[ Every word – every single word, drawn from such a deep well of emotion, like Akira shares his pain as keenly as if it were his own – drives into Maruki's beleaguered, distorted heart. Knifepoint sharp and white hot, unerring in its aim. Again and again. And again. And again.
Being gutted like a fish in a dark alley not but a few hours ago hurt less than this.
It isn't like their confrontation in Leblanc at all. Maruki can't deflect, obfuscate, turn the tides of the conversation with his clever manipulations, pick up a calling card, wriggle free. He can't do anything at all, trapped by Akira's hands pressed over his own, honest and empathetic gaze locked on inexorably.
His mouth opens to form a rebuttal.
Nothing comes.
He can't breathe.
Letting go circles through his mind, impossible and anathema, a concept his body rejects like poison. He's never let go. He tells others they have the right to give up on impossible dreams or hurtful circumstances, start over to find their true happiness – and he has never. Will never. Can't ever. He found a niche area of study to obsess over and never let go. He found the one person to ever love him in spite of his many shortcomings and never let go. He found a purpose, a mission, an ideal and never let go. Maruki is so practiced at seeming relaxed, loose and easy with affable humor and quiet confidence, and it all belies years, decades of consistently held tension, digging his fingers into everything that's ever happened to him and never
letting
go.
A choked off, pathetic noise rises from the back of his throat when he tries once more to say something. He snaps his mouth shut to strangle it, grits his teeth, wills himself to breathe, think, speak, anything–
He will return to his true reality for a future that Akira has already lived. His ideal reality will be rejected. He will fight for it until there is nothing left of him. His world will crumble, and he won't be allowed to slip away with it. Akira will save him. Again, always, forever, in every reality, Akira will not let him die. Akira will deliver Maruki toward that promise of many tomorrows in a reality that he doesn't want to live in, hasn't wanted to live in since the cold of a February afternoon sank deep into his bones with each gunshot ringing through a rural home.
Maruki blinks.
When did tears pool enough in his eyes to spill over? They run hot tracks down his cheeks, and he can't remember the last time he allowed himself to cry. Is he even allowing himself now, or is it simply happening to him?
Heartbeat stuttering against his ribcage. He flexes his hands against the mug, feels Akira's fingers tight around them.
Another attempt at drawing breath. It shudders horribly, like a gasp, like a death rattle.
He looks at Akira, helpless, broken, furious, miserable, wretchedly mortified for all of it. Grief, like an anchor chained to his soul. He can't move. Hasn't been able to move in years, decades. One yesterday.
His head falls forward then, hair flopping down gracelessly as a bit of dampness splatters against the counter. ]
Sorry.
[ Small, soft, wavering. He tries to clear his throat, only succeeds in exhaling another awful noise he doesn't recognize. ]
I'm sorry. I'll be fine in a minute.
[ A lie so poor that for once, even Maruki doesn't believe it himself.
He shakes his head – another drop hits the tiled surface he can barely see through rapidly blurring vision.
The only concession he can allow himself, in this moment: Both of his thumbs unclasp from around the mug, wrench free to grip over Akira's fingers instead. Holding him there as Akira has held him. Nothing else comes. ]
swear to my bones.mp3 - WOE, CRYRUKI BE UPON YE
Being gutted like a fish in a dark alley not but a few hours ago hurt less than this.
It isn't like their confrontation in Leblanc at all. Maruki can't deflect, obfuscate, turn the tides of the conversation with his clever manipulations, pick up a calling card, wriggle free. He can't do anything at all, trapped by Akira's hands pressed over his own, honest and empathetic gaze locked on inexorably.
His mouth opens to form a rebuttal.
Nothing comes.
He can't breathe.
Letting go circles through his mind, impossible and anathema, a concept his body rejects like poison. He's never let go. He tells others they have the right to give up on impossible dreams or hurtful circumstances, start over to find their true happiness – and he has never. Will never. Can't ever. He found a niche area of study to obsess over and never let go. He found the one person to ever love him in spite of his many shortcomings and never let go. He found a purpose, a mission, an ideal and never let go. Maruki is so practiced at seeming relaxed, loose and easy with affable humor and quiet confidence, and it all belies years, decades of consistently held tension, digging his fingers into everything that's ever happened to him and never
go.
A choked off, pathetic noise rises from the back of his throat when he tries once more to say something. He snaps his mouth shut to strangle it, grits his teeth, wills himself to breathe, think, speak, anything–
He will return to his true reality for a future that Akira has already lived. His ideal reality will be rejected. He will fight for it until there is nothing left of him. His world will crumble, and he won't be allowed to slip away with it. Akira will save him. Again, always, forever, in every reality, Akira will not let him die. Akira will deliver Maruki toward that promise of many tomorrows in a reality that he doesn't want to live in, hasn't wanted to live in since the cold of a February afternoon sank deep into his bones with each gunshot ringing through a rural home.
Maruki blinks.
When did tears pool enough in his eyes to spill over? They run hot tracks down his cheeks, and he can't remember the last time he allowed himself to cry. Is he even allowing himself now, or is it simply happening to him?
Heartbeat stuttering against his ribcage. He flexes his hands against the mug, feels Akira's fingers tight around them.
Another attempt at drawing breath. It shudders horribly, like a gasp, like a death rattle.
He looks at Akira, helpless, broken, furious, miserable, wretchedly mortified for all of it. Grief, like an anchor chained to his soul. He can't move. Hasn't been able to move in years, decades. One yesterday.
His head falls forward then, hair flopping down gracelessly as a bit of dampness splatters against the counter. ]
Sorry.
[ Small, soft, wavering. He tries to clear his throat, only succeeds in exhaling another awful noise he doesn't recognize. ]
I'm sorry. I'll be fine in a minute.
[ A lie so poor that for once, even Maruki doesn't believe it himself.
He shakes his head – another drop hits the tiled surface he can barely see through rapidly blurring vision.
The only concession he can allow himself, in this moment: Both of his thumbs unclasp from around the mug, wrench free to grip over Akira's fingers instead. Holding him there as Akira has held him. Nothing else comes. ]