Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ This is Not My Life ❯ Breaking Down ( Chapter 23 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

By: Sky Rat

“I just can't stop myself from breaking down
It's just no good unless you come around
I turn into a monster
All my friends agree”

-Yohji-

I knew he was gone before I even found the note.

The moment I opened the door, the room just felt…wrong.

Not from visual cues either…everything seemed exactly how it had been when I'd left in the morning (in other words, a bit of a disorganized mess; but the kind of mess where you know where everything is.) Even the things of Aya's that I had carelessly flung out of our duffle bag remained where I'd scattered them. There was nothing to indicate that Aya hadn't just momentarily stepped out. It was just a feeling.

Sometimes on missions I'll get a bit of a premonition right before things start to go wrong. I'll step into a room, and something about it will be off, but it'll take me a moment to process the incongruity. It might be no more than a piece of furniture not matching the floor plans we'd been given, but the feeling it gives me has made the difference between making it home and becoming a Kritiker statistic. I always trust hunches. And today hit me with a bad one.

My stomach dropped as my fingers slid off the cold steel of the doorknob. The emptiness of the room had an intangible permanence to it. Our previously cohabited dwelling did not have the air of a place whose occupant had left to get lunch, or take a walk. It felt abandoned.

I've spent more than my fair share of time in abandoned places. I'm unfortunately familiar with the atmosphere.

I shut the door very carefully, as if Aya might have simply turned invisible, and I risked disturbing him with my intrusion. I immediately start to scan the room, searching for some sort of confirmation to my suspicions, but as I said, the room is undisturbed.

I have to go into the bathroom to find his note. It's taped to the mirror. There's nothing unusual in that; it's a common place for him to leave me notes. He knows there's no chance of me not finding it there…sooner or later. What is unusual is the content. The notes are usually trivial. Like: I switched our schedule in the shop today, be home by noon. Or, Remember to buy milk when you go out, or even, Some airhead called and cancelled your date tonight.

If you didn't put too much thought into it, this current note might not have seemed any different.

Yohji.

Had to take care of something. Back tonight.

Probably.

Aya.

Probably.

Aya could have chucked his katana at me and the impact would have hurt less.

I stare for a moment, vacantly absorbing the image of myself, reflection cleanly bisected by yellow note paper. His meticulous handwriting leaves no room to question the message's content. An uneasy hollow feeling starts to settle in my chest, and I have to sit down on the side of the bathtub, although my eyes remain glued to the mirror.

He's gone.

No question.

Gone.

And…I'm not sure what to do.

I keep staring at the mirror. Each time I let my eyes fall on the harsh ink I masochistically hope for a second that I read it wrong. That this time the note will say something different.

Nope. The probably's still there.

`Probably' is barely a step above maybe. It's what girls say when you ask them out and they want to let you down easy. It's the empty reassurance of a parent who knows their kid will forget their promise before it comes due.

If Aya is anything, he's convicted. Words like probably just aren't his style.

Or…weren't.

I could maybe imagine him saying it before departing on a mission. I'll probably be back. If someone doesn't kill me.

I'm torturing myself by reading it over and over. It takes some effort to break the cycle and wrench myself away from the note by leaving the bathroom. Once freed from the condemning sentence, I know what I have to do to confirm my suspicions.

My hand burrows through a tangle of fabric, searching out the feel of hard plastic. At some point along the way Aya picked up a pencil box to store all those temple charms he's been collecting. It was filling up pretty quick. It wouldn't surprise me at all if Aya discarded his clothing, but I somehow suspect he wouldn't leave without the box. The charms have been too integral to this whole trip for him to cast them aside.

I knew the box would be gone before I checked too. It was just necessary to go through the motions. Nothing in our duffle bag but clothes.

He's gone.

Home. Probably.

What the hell do I do now?

I sit down on the edge of the bed, Aya's bed, which is neatly made, unlike mine. He made the bed. Even though the hotel staff is going to come in and remake it. I can't help smiling a bit, in spite of the building sense of despondency that's creeping in. I guess I didn't make so much progress on teaching the guy how to relax.

Which is probably why he went home.

I'm surprised to find myself wanting to go home too.

Since when did I start thinking of the Koneko as 'home' anyway? It was just a place where I had to live. Home was my old apartment. Asuka's apartment was home too. Home was supposed to be the new apartment we were going to find together, but never got the chance to.

The Koneko no Sumu Ie was just a transitory residence. At least, that was my perspective once.

Funny how easily things can change without you noticing. I guess the Koneko's been home for a while now.

Well. It might have been home, but I still wasn't really planning on going back. Not really. And when I made that plan I was hardly expecting Aya to stick around. I packed our stuff assuming he'd opt out. I'd been okay with that.

So how come I'm not okay now?

Cause...I'm really not okay. I feel like I've been punched in the gut.

I only spent a couple of days with him. I wouldn't have expected things could change that fast.

...I'm deluding myself if I think anything has changed. This thing with Aya has been building for a while. I just didn't notice, sort of like that whole Koneko 'home' thing.

Shit.

What do I do?

Do I go back? Goddamn it, I want to go back. That wouldn't look so great though, would it? I pretty much told Aya he was my only anchor to Tokyo. Leaving means he's expecting me to leave too. It would look pretty desperate and needy if I followed him back after being rejected.

…Do I care how I look? No.

…But I care what Aya thinks.

And he obviously doesn't want that.

Shit.

Well, the hotel room is already paid through tomorrow. I guess it makes no sense to go anywhere yet. I'll give him until check-out time to make good on his note. If...he doesn't show up, I'll carry on with my trip. I might as well ride out my plans for the week before making any ultimate decisions about where I'll end up. Maybe I'll go home. Or maybe I'll find a new one. I might even leave Japan; I guess I don't have to decide right away.

Outlining a plan makes me feel better, even if the plan is just to postpone making plans.

But my plan still leaves me with an awful lot of time to kill. So, again, the question is, what do I do?

I think I've had enough of sightseeing for the moment. The thought of going out around the town again only makes me feel tired.

I pick up a guidebook and idly thumb through it, momentarily entertaining the idea of mapping out the rest of my trip. Without having to consider Aya's preferences, I suddenly have a lot more options for what I can do. That should be fun, right? Planning out almost a whole week of going wherever the hell I want? Gives me a bright side, something to look forward to and take the edge off of feeling abandoned.

Flipping through the pages turns up photos of craft markets. Zen gardens. Fucking sword museums. And temples. Tens upon thousands of temples.

…Not a goddamned place in the whole damn thing that I'd care to go to without Aya. Leaving the country suddenly takes on an extra edge of appeal. Maybe I should pick somewhere random, that I've never even considered visiting before. Like…I could go to Ecuador. Yeah, that sounds like a place that might have some nice beaches (preferably populated by hot babes.) More importantly, I bet there'd be nothing in South America to remind me of Aya and torture me into missing him.

...Actually, those aren't odds I'd lay money down on.

I toss the book at the wall and it skims the edge of the TV set, making it wobble precariously for a moment. My eyes follow its descent to the floor, where it lands coincidentally close to another book. Aya's book, more like a tome, really. I pick it up.

I'm reminded for a second that in spite of whatever else has happened, Aya opened up to me. He trusted me with things that may not really make all that much sense, but their importance was clear. I'm especially reminded that there's a whole lot to Aya that doesn't fit into the predictable personality I'm in the habit of assuming of him. Or at least, a whole lot to Ran.

Hm.

It's a fucking heavy book. I'm just about to put it down again when something stops me. I might be facing quite a lot of time to kill, and I still don't feel like going out.

So long as I'm already resigned to brooding about you-know-who, it could hardly hurt to finish reading it. Reread it, even. Reading is definitely a good time killer, and this looks like my most promising option.

I sling the thing under my arm and make my way down to the hotel bar. For once it seems like a healthier atmosphere--healthier than staying in the room anyway, where I'd probably spend more time staring at the door than at the text. Well, that's my excuse anyway, and I'm sticking to it.

********

I don't think I've ever tried reading in a bar before. It…seemed like a good idea. I like bars (a lot.) I like to read. I'm not exactly in the mood to chat people up right now, so I didn't have much else to do here.

I think I've read the same paragraph eight times now.

The bartender keeps smirking at me in a really irritating way. I find it extra irritating because I usually really like bartenders. Most of them have interesting things to say. This guy doesn't have anything to say at all, other than obnoxious snickers as he hands me a new Asahi Super Dry, as if there's something really weird about complimenting that with Hans My Hedgehog.

Okay, so I know that is weird. Shut up.

It might not be so bad if I wasn't getting stared at on multiple fronts. A lady in a business suit parked herself a few stools away and has barely taken her eyes off me. I can tell that she's trying to get up her nerve to come over and talk. Each time I look in her direction her head quickly darts back towards her drink, but her attention never stays there for long. Not long ago I would have capitalized on the opportunity and probably gone home with her.

Er…maybe not home. Gone…somewhere.

The concept isn't even remotely appealing just now. Maybe in a few more weeks I'll be back to normal, and feel differently about that.

…Yeah, right.

This isn't something I'll so easily move on from. It was bad enough being haunted by Asuka. Now every person I meet is going to get weighed against two impossible standards. And if Asuka was irreplaceable, I don't even want to think about trying to find another Aya. It's not going to happen.

I'm totally fucked.

I'd been on to something with my `don't get attached' philosophy. I guess this serves me right.

I go back to my attempt at reading with renewed intensity. I don't want to actually think about anything until check-out time. I just want to be distracted. Returning to my struggle with focusing on talking hedgehogs proves less fruitful than I hope.

“…Pulled off her beautiful clothes and stuck her with his quills until she was bloody all over."

...This book is a terrible distraction. No wonder Aya has issues.

I take a swig of beer and just stare at the page unseeingly for a few moments, feeling intense eyes on my back, cringing a bit as a man sitting near me gratingly chews on an ice cube. And then another. And another. Although it's never something that's especially bothered me before, tonight I'm finding the shattering crunch of it about on par with nails on a chalkboard. A guy could develop a nervous tick hanging around that dude for too long.

When I move to take another drink I realize I've been gripping the can so hard I've dented it.

I set it down. I think I need something stronger than beer, anyway.

The bartender meets my request with incensing smugness.

“I'm not supposed to serve minors,” he snarks with a nod to my reading material.

I almost snap back something obscene but manage to bite my tongue. The last thing I need to do is give the asshole an excuse to spit in my scotch. Anyway, the time I've spent around Aya has allowed me to elevate my glaring skills to an art form.

My drink appears much more promptly than expected and the bartender is suddenly very occupied in chatting with someone down the counter.

It's almost amusing.

Though if Aya were here he'd probably be disapprovingly remarking about the predictability of my coping with alcohol.

In one instant of complete and total insanity I almost pour my drink out.

Then my brain starts working again and I drain half the glass in one gulp. If I'm going to alter my behavior to suit Aya he'd better damn well be around to appreciate it.

Jesus, I've got it bad.

I've sunk so low over my glass that I don't even notice that Miss Shifty Eyes has encroached into my space until she speaks.

“Kid problems?” She asks, not surprisingly eyeing my book, the false sympathy in her voice utterly failing to conceal a tone of hopefulness.

I nearly laugh. I have got to be the very last person she'd want in any kind of proximity to her children, if she had even half a clue of who I was. But then, her standards are probably pretty low if she's scoping out potential father figures in a bar full of depressed drunks.

“Nope,” I say, hoping to discourage her attention with curtness.

It doesn't work, of course.

“You look like someone who likes them,” she continues persistently, sitting down uninvited.

You're talking to the wrong assassin, my mind counters unhelpfully. If you want tainted child care, try scoping out soccer coaches.

My mouth is opened to counter, but I find myself hesitating. I'm being stared at head on by an opportunity to put this past week completely behind me, and go right back to where I left off, familiarly numb and in good company.

I've never tried dating chicks with kids. It might be good for me.

I make eye contact. She smiles, and it comes off just a little bit more genuine than her lousy ice breaker.

She might even pass as attractive if she could undo the stress lines pinching her face….

I let my eyes briefly cruise over her precisely applied makeup, her carefully layered hair.

I don't feel a thing.

Sigh.

“Sorry, I'm gay.”

Not the first time I've dropped that line, strangely. It's usually a no-fail way to deflect unwanted attention from women I don't feel like dealing with. It is however the first time I've spoken it as an uncomfortable half-truth instead of a smoothly rehearsed lie. I suppose the ease with which it always came to me might have clued me in to something.

My voice is lacking its usual confidence though. I sound defeated.

“You sure about that?” Her hand invasively trails across my knee. “Maybe you just haven't met the right girl yet.”

She couldn't possibly have said anything worse.

“Oh, I met her,” My fingers close around hers, but only to stiffly pry them off of my thigh. “But you wouldn't find her hanging around a place like this.”

My frigid words remove her as effectively as my glare did the bartender. Tomorrow I'll probably regret not being nicer. Right now I'm just grateful to have regained my solitude.

It only takes a second to drain my glass. I pause for a moment to stare at the now empty vessel. I consider going back to the room. I consider going back to my car. The options are countless.

Going AWOL on WeiÎ² would doubtlessly add several years to my life.

I try to picture myself enjoying them.

I can't.

With the prospect of never seeing Aya again, it starts to feel more like a sentence than a reprieve.

I could do without that sort of extension. I'm already a little too burned out on regrets as it is.

I pull out a cigarette and signal for another drink.