Tuesday, November 18th, 8:01 a.m.
Three days.
Three whole days.
Sasori didn't think there was such thing as insanity. He believed that no person could have so little control over themself, not unless they lived in a cage their whole life and were traumatized. There was no such thing as insanity.
"Bullshit," he mumbled under his breath.
He hadn't really been sleeping those last three days, and he ate some, and he worked on puppets in his room and went up to the attic when she wasn't in there, but that wasn't what was making him feel as he did.
It was the way that he crumbled a little every time she walked by him and didn't say a word. He'd caught you staring plenty of times, or just looking, and he analyzed the gaze over and over. Sometimes it was sad. Sometimes guilty, almost. Other times furious, betrayed. Frustrated. Flustered. Once, glazed, the tell-tale sign of nostalgia.
He hoped that you missed him.
But like I was saying, it was now 8:04 a.m. and Sasori finally got up after trying to avoid seeing you on day four of this hellish experience, and feigned calm collectiveness as he strode out into the kitchen.
Currently, you were biting your bottom lip, fumbling with making a stupid pancake. There was too much milk so it was runny, and it seemed to be burning and it smelled really nasty -- maybe the mix was expired? Ohhh, it might've been the eggs, though...
You were not giving an ounce of your attention to the redhead who just walked in, looking pathetically attractive as usual. Bedhead, tanktop, boxers, sleepy-eyed...
The pancake was burning. You whined softly, and instead of turning the heat down like a normal human being, you let go of the pan and scurried to the sink, filling up a cup with cold water and turning around to pour it in...
Sasori calmly took the water from you and lifted the pan, dumping the ruined pancake into the trash. For just a moment, he made a split-second of eye contact with you, and you helplessly, silently watched as he walked over to the table, pulling out a chair for you, then continuing on to pouring it into a flower vase that had been neglected for the past week. Without a word spoken, he then proceeded to mix a new pancake batter.
You stood there for a few seconds, sponging in what happened, and then nervously sat down in the chair.
A small victory for Sasori. For the first time in days, his lip twitched at the corner, wanting to smile again.
Not much later, you suddenly found yourself staring at this sinfully good-looking plate of pancakes and whipped cream and syrup, strawberries on the corner and a cup of hot cocoa.
You wanted it. Badly. You wanted to eat everything in front of you and repeatedly thank the maker for such a wonderful meal.
However, the maker sat directly across from you though, watching your movements carefully as he began to eat from his less lavish plate. Suddenly, another small victory. With great reluctance, you lifted your fork and knife and began carving needingly into the breakfast, not looking up to Sasori at all.
Day six now, and the breakfast doings were tradition. Today lay before you french toast and a chocolate chip muffin, one of the expensive kinds you'd have to order in a dozen from one of those pricey shoppes. You even had to spell it like 'shoppe' and not 'shop'.
The table was now much better decorated -- Sasori hadn't been home all Day Four after that breakfast and you nearly cried when it had been five hours and still no sign of him; only for him to show up a minute later with shopping bags in his arms. Needless to say, he was very much confused as to why you stormed off rather than ignore him (well technically you were ignoring him still) when he came in. But the next morning the resentment faded. A daisy sat in a tiny vase in the middle of the table, which had a new white tablecloth and silverware and actual matching chairs. A box filled with pastries sat on top of the refridgerator.
When you saw all of that, then you cried. You would've said, "Sasori, you shouldn't have, you really shouldn't have, this is so much..." if you weren't so mad at him.
And he even started making dinner, too. He sat down and paid the bills the other day. He cleaned and cooked and fixed but for some reason did not touch the huge crack in the front door which posed a safety hazard.
Day Seven.
That morning, you woke up to find your high heels that you had worn out on That Night on your nightstand, and a note beside them. You unfolded carefully, whispering the words.
'I'm a stitch away from making it
And a scar away from falling apart.
Blood cells pixelate, and eyes dialate.
And the full moon pills got me out on the street at night.
Can it last?'
There was no signature. Not that you needed one. The elegant cursive gave it away. You let out a strangled noise of frustration after reading it for the ninth team, crunching the paper in your hand and shoving your shoes under the bed beside the forgotten copy of Twilight.
For the first time since fifth grade, you howled.
"Damn it!"
Ten minutes later, you walked out into the kitchen, surprising the redhead who was just setting out tea, and not bothering to look reluctant as you began scarfing down the bacon and eggs and cinnamon toast.
"I'm a stitch away from making it."
Day Eight, and Sasori realized that on Day Three he was certainly lying to himself.
He was insane.
He was going to go insane soon, at least. Hour by hour, he found himself doing anything to be connected to you whom was trying to disconnect from him. He made your bed and made sure you were comfortable, and waited. He waited.
But it seemed he had no hope.
You simply ate the meals he offered and went about your business. You still stared, yes, but he felt that that's all that would ever come of this.
Silently, as always, he watched as you went up the ladder to the attic where you would remain for hours.
(A scar away from falling apart.)
Day Nine was when it finally crashed on him.
That morning, as Sasori went to check on you as he always did, he finally noticed a white something sticking out from under the bed. With great terror he realized it was your shoes, which had been hastily shoved under the bed, and Twilight which lay beside them, gathering dust.
Immediatly, he stood, leaving the room hastily as he went to his own, shutting the door behind him and pulling out some cardboard boxes. Clothes went in them, weapons, equipment, puppet things, plans, CDs, everything.
"If I were a puppet," said the boy to the girl,
"I would not feel worried.
I would not feel sad.
I would not feel angry.
I would not feel glad.
And so, when I lie, it will always sound true.
And since I won't sleep, I'll stop dreaming of you.
I'll work my own strings
Take care of my things."
But what he wanted, secretly, more than all the above,
Was to stop being so painfully, absolutely in love.
That morning you woke up to find the note still scrunched in your hand since you even slept with it under your pillow, and decided that this morning, maybe you could say hi. Or please. Or thank you.
small steps.
Fumbling out of bed, you went into the kitchen and smiled a little at the sight of fluffy, blueberry waffles and milk, before spinning on your heel and saying, "Sasori! I wanted to say thank you."
But Sasori wasn't in the kitchen, you realized. Frowning some, you wandered back to his room, hesitating before knocking. You never knocked. It was weird to start now.
No one answered anyway.
Opening the door cautiously, the note fluttered to the floor from your hand, and the room turned blurry.
♥ (btw, I drew/colored the banner. heehee.)
8DDD;;;
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