DELIRIA - YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA

Twenty seven: The second kiss.

After his confession of love, you're stranded on an island, with isolating waters all around you. Where to go, what to do? Where to scavenge, where to hunt?

Where to hide?

Hiding was your speciality. You responded to violence, and strictly violence; anything else could be exploited, blackmailed, pitted against you—anything apart from violence was wrong and unjust because you were an orphan in this world. The indigo taste of blood is part of you now; it can't escape you. It's like blood was orbiting around you like a pelt of comets. Your hands are full of shadows, slanted and bloated, decaying, hopeful, dirty, unpoetic, translating to nothing but utter hatred. Hatred that utilised against those who stood before you, because everyone else was simply just a copy of Father; he had set the mark, and everyone was an imitation of him.

That is how abuse works: it manipulates the mind into terror.

But then that begins to slowly rot. It begins at the bottom and works its way to the top, corruption of love and everything white and lovely spreading like veins, like moss. You have flipped the coin and found out that there is no other side: it is you and him together.

You had once believed that, post-annihilation, in exile, survival is the first necessity. And then what? What came after survival?

More survival? But that meant more pain, more struggles. And you're already going crazy, delirious from the abuse you have gone through. They say no one ever survives—but you have survived. You won.

Now what?

Your heart beats in your chest rapidly as Chuuya lights his cigarette, the soft jazz music undulating in the air. In the thick, reddish atmosphere of the little bar named BAR LUPIN, lit by a single lap above the counter, you were talking in low voices.

"I've never been here before," You murmur, leaning the side of your head against your crossed arms, pressed against the mahogany counter. You're staring at Chuuya in a vertical sense. Yet he still looks no different in this angle: The full lips that were resting a cigarette; the sharp curve of his smooth nose; the blue-grey eyes that were rendered sun-set vermillion in this lighting; the orange hair resting above his shoulder, some strands falling over his face from being tousled by the wind. Seeing this face to which usually an air of strength and irony gave a look of eternal youth, as though he hadn't looked so different from him as a child. "How about you?"

"First time, too," He says. He swirls the thin neck of his wine glass while you're playing with the corrugated surface of your scotch on the rocks glass, the liquid shining like melted garnet in the red lights.

"You know, as Camus said, 'one can't heal and know at the same time'," You say. "You think that's true?"

He hums, covering half of his face with his gloved hands and the cigarette. You gesture for him to hand it over, to which he does, and you take a breath from it. His cologne lingers.

"I don't think so. I think you gotta know to heal," He says, after a while. "After all, that's what you did."

"I am nowhere near to healing," You snort, passing him the cigarette back. "Are you kidding me?"

"No? But you are making rapid progression," He says, truthfully. His eyes are earnest and clean of any dirty intentions. The pupil flickers like silhouettes against a marble white background under the constantly moving lights. "You are moving without even knowing it."

You sigh. "Guess it's just something I can't see then."

"What, you were expecting it to be visible? It's like watching something grow; you think a plant can watch itself as a timelapse of it growing?" Chuuya questions, chuckling at his own remark. You shrug.