Here you go, a chapter. I know, I know, it's been forever! I wish I had more time to just sit and WRITE but I don't. It's rather sad, really, so I'm beyond happy that I've finally managed to make time to just sit down and do something I enjoy.
Hope you like the results!
(PS -- sorry for the wait. Seriously. This story updates ridiculously slow. If you're STILL here reading this, give yourself a cookie.)
~ Nezumi
WARNINGS: There are some sensitive topics mentioned (NOT including abuse/past mentions of abuse), though nothing is described or talked about in detail, merely mentioned in passing.
WHAT DOES APPEAR: there are some scenes that could be considered self-harm and might be triggering to those sensitive to this topic, so proceed with necessary caution. If you are having troubles with self-harm or have suicidal/self-worth thoughts, please, talk to someone trusted or call/text a helpline and do what you need to do to get yourself in a better place. You are important and deserve no less than the best for yourself.
Working For What End?
God. It was horrible. I don't think that ever in my short span of life I've ever felt so guilty.
Shouta didn't really change. He didn't give me cold coffee or scalding either. It was the right temperature, as always. He still let me use his shower and sleep on his floor and keep the blankets and pillows I had stockpiled into a cozy nest.
He was still a kind man, and it made guilt drill into my heart, before leaving it as a pile of sawdust at my feet.
The kindness wasn't the worst bit though. If things had continued as normal, maybe I could have continued on with life, moved on, having convinced myself I had been forgiven.
But I knew I wasn't forgiven. I was so so painfully aware.
Shouta refused to look at him.
His eyes will stare resolutely at his laptop, or at his coffee, or anything but me. Like he was disturbed by me.
I've taken to staring at him from across rooms, hoping, wishing, that he would just look at me. A single glance would be better than nothing!
But no cigar. It's like the kind man doesn't know I'm there and I'm but some spirit haunting his living space.
Feeling depressed and guilty and like a horrible human being in general, I curl up morosely on the cold kitchen floor. I didn't deserve the soft blankets of my nest, not now, after I've so clearly made the kind man upset with me.
I wouldn't have done what I did if I had known Shouta would be dragged into my mess. He probably hated me but was too nice to actually kick me out. Now he owes his boss a favor, and he had to be dragged out to a whole other city to pick me up. A whole other city!
So I do my best to make up for it in little ways.
I take shorter showers, don't take second helpings, do the dishes both morning and night, clean about the house when Shouta's not there, I would have attempted cooking too if I didn't know I was horrible at it (I had melted a full sheet of cookies when I was younger-- don't ask me how, I don't know). Instead, when I am out of the apartment, I get food and bring it back to Shouta.
A bento box from a student's bag here, a pilfered candy bar from a store there.
I leave it on the table for him when he gets back from wherever he goes, (probably the school, where I now assume he teaches, hence all the paperwork he has). He eats it, but he doesn't comment otherwise.
It's been nearly two weeks now and I'm starting to despair. Would he ever look at me again?
Curling up a bit tighter, the cold of the kitchen floor seeps into my bones, leading to me being rather uncomfortable and constantly shifting as my body instinctually tries to find a better position. I still my movements though, stopping my squirming with sheer force of will. I'm left in a position with my cheekbone and shoulder digging painfully into the hard floor, my legs laying uncomfortably over each other, and my fingers getting cold away from my body. The way my spine jutted into the cupboards behind me was almost painful in its levels of discomfort.
The sound of a door opening creaks through the apartment followed by the sound of a duffle back falling to the floor.
Shouta was back.
Shouta was back to look at coffee, to make dinner, to type on his laptop, and feed me. To do everything but look at me.
Shouta walks about. He had toed off his shoes at the door and so his socked feet padded softly across the floors, all but silent. He sets his laptop on the coffee table along with his papers. He went and swiped a pen from the counter, tossing it onto the papers.
He pads down the hall to the bedrooms, changing into clean clothes. There's a rustle of cloth before I hear a soft thump and a plastic rocking noise as the toss of clothes into the hamper makes the plastic hamper roll on its base before settling again.
He comes back out heading for the kitchen, probably aiming to make himself a pot of coffee.
The footsteps pause. I have my eyes close and I don't bother opening them. I'd just be disappointed to see the kind man not-looking at me again.
"Stray?" Shouta asks, voice slightly raspy from exhaustion, even if he was good at hiding it.
I react as if someone had electrocuted me. My eyes jerk open and body up, my fingers would surely have twitched as well if they weren't stiff from a permeating cold.
Turning up my eyes, I couldn't stop my gaze from being beseeching, begging for some sort, any sort, of attention, even if that attention came in the form of an angry glare or word.
But Shouta isn't looking. His back is to me and he's throwing out an old coffee filter and putting a new one into the machine.
I slump, elbows knocking noisily against the cupboards as my shoulders fall. "Yes?" I ask softly back, finally responding, voice subdued while I wince at the racket I made.
Shouta starts shoveling coffee grounds into the filter with a little scooper. "We need to talk."
My stomach drops, sick and heavy, like I had swallowed a dumbbell and now it's threatening to tear apart my insides like wet tissue paper.
This is it. Kind man's going to kick me out. I've been to much trouble. To much work. Probably too much money too.
I take my legs to my stomach, knobby knees pressed into the bones of my chest, but not prodding as much as they used to. All of the kind man's food had filled me out and my body had gained a softness to it that it didn't use to have. I was not longer all sharp points, emaciated lines, and corded muscle.
I looked round-faced and childish. Like others my age I see walking to their fancy schools in their smart blazers and skirts. Where I used to walk too.
'Won't be looking like this for much longer,' I think despairingly. I should say goodbye to warmth and comfort and food now. To the kind man's kindness. It's going to be back to the streets with me. Like a puppy or kitten that outgrew a child's interest.
A toe nudges my own, warm sock against chilled skin, and then there is the side of a warm cup pressed against my forehead. I jerked back slightly in the confines of my mind. Minutes had passed but I had been unaware.
I accept the drink. The warming of my cold fingers against the hot sides is painful, but I hold them there anyway. My grip is knuckle-white to keep myself from pulling away and dropping the mug.
I hear Shouta take a deep breath and then another one. He must be trying to keep his anger in check.
"I'm not your boss," Shouta says after tapping a sip of his coffee. His voice is calm. Controlled. "I'm not your parent. Your guardian. I'm not even your teacher." He takes another sip of his drink, giving himself time to think. For the first time in a while, he looks at me.
It's not as relieving as I expect. Instead, I feel cornered. Jittery.
"I have no say in what you do, when you do it, or where you go." He sighs, talking like he's relieving a great burden. "But . . ." he trails off. "I care about your wellbeing, Stray."
My train of thought does not just screech to a halt-- it derails completely.
Shouta takes another sip of his coffee, staring me down, and I must be making quite a face because he snorts, making the coffee bubble at his lips.
"Stray, I don't control your actions, it's not within my power, not within my rights." Shouta sets his cup of coffee down, pushes off the countertop, and crouches so we're eye to eye. "So, instead of ordering you to do something, I'll ask."
Black eyes clash with green and I wait with bated breath on his next words.
"I'll ask, that if you're going to be gone out of the norm, tell me. That if you need transport, ask me for money." Shouta frowns, and it brings out the pre-mature age lines in his face. "I don't know what to think when you don't appear here when you usually do."
"Do you understand?" he asks me. "When you decided to go on a vacation, I thought that maybe you were dead in a ditch, mugged and unconscious in some alley, or stolen from the street and put into trafficking, never to be seen again. I just didn't know." A hand reaches out and closes around my wrist, two fingers curled around and resting over a vein, tracking my pulse.
"So I request. Please. Let me know."
This was not what I had expected.
But, this was also what I needed to hear, but hadn't known I needed to hear it until it was said.
My lip trembled and my lungs terrorized my ribs with their tremors and clamped down around my heart until it started to feel crushed.
"Stray?!" Shouta asked, alarmed as I crumpled over my cup of coffee and held it tight to my chest. The insides sloshed, spilling over my fingers and staining my baggy hoodie.
I sniffled heavily, trying to control my breaths. Hands worried at either of my elbows before they took the initiative, pulling the mug from my hands and setting it aside on the floor.
"What's wrong? Stray-- god!" Frantic hands are suddenly grabbing his wrists and turning his palms upwards. "Your hands!" Shouta hissed, alarm thick in his tone. I'm left on the floor, Shouta is rushing about the kitchen, much to my confusion.
Turning my eyes downward I gulp at what I'm met with. My hands are red and angry and inflamed, the places I clutched the mug raised and ugly.
Shouta is back at my side on one knee. "We need to cool the burns," he says, taking me by one of my wrists and dragging it forward. "What happened? Why were you holding onto the cup when it was burning you?" Shouta asks, voice calming down as he got control of panic (as unbelievable as that feels to think-- panic! for him! for his hurts!).
I just shrug in way of an answer, causing Shouta to frown, not pleased with that answer but not willing to press at the moment for an actual answer.
I hiss, head ducking into my chest as Shouta squeezes some lukewarm water over the burns, uncaring of the way it puddled on the floor.
"Honestly," Shouta mutters, voice surprisingly fond for the reserved man. "Problem child."
And if that didn't make a curl of warmth appear in my heart, I don't know what would.
I watched as Shouta diligently went about cooling my hands, the sensation soothing and stinging all at once. His eyebrows were furrowed slightly and his tired eyes, lined with deep bags, shone with a focus that he usually only reserved for the most important documents.
The realization hit me hard.
I'm important here.
While we'd probably have to talk and discuss later, get into the nitty-gritty, for now, I smile slightly and enjoy this attention-- this care. Because the kind man cares for me and there has never been a greater revelation.