you don't like him." But that doesn't mean Miyako wants him. Miyako must want him as a friend. Not the way he wants him. Dammit. Dammit! He's only asking to be polite. He has to go. He can't—the world tilts around him and something crawls up his throat. Bile? A sob? He isn't sure and he doesn't want to make a complete fool of himself. More than he has, anyway. He nods, hoping that he's not as frantic as he thinks he is.
He fails and they notice.
He meets the blond's eyes—they're both worried, why? They shouldn't be worried, not for him, never for him, it can't be—and gives them both a hasty bow, turning away and heading to leave. He has to escape. He pays for the books, hands shaking as he places them down. He barely registered the woman's words, too muffled as if his ears were filled with cotton.
Why? Why?
Why?
WHY?
He seems to do nothing but ruin everything.
Satoru doesn't know when or how he gets home. How he gets home without breaking down.
The door hits his back, the bag of books dropping with a thud and echoing throughout the quiet apartment, emphasizing his loneliness.
Satoru stares ahead with no focus, breaths coming out shaky in the same rhythm as his chest shudders. His vision blurs, lips trembling. He lifts his hands to his face, trying to stop the tears.
Stop.
Stop.
Please, stop.
It hurts.
It hurts so much.
He barely registers his back hitting the door, barely registers sliding down it as his legs have grown too weak to hold him up. He only registers the horrible pain with each breath he takes, the burning sensation in his throat as salty tears cascade down his cheeks as he pleads for the pain to just stop, to make it stop.
The sight is one poets can speak with honeyed words and silky phrases, telling the woes of the man who loved wrongly and was destined to be alone. They can spew lines, paint a picture and set the scene without trying. They will move their audience well to tears, their hearts aching for the sad man.
But not here. No one would weep for Kanoichi Satoru who got what he deserved. No one would weep with him or share the same woes. Not for the fool who fell for the one who'd never understand him or vice versa. The fool who fell for a rival who sides with the fool's enemies.
No. No one will weep, not for him, for he is destined to be alone.
He's alone in a quiet apartment, so suffocatingly quiet. He's known this, known for so long. The apartment feels so huge yet so tiny all at once that it overwhelms his senses, worsening it all the more.
How stupid could he get?
Miyako probably doesn't want him more than a friend, more than an acquaintance. He doesn't want him in the way Satoru wants him. How much of a fool can he be?
Satoru weeps, harsh sobs wracking through his body as he, for the first time in so long, screams his woes into existence, voice desperate and cracking. The little, scarred fool who finally wanted and was too late to get it. That is his story. That is how he will be known. He shakes with the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes, mind in turmoil that rivals an angry ocean. He can't calm down, can't breathe.
Satoru's lungs burn. Burn with the same heat of his unrequited love. His lungs burn, mocking his heart as he feels too much for the first time. They mock the rapid beating organ, too small but feels so much. They mock the fire that burns in it. How dare they? How could they? No one knows why.
Ashes are a byproduct of fire, everything burnt to nothing. They fall and cover the ground like snow. Unlike snow, you can breathe it in and taste it.
Satoru weeps ashy tears and is left with the taste on his tongue, gasping for breath that will never return.
Fun fact, I cried when I wrote this.
No, Kanoichi is not dead.
