YAYZIES!

So, thanks to the HUGE support toward the first chapter, I've finally made a move.

This is going from a one-shot into a collection of…drabbles, you could say. Well, drabbles with a bit more something to them. They won't be connected, but if they are, I'll let you know.

So, onto this one!

Show: Maid Sama!

Pairing: Usui/Misaki/Cat?

Summary: They're a tapestry. Interwoven and bright, there's too much to them to be kept to a 25x65 dimension. They bleed out. They seep. They live. (Set about a year after the end of the anime, er, and…I got nothing)

-x-x-x-

All things considering, he should have seen this coming.

The small, fleeting glances she had been giving him through the day. The smell of her, attacking him at all angles. The slight 'O' her lips made when she addressed him. He had wanted to take her fingers and study each of them because they, they had been twirling anxiously. Or idly. He wasn't really sure. He wanted to hold them, squeeze them, kiss them. But she wouldn't look him in the eye. The teachers had been droning on and on and on.

Now here she was, changed out of her school uniform, changed out of her work uniform, and changed out of those suspicious glances she had been firing at him. She leant against the doorframe, looking as if she were steeling herself for battle.

Which, you know, she probably was.

"Er," she commented lightly, refusing to budge from the safety of the hall. She had a small bag slung around her shoulders. One fist was half-raised, either halfway through a knock, or halfway through aiming a punch. He tried not to duck instinctively.

"Uh," he responded in kind, and briefly marvelled at the conversation that had just passed. One small part of his mind was searching for similar non-abrasive half-sounds, just in case. He tried hunching his shoulders together, all together leaving as much space for her as possible, trying to appear less like the carnivorous animal she seemed bracing herself for. He stepped away from the door. Personal space, apparently, was all the rage.

"Did you want to, uh," he gestured behind him, hand flying somewhat in the direction of the tall windows to the left. Jump, his minded finished for him gleefully. He repressed a pace-palm.

Frowning, Misaki brushed passed him and into the threshold, hoping to god she didn't just scuttle.

"Yes," she affirmed, though she was already in. She appeared to be giving her best impression of an awkward bystander, hovering by the couch, refusing to sit on it, looking just about as happy as his grandmother's ashes.

That is, if his grandmother was ashes.

Dear god, was his grandmother even dead yet?

He shook his head mildly, as if clearing it, hoping his hair would sway attractively (or seductively, or even both would be quite agreeable. He could tolerate her lunging herself at him and, you know, ravishing him) while he performed the art. He glanced up, but Misaki seemed to be having a one-player competition with herself to see how long she could avoid looking at him.

She was staring blankly at his cat.

Said cat stared back.

Before any further developments to the relationship could be made, either initiated by Misaki or, heaven forbid, his own damn cat, he cleared his throat rather self-indulgently. Then again, because it seemed to indicate what he was about to say would be either grand, witty, suggestive, extremely profound, or, if his usual habits were any indication, all four at once.

Her head snapped up, and he winced for her neck, because he highly doubted her neck could audibly wince for itself.

"As overjoyed as my cat is for this visit," he began rather grandly, hands gesturing outward for show, "I doubt he'll keep you entertained for very long."

He smiled at his own wit. Misaki frowned.

"Unlike myself," he tacked on for good measure, wondering if he could find a way to remove his shirt and make it look completely and utterly justified. Idly, he wondered if he still had that list he had composed during a particularly tedious science class if a situation like this were to occur. Most of the point were invalid unless his shirt was off. How the hell else could she ravish him if the fancy so took her? He was accommodating. In his own way.

"It's Washing Day today," he began casually, a bright little flash bulb hovering above his head – the kind that usually incited half-baked, nonsensical ideas that ended in identity theft. In reality, there was no such thing as Washing Day. He lived in a penthouse for Pete's sake. But Misaki cut off his brilliant, although slightly eccentric solution firmly.

"Will you cut it out?" she snapped, finally falling onto the couch with a depressive thump as the cat leisurely meandered somewhere behind the curtains. Probably to eavesdrop.

He had a good feeling jealousy made him slightly delusional. Slightly.

Would he sit next to her? A year ago, he wouldn't have hesitated. Hell, he wouldn't have hesitated telling her to throw herself at him and ravish him. She had even taken off his shirt on her own accord back then. But now. But now.

Somewhere in the tapestry, a thread was pulled tight.

She was seventeen. He was eighteen. They faced each other with a wariness only age could incite. She was seventeen. He was eighteen. Before, it had been frightening. They held hands like all the other high-schoolers, they kissed. But it had grown into something else – something more? Neither had a clue. All that was clear now was that the fear had changed. Evolved.

She was terrified he'd end up laughing about it in the future at some smoky pub, a pretty red-head wrapped around his torso like a musk, and he would be looking into her face and finding that something he had once found in that girl he once went to school with; Misaki Ayuzawa. And it would have been so much easier if he had forgotten her name.

He was terrified she'd finally realise she was too good for him. She'd finish high school at the top, finally beating him. She'd storm away to university, creating the havoc and order and admiration that seemed to always follow her. She'd soar. She'd bloom. She'd see. And she'd finally realise the blonde boy who couldn't keep his hands off her if he tried was nothing more than one piece of something much, much bigger. And he'll be left behind – for his own good.

But there was something in this fear.

Every move was finally significant. He wondered if that was what they had missed one year ago. Significance. He wanted to be able to kiss her fingers and feel like he was signing a contract with each fingernail. There was the future in the way she looked at him. There was truth in the way he kissed her.

He sat.

The cushion shifted under him, accompanying the weight. She was frowning. Again.

"You came here," he reminded her lightly, tossing his glasses onto the coffee table, trying to appear spontaneous. Though, in front of her, there was little point. She drew it all in like water, without even blinking. "So have what you came here for, and I won't hold you for anything else."

Misaki shrugged, and it took him a second to realise this was her answer.

"Ah," he told her.

"Eh," she sighed.

They were getting better at this.

-x-x-x-

Yeah, so, hm.

So we've got a slightly depressed Usui from the last one-shot, a witty, border-line immature one here, so I swear I'll get around to perverted. One day. Hm.

(Review.)

Did you just think I told you to review? You're hallucinating.

(Review.)

Again? Not me.

(Review.)

Must be your inner desires.

(Review.)

It's bad to suppress your inner desires, so you better do whatever it's telling you to.

I'll stop the review prostitution now. Sorry.

x Schnook