psycho killer

Once my face fell off, I went back to the break room. It’d taken a while, so Natsume Youji should’ve left. So I… hoped? Did I? Not that it mattered; I correctly assumed he would, against all common sense, still be there.

It was okay, though, because I’d been rehearsing for the last ten minutes. My hands didn’t shake as I walked through the doorframe. My breaths sure did. He’d moved to a different chair now, the one next to the shelf with a TV, a game console, and some manga from… oh dear.

“That’s—!” There went my rehearsal. Natsume Youji didn’t look up. Maybe he hadn’t noticed me. Maybe. “You can’t, um. That’s…”

Natsume Youji flipped a page.

“…not mine…”

One of the girls working part-time had left it there. As an unspoken rule, you were free to borrow any volume so long as you a) did not take it elsewhere b) took more care of it than yourself. I myself didn’t dare touch it. Did anyone? Aside from Natusme Youji that is. Anyway, he flipped another page. He didn’t give a fuck. At this rate, I wouldn’t even have to recite an apology.

It still rained. Poured. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t left yet. Slowly, I moved forward, since even if I were to leave him there, my bag still lay on the table. He was so close to it, too… but it’s not like it should matter to me. I still had to thank him. Properly, that is. To sneak away would be cowardly.

I took the bag. Natsume Youji laughed, which activated my fight or flight response, but it wasn’t at me—at the manga. Right, right. God, what a pretty laugh. Meanwhile, mine sounded the exact same way I did when I cried. “Natsume Youji,” I said.

Nothing.

In, out, in, out. Before I thought things through, I tapped his shoulder; he jumped, startled, as did I. “Sorry!” I squeaked. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry and that I didn’t mean what I said earlier I’m sorry about that too sometimes I mess words up but I promise I didn’t mean it also thank you for bringing me here that’s very nice of you would you like something to eat I know Ootsuki Rima gave you a snack but not that unless you want more. Cake.”

He used his pinkie as a bookmark, shut the manga tome close, then glanced at me from the corners of his eyes. “…I mean, sure. Didn’t you say you’d take the day off?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m not working right now.” This statement was self-evident, so I added, to salvage myself: “But it’s a way for me to thank you for, uh, bringing me here. If you want to. You can also take it home. If you want. The food, not the manga. It’s not mine. The manga. Please don’t take it home.”

Natsume Youji stood up. After checking the page one last time, he put it back in place. I’d never really paid the conditional library attention, but now I looked at it… most of it was just shoujo manga. Not my kind of thing. All it did was sharpen the contrast between him and the rest of the shop. Now that we stood side by side, I realized that I almost matched him in height. It really didn't feel like it. “Once it stops raining, sure,” he said. “Anything but pasta is fine by me.”

…I think he misunderstood.

If I were to correct him, though, maybe he’d get… angry? Or not? Why would he? Or should he? I pretended I pretended I pretended. “They don’t, uh, have pasta here.”

He had been checking the library, but now he looked at me. Surprise hadn’t among my list of possible Natsume Youji reactions—anger, pity, disgust, relief—so my heart started to punch my chest. “Oh. I thought you meant…”

“Unless you meant…?”

Natsume Youji shrugged. He didn’t look away, so it wasn’t one of those oh, well, types of shrugs. More like a what then? Maybe. That’s what I wanted it to be. I didn’t even know why. (Desperation was why.) I’d started picking on my glasses, which I didn’t realize until I used that hand to pick on my other hand instead. It was weird and I knew it, but I couldn’t get rid of the habit. I was making this so much more awkward than it should be, but I couldn’t escape to the bathroom again without it being suspicious. 

Should I fall and knock myself unconscious again? But there were no motorcycles nearby so it’d also be suspicious. Maybe it’d work if I pretended to slip on the table and then land facefirst on the floor. Okay, might as well try it.

So I did (try it). A hand grabbed my lower arm at the last second. “Uh, are you sure you’re okay?” Natsume Youji asked.

Fuuuuuuuuuuck. “I. I’m. Sure.”

“Maybe you should go to the doctor.”

“Maybe.”

“Once it stops raining, there’s a—”

“My place is like two blocks away from here. Three. Um. It's close. We could go there. I think I’ll be fine if I rest.”

Silence.

“My place as in… my apartment.” This statement was also self-evident, but I had to make sure.

Natsume Youji let me go. “Okay,” he said.

I didn’t like how he said that. Did he think I was lying or something? Because I’d chosen this shop specifically due to it being close to my apartment. I had to take the bus to college, because any place available for rent close to it was full of noisy, smelly people my age, and I’d rather get splattered with muddy water again than—

“Shit,” I mumbled. “I forgot. I have to go. Let’s go. Or else I won’t be able to get this off, fro, the shirt I mean. Let’s go.” I took my bag, then his wrist, then dragged us both outside, but it still rained, and people were starting to look our way, regulars, co-workers, so it’s not like we could just stay there. I took one of the shop’s spare umbrellas before opening it and… “…wait.” He didn’t respond. “Oh, never mind, I think it’s starting to dissipate. You can leave the bike here. We’ll be back soon.” Still no response. “Um, but if you really want to take it, I guess you can. It’s not like it’s forbidden or anything. Here. I think.”

“…I think I’ll take you to the doctor.”

“No need.”

“You sure?”

One could never be a hundred percent sure of anything, or else reality became so concrete it could turn brittle. Explaining this would take too long, so I just nodded. After a socially unacceptable pause—I guess Natsume Youji could do them too—he took the umbrella. “Because I’m taller,” he explained. Perhaps he also felt like the difference was significant.

When we reached my apartment, I dropped my keys. Natsume Youji picked them up. He hadn’t said anything on the way here. I kind of forgot he existed until he did that. Right. “I’m sorry for the mess,” I said before opening the door, as though it were messy in the first place. Aside from the furniture that came with it when I rented it and my plants, it had nothing else. “Since my clothes are wet and all, I’m going to… actually, you can give me yours, too. For the washing machine. And. No, never mind.”

Natsume Youji stayed at the doorframe. He’d put the umbrella in place next to it, but hadn’t budged since. “Are you always like this?” He asked.

I pretended I pretended I pretended. This never seemed to work. “How?”

“…it’s nothing.” He walked in.

“Stupid?”

He stopped.

“Crazy?” It felt weird to talk that way about myself, but it softened the blow if I did that before anyone else could. I thought I’d been doing pretty well so far, though, not counting the table incident. I’d even offered to wash the clothes he’d soaked because of me. “I’ll um. Tea?”

“I don’t like tea.”

“Huh? Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Oh. Wow. How about rice?”

“Rice is fine. Wait—”

“I didn’t ask you for any reason in particular. Just curiosity. Just that. What’s wrong? Do you think I’m a killer that just lured you into a trap? Because I’m not.”

Silence.

I tried. I did. More than I usually did. More than I had in a while. Years, maybe. High school sucked. Why was it so hard to say thank you? “I’m. That was a. Goodbye.”

“Joke?”

“…yeah.” Why was it so hard to anything?

Natsume Youji grinned, then continued to walk, past me, past the living room. I forgot how to breathe. “Do you have a shower?” He asked. “You can kill me then if you want to. I really need… found it.”

“Ah…” I extended out a hand at his back; this was for naught. Soon enough, he’d performed a hostile takeover on my tiny bathroom.

Did this count as a ‘thank you’?

It did, right?

Had I done right?

Was he happy?