K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Five: Reckless Red

October 2, 2010

Shizume lay quiet. To the eye prevailed a sense of calm while to the senses, to the heart and soul of Homra, nothing could be further from the truth. A restlessness abounded in the air, as though we were a ship without a breeze, caught in lifeless waters where a rudder held no sway.

My episodes decreased; the bar - to the chagrin of Izumo — was empty; Tatara took up music; and the boys were so far spent in looking for a fight, they'd lost all interest in going out. Even Reisi and his clan had kept to themselves. Nothing stirred, yet somehow in my mind, I felt that something astronomical was coming, and that this calm would soon give way for what would be the largest storm of all.

Mikoto in particular was more reserved than usual. Normally, I could sense him, feel the rhythm of his thoughts. Our bond had kept us linked that way, whether we wanted it or not, though lately, our connection had been strained. Inexplicably, I found him somewhat closed to me, and the internal absence over time had begun to worry me.

I then resigned myself to speak with him, yet he had disappeared following the grand explosion of events atop Shizume City, no doubt venting his insatiable desire for violence and most likely what he'd been so secretive about. Though highly out-of-character for one so apathetic as Mikoto, it became an increasing habit of his to leave without a word and not return for hours, only to resume his naturally withdrawn existence, hardly speaking to me or anyone else. However, this was the first time he had been absent longer than a day, and soon, four days had gone by since the night we got the call on Tatara's phone.

Thus, when I inevitably sensed his return (however faintly) on the fifth day, I came running down the stairs to greet him, only to discover that he had zoomed directly through his window on the second floor and then lay sound asleep. I didn't care though; I had to see him. I missed the red that captured me the moment I first saw it, and I missed him, the one who was himself the red.

I raced back up the stairs. It was harder, being as short as I was. Every step took two of mine, and when at last I reached the top, annoyingly out of breath, I snuck my way into Mikoto's room and crawled up on the bed beside him. He hadn't even bothered getting underneath the sheets. He simply sprawled out with his hands behind his head and his face tilted toward the ceiling.

I laid down on my side, resting my cheek on his arm just above the elbow. He was warm; always he was warm; his red had kept him so, and not five minutes passed when I, too, having lost my nerve to wake him, drifted off to sleep.

I wasn't certain how much time had passed, only that it was dark when I awoke. Still, Mikoto slept, though he had turned his features sideways and his nose was touching mine. I smiled, closed my eyes once more, and did not wake until dawn. Again, he was asleep, or so I thought. His arm was drawn around me, pressing me against him, and as I stirred, so also did his hand close in around my waist.

"I know, I'm reckless," he said. I watched his eyes squint open and look squarely into mine. "Can you blame me?"

"I never do," I said. "Besides…" I started to say, but I didn't finish. He knew what I would say, and creased his brow as if to argue, but instead, his frown relaxed and he said nothing.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" I asked, and he turned his face away, sending his stern gaze upon the ceiling. That meant 'No.'

So they got away, I surmised. I knew he made a promise he would find them, but I didn't think he'd take it quite so far. He seemed thoroughly wracked with something sinister, of which, I couldn't help but think I was the cause. There was a certain darkness lurking in his features. Even in the contours of his profile staring upward at the ceiling, I could tell: this was not a man who simply wished to burn for burning's sake; and yet, for all my wondering, I couldn't find a reasoning behind it.

I then sought to conjure up a stratagem: a way to unmask every hint of calculated broodiness that might reveal his brazen self beneath – that raw, undaunted nature he once permitted me to witness, but had thenceforth — and for no apparent reason — kept me hidden from, as though he'd somehow changed and feared what I might see, moreover, what I might say, that perhaps I might not like what he'd become. If this truly is about me, I cogitated, then I have to let him know that I'm alright with it, no matter what it is. Do that, I said to myself, and you'll have found your answer. I pondered this another moment, an idea having formed itself and growing in my mind. When at last, I came to confidence, certain of success, I resigned myself and set my plan in motion.

Gently, I reached a finger out and poked his cheek, then watched his lip begin to curl, his face turned cunning at my touch.

"You know that sort of thing won't work on me, right?"

"Wrong," I said. "I don't pretend with you."

Mikoto flinched and glared at me, though I knew well that glaring was exactly what he wasn't doing; and I smirked, my look conveying my perception: that in my minute action, my simplicity of touch, intimate, genuine, devoid of any farce, I'd wholly won him over, and he caved. In one great sigh, he scooped me up and pulled me fully onto him, wrapping both his arms around me, locking me inside.

I couldn't keep from letting loose a little 'umph' at being smushed against him all at once, yet there, in arms so fierce and destitute, I lay — in any ordinary circumstance, cut off from circulation, and yet somehow, just the opposite was true. My face buried in the crook between his shoulder and his chin, I sensed the slight pulsations of his neck along my cheek. My nose picked up the tickling sensation of the wisps of fiery hair about his face; moreover, the intoxicating scent of tobacco from his last cigarette. So close was I, drawn near to him by him, I hummed my evident contentment and allowed myself the comfort of drifting in accordance with the movement of his chest, rising slowly up and down, his arms bound ever tightly round my dainty little frame. I didn't think it possible to bring me any closer, but to him, it seemed I wasn't close enough.

That's when it appeared; so long distant, it came flooding back: the contents of his thoughts, like half of me — the half that disappeared — had suddenly returned. This time, I could see it flashing vaguely in his mind; moreover, I could feel it. It was why he ventured out alone for days on end. Sure, he wished to vent and blow off steam. That's just the sort of person that he is; but this time — and I realized, many more times since we'd met — he wasn't simply searching for answers, for the Shadows, for a way to undo what they'd done. He was striving with a passion that surpassed what I expected from the promise that he made, even one so obdurate as his. This passion drove all prior senses into dust.

He would fulfill his promise to me, though he would not do to solely for my sake. He no longer wanted it as ardently as I. No, this was something different, something more, something his indicative demeanor contradicted; his overall aloofness, what he wished for me to see: all of it was feigned and what he then revealed to me supplanted all the rest. What I saw was truth, his truth, the truth he meant to hide, but somehow found he couldn't any more, the truth of what he wanted for himself, and, given the endurance of emotion I received, I quickly understood: he wanted it more deeply than I wanted it myself.

Chapter Six: Flashes Over Shizume