[ If I won in a world without you in it, I'll never lose in one that has you.
This is where the story starts. He still needed you. He found you.
It hurts. Worse than spilling his heart out about Rumi on a couch in the farmhouse, on a darkened path through the woods, in a bathhouse, on a starlit cliff. Worse than having his back gouged by a fallen kaiju, or his throat collapsing as a rock beats down against it, or being impaled and shredded by Rashomon. It hurts, sudden and visceral and blinding.
Maruki yanks off his glasses, sets them down on the floor somewhere beside them. Covers both eyes now, palms digging in, fingers winding up into his hair and hanging on tight. There's a burning in his chest as his teeth grit tight enough to shatter, and he tries to breathe, because it does make sense. It does. It makes sense. Maruki knows it does. But– ]
I don't want this.
[ Small, wretched, miserably selfish. Maruki shakes his head, grinds his palms against the heat rising up behind his eyes, clutches at his head like he used to during the migraines that preceded Azathoth.
It's not strictly true. Of course he wants to start their story again. Of course he wants anything to do with Akira, even if it's painful. Of course he will.
But there's an irrational part of him that he never allows to surface. Always tempered, always logical, always setting aside his own emotions to do what's right. That part of him doesn't want to have to rebuild something that's supposed to be so foundational. It's hard, and it hurts, and he doesn't want to do something so hard, he doesn't want to hurt. He doesn't want to hurt.
Another shake of his head, another pitiful admission through a wet, choked-off voice. ]
no subject
This is where the story starts. He still needed you. He found you.
It hurts. Worse than spilling his heart out about Rumi on a couch in the farmhouse, on a darkened path through the woods, in a bathhouse, on a starlit cliff. Worse than having his back gouged by a fallen kaiju, or his throat collapsing as a rock beats down against it, or being impaled and shredded by Rashomon. It hurts, sudden and visceral and blinding.
Maruki yanks off his glasses, sets them down on the floor somewhere beside them. Covers both eyes now, palms digging in, fingers winding up into his hair and hanging on tight. There's a burning in his chest as his teeth grit tight enough to shatter, and he tries to breathe, because it does make sense. It does. It makes sense. Maruki knows it does. But– ]
I don't want this.
[ Small, wretched, miserably selfish. Maruki shakes his head, grinds his palms against the heat rising up behind his eyes, clutches at his head like he used to during the migraines that preceded Azathoth.
It's not strictly true. Of course he wants to start their story again. Of course he wants anything to do with Akira, even if it's painful. Of course he will.
But there's an irrational part of him that he never allows to surface. Always tempered, always logical, always setting aside his own emotions to do what's right. That part of him doesn't want to have to rebuild something that's supposed to be so foundational. It's hard, and it hurts, and he doesn't want to do something so hard, he doesn't want to hurt. He doesn't want to hurt.
Another shake of his head, another pitiful admission through a wet, choked-off voice. ]
I don't want this. I want him here.
[ I want my friend. ]