[FIC] If We Could Break (Kurosagi/Code Blue Crossover)
Title: If We Could Break
Author: kohee
Pairing: Kurosaki x Tsurara, Aizawa x Tsurara, Aizawa x Shiraishi (Kurosagi/Code Blue crossover)
Summary: She thought that maybe he could heal her, but he couldn't really, not when he has some healing of his own to do.
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: R for adult situations
Author's note: Yay my first crossover fic! But I admit I was mad to even think of this, and even madder still to actually write it, and am waiting for pick-up from the madhouse for posting this. Read with an open mind? It is Yamapi x Maki x Yamapi after all. In a way. I hope I didn't break anyone's brains. More notes at the end.
[REVISED 25th Dec]: Added about 900 words more to hash out some characterisations and scenarios, mostly Aizawa x Tsurara *is bricked*. If you want to reread it and let me know if it's any better, I'll be as happy as a few thousand clams :) Thanks!
Tsurara came home late one night to see him standing outside her apartment, his posture suggesting that he was waiting, and had waited for quite a while. Her step faltered and she sighed, not sure that she was ready for another encounter with him. It had been her first day at work as a legal aide in the prosecutor's department, and faced with a demanding, impatient lawyer, she had spent most of the day on her feet, feeling small and incompetent, and she really didn't need him to make her feel worse.
Slowly, she climbed up the stairs, her keys drawn, and as he watched her, she stopped in front of him, keeping her voice polite.
“If you're here to ask about my rent, I've already put a cheque into your mailbox yesterday morning.”
Kurosaki ignored what she said, but moved to block her from opening her door, his eyes unsettlingly intense. When he spoke, his voice was mocking, and although she wouldn't expect him to be anything else but that, it still stung.
“First day on the job, Yoshida? Sentenced any deserving people into jail today?”
She didn't correct him; why would she bother to? It had been years of this, dancing back and forth between that very fine line that neither of them was able to cross, and she didn't see things changing in the near future. And right then, she didn't want to engage in any sort of verbal battle with him, she was in no mood for it.
“I'm not a judge. I'm not even a prosecutor yet,” she said, still maintaining her civil tone as she met his gaze squarely. “And you're blocking my way.”
Unexpectedly, Kurosaki grabbed her wrist, and the keys she was holding clattered onto the ground. He spun her around, pinning her against the wall, and in one swift moment, he leaned down, and pressed his mouth against hers.
Shocked, she struggled, but he persisted, kissing her harder, his teeth nibbling at her bottom lip, and she gave up in resisting because if she was honest, this was what she wanted, and Tsurara liked to think of herself as an honest person. So she kissed him back, her lips sliding over his as she clutched the sleeves of his jacket, and when he demanded entry, she let him in, let his tongue battle and dominate hers. She felt like she was falling; drowning, and she wondered why did she let him have this effect on her, but she had no answers.
Tsurara didn't know long they kissed, it could be two minute, or five, or ten minutes, or maybe even half an hour, but when he finally pulled away, they were both breathless and panting, lips swollen from kisses that were passionate but not tender. He released her, and she steadied herself, bracing herself against the wall.
Neither of them spoke for a long while, and then he turned away. “Good night, Yoshida.”
“Wait a minute!” She reached out, and grabbed his arm. He stopped, but he didn't turn around, and inexplicably, she was angry. Furious, in fact, that he persisted on playing these stupid mind games, and frankly, because she was tired, really tired, and sick as hell of him doing what he did best. “You can't...you can't just do that, and walk away.”
He turned then, and looked at her, and she found that she could not read the expression on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, and then seemed to change his mind, as he took one step closer to her. He lifted his hand as if to touch her face, and she found that she wanted him to, because it may help her understand. But at the last moment, his hand dropped, and his eyes clouded.
“Don't forget, Yoshida.”
“Don't forget?” She asked, her voice raising uncharacteristically, but frustration was overriding reason. “What shouldn't I forget? This? Or the fact that you are a fucking jerk, and will always be one?!”
His gaze was steady on hers, her anger seemingly not affecting him, but he said nothing. And Tsurara, fed up and at her limits, almost at her breaking point, whirled around, unlocked her door, and slammed the door shut.
She didn't see him, not leaving, still standing outside her door, didn't see the obvious tremble of his hand as his fingers clenched into fists, didn't see his lips moving, almost soundlessly, and didn't hear him repeating his last words to her.
Don't forget, Yoshida.
Tsurara never cried herself to sleep, and she tried not to, and she was just barely succeeded.
The next morning, she woke up to sunlight streaming through her thinly curtained windows and the realisation that she was late for work. As she ran out of the door, she saw a white envelope in her mailbox, and on a whim she grabbed the letter and put it into her bag.
She tore open the letter on the subway, reading the crisp, concise letter about forwarding her monthly rental to a nominated bank account upon the landlord's preference.
She folded the letter, her fingers shaking slightly, but she could not allow herself to think about the letter when there was work - a lot of work - to be done, and courts to attend to.
That night, Tsurara returned to her apartment to find the one next to her dark, eerily quiet, clean, and empty.
A day passed, two days, a week, a month, six months, a year.
Tsurara continued to work, and kept working, it felt like that was all she could do. She read the newspapers everyday, keeping her eye out for news of mysterious swindling, or maybe a certain swindler being caught, or anything at all, that might give her a clue, just one clue.
She never found it, and the apartment next door remained silent.
------
Tsurara saw him again, almost over a year later, at a hospital. She was there to collect the medical reports of two men shot during a bank robbery - the suspect and a security guard - when he just popped up, a stethoscope around his neck and medical files in his hands.
He had slightly different hair, and he was dressed in blue scrubs that every doctor in that hospital wore, no doubt another one of his stupid costumes - and how the hell did he manage to impersonate a doctor? - but it was him. The same eyes, with that aloof, distant look, the same nose and the mouth that she could never really forget.
All her files clattered onto the floor as she approached him, one arm stretched out, her eyes wide. She grabbed his upper right arm, and it was solid, real, he was really there and she was not dreaming.
“Kurosaki.” She whispered, and she felt her heart flipping, skipping and missing beats.
He stared at her as if she was crazy, his eyes not registering any flicker of recognition and she wanted to shake him, or slap him, or both. Was she so insignificant to him that he had wiped her from his memory, when it had only been a little over a year? Had he chosen to forget, and simply did just that?
“My name is Aizawa.”
She shook her head - no - pleading with him silently not to deny it, not to deny her, her fingers tightening around his arm.
He flinched, and shrugged off her hand. “Yoshikawa-san, please.” He said, his voice sharp. “I am very busy, and I will appreciate it if we can discuss this as quickly as possible.”
Tsurara faltered. The way he stood, the way he spoke, it was different. It was different from the Kurosaki she knew, Kurosaki was never this direct, only sarcastic. And there was only exasperation upon the doctor's face, there was none of Kurosaki's perpetual mockery.
And Kurosaki never called her Yoshikawa.
“You're not Kurosaki.” It was more of a statement than a question.
It was at that moment that his beeper started going off, and the radio he was wearing strapped to his shoulder started crackling. The intercom above their heads broadcasted the commands that accompanied the beeper's alarm.
“Doctor Heli, to the launching pad. Doctor Heli, to the launching pad now.”
Flipping his radio out, he responded immediately. “This is Aizawa, heading to launching pad immediately.”
Without giving her a second glance, he took off, running towards an exit, gradually disappearing out of her sight, leaving her standing behind, full of conflicting emotions and lots of questions.
-----
It was not Kurosaki, she knew this now. She doubted that Kurosaki, as masterful as he was at disguises, could deceive medical teams and an entire hospital. Even so, she felt a pang, almost disappointed that it was not Kurosaki.
He remained missing, remained lost, and she had no idea where he was, and she had no idea why she still cared.
-----
Tsurara mustered all her courage to return to the hospital, to apologise to Aizawa and to thank him for the medical reports he forwarded to the prosecutor's office. She was directed to the trainee's work area when she asked for him, and as she approached the relatively silent work space, there were only two people there.
One was Aizawa, the other a pretty, female doctor with long hair. They were arguing, she could tell from their rigid body language, although she couldn't hear them. The female doctor looked distressed, and Aizawa looked equally heated. She reached out, and grabbed his sleeve, but Aizawa shook her off, the scowl on his face so familiar that Tsurara felt a stabbing pain at the left side of her chest.
He stalked out of the workspace, his step faltering when he saw Tsurara hovering around the corner.
“Aizawa-sensei.” She said hesitantly.
He glanced at her warily, but his voice was polite when he bowed in greeting. “Yoshikawa-san.”
“I want to apologise.”
He nodded, but didn't say anything, so she went on in a rush. “Can you spare me 15 minutes and a cup of coffee?”
It took him about five seconds to reach his decision, and Tsurara felt sure that it was because of the female doctor. “The cafeteria's this way.”
-----
Tsurara told Aizawa that he looked very much like Kurosaki.
Aizawa did not know why she was telling him all about this other man that looked so much like him, it wasn't as if he cared to know. He had a lot of things to do, but he couldn't go back there when Shiraishi was still there, still attempting to work out all their complications, still trying to make him understand. Wasn't it evident that he never would? He was not like her, and he would never be like her.
They could be together, him and Shiraishi, but yet they could not be.
So he listened to Tsurara, because it was the better option compared to facing Shiraishi. Tsurara continued speaking, offloading her burden on this stranger that didn't look like one, and it was the first time in a long while that she spoke of Kurosaki.
It felt good that he was listening, because Kurosaki never listened.
-----
Fujikawa practically threw himself across the table, eager to spread the gossip, for Aizawa was sitting in the cafeteria with a strange girl and he had been with her for a long while, talking, and what did everyone think, who was she? Maybe she was Aizawa's girlfriend.
Shiraishi turned pale, and the hand holding the pen trembled just a little. Hiyama saw, and threw a pencil at Fujikawa, asking him to get lost.
As Fujikawa slunk out of their working area, wounded that his gossip seemingly did not generate interest, Hiyama gazed at Shiraishi shrewdly.
“Shiraishi...”
“I'm okay.” She cut in quickly, and continued writing her report.
-----
Eventually, Aizawa asked Tsurara out.
He didn't know why he asked, and she didn't know why she accepted. They were together, yet not together.
Their first kiss wasn't tender, nor was it loving. It was passionate, yes, but she kissed him like she was trying to find something, to remember someone that was lost to her, her mouth demanding, her tongue probing and almost searching. He kissed her like he was trying to forget, like he was trying to run; aggressive, brutal nips on her lips.
They then slept together, and when he entered her, he discovered that she was a virgin, but the tears on her face, he knew that they were not tears of pain. They were something else, and when she opened her eyes and looked at him, he knew that, somehow, she had lost a part of herself.
Aizawa did not stop to comfort her, or even ask her why, their relationship was never really about words anyway. But he pulled her up, and held her to him, driving himself deeper into her, bringing both of them to the only release they craved, the only release they could have.
He woke up the next morning to find the spot beside him empty, and a hastily scrawled note that said she had been called to Nagoya for a meeting, and she had left in the middle of the night to catch the earliest train.
------
They were not sure they could call what they had a relationship.
His work as a flight-doctor-in-training kept his hours odd and his schedule erratic. Her work as a lawyer and a prosecutor's assistant kept her weekends busy and most weekdays. They were not a typical couple, far from it. They hardly ever saw each other, and when they did, it was more often physical than not. The sex was good, neither of them was going to deny it. They slept together, but like that very first time, they never woke up together - either he would leave at 6AM in the morning for surgery, or she would, for preparation to go to court.
Strangely, they never left together.
It was dysfunctional, but it suited both of them. Aizawa had never really been normal, and Tsurara had not been normal since she met Kurosaki.
-----
At work, Aizawa avoided Shiraishi. He made sure they were never on Heli-duty together, and he made sure they were never alone together, he even opted to sit with Fujikawa during lunch.
Hiyama tried to intervene, claimed that it was the good for the team, but he knew that she was trying for Shiraishi, because Hiyama cared for her although she would never admit it. So he told her to fuck off, and she flared up and told him that Shiraishi was too good for him anyway.
He knew that she was right. Despite his superiority in knowledge and skills, despite the fact that he was the best out of all of them, that he was a complete class above everyone else as a doctor, he knew that Shiraishi was the much better person.
But he could not change the way he was. Not for her, not for anyone.
-----
Shiraishi was at the work station when Aizawa returned from surgery later that day. She glanced up briefly when he entered, and looked down again, not acknowledging him, avoiding him. Taking her cup, and got up, and left the workspace.
His eyes followed her for two seconds, as his fingers involuntarily fisted themselves, and then he saw a note taped to his desk.
I hope you're happy with her. I hope she loves you for who you are.
He read it again, crumpled the note, and threw it into the bin. A sudden burst of anger overwhelming him, he uncharacteristically swept his files off his desk with a violent gesture.
None of what Shiraishi hoped was true after all.
Behind the wall, Shiraishi shut her eyes, and clutched her mug so hard that her knuckles turned white.
-----
Tsurara was boarding the subway when she thought she saw a familiar figure in black flashed past her on the platform.
Kurosaki.
As the doors beeped and began sliding shut, Tsurara slipped out between the doors, and began running along the platform, her eyes scanning the crowds frantically. But it was rush hour and the subway station was crowded with lots of people, half of them men dressed in black.
It was futile.
Almost despondently, she whirled around, and ran up the steps to take a different train, the one that would take her to Aizawa's apartment instead of taking her home.
She didn't see a young man watching her as she ran, a young man that just barely stopped himself from following her.
-----
Tsurara threw herself at Aizawa once he opened the door, kissing him aggressively, her hands going to the buttons of his shirt.
He stopped her, tearing his lips away, his hand catching hers and stopping them.
“Tsurara. You know that there is no future.”
She looked at him, and tried to keep her face from crumpling, because she felt like she couldn't lose Aizawa. She didn't know the reason why, perhaps she didn't want to know the reason why, but Aizawa was the only thing in her life that she felt was concrete, because he was there, because she could feel him.
“I don't want to know.” To her horror, she felt tears spilling out from the corner of her eyes, and she turned away from him.
“Tsurara.”
“Don't, Aizawa. Just...don't.”
That night, she stayed over, curled up in his arms as they both tried to sleep. It was the first time they slept together without actually sleeping together.
-----
“Aizawa.”
He turned around to see Shiraishi, her face carefully blank, but the way she was twisting her hands and fingers together gave her away.
“I think we need to talk.”
“No, we don't,” he muttered roughly, as he pulled opened his locker, threw his tag and stethoscope in, and slammed it shut again. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm, and her voice was pleading.
“Look at me.”
He did, and then he wished he didn't. He couldn't stand the wounded look on her face, in fact, he hated it. He hated the way it made guilt washed over him. He never felt guilt, never, not even when he amputated the arm of a teenager.
He was Aizawa Kosaku, and he hated the way Shiraishi made him feel like he wasn't, like he couldn't be the Aizawa Kosaku that he knew when he was around her. He hated how unsure he felt, and he hated how in spite of that, he still couldn't hate her, even as he wanted to hate her.
With a frustrated growl, he grabbed her shoulders, pulled her to him, and kissed her, bruisingly hard.
She responded without hesitation, arms going around his back, on his neck, and she didn't stop him when his hand crept up her blue top, and unhooked her bra. He didn't stop her when she fiddled with the drawstring of his pants, pulling it loose.
They just didn't stop.
-----
Tsurara knew there was no future, and it was time that she tried to let go, and move on. Move on, without Aizawa, without Kurosaki.
-----
“I love you.” Shiraishi told him, her arms going around his waist as she rested her cheek against his back.
Aizawa didn't respond, but he placed his hands over hers, and held them there.
-----
Aizawa was waiting for her in front of the court-house, and she felt a slight jolt of shock seeing him there, for he had never waited for her. She knew it wasn't some romantic, whimsical gesture on his part, for that was not Aizawa, so it must be the opposite scenario, and she was right.
“I can't fix you,” he told her quietly. “And you...you can't fix me.”
She nodded, understanding, and she didn't cry because there wasn't anything to really cry about.
“It was Shiraishi, wasn't it?” She asked.
He looked at her steadily, and didn't answer her, instead, he asked her a question. “It has always been Kurosaki, hadn't it?”
Tsurara looked at him, and she saw that they were similar, yet so different, in many ways. They were both trying to escape, her the past, him the present. She was chasing ghosts, and he was trying to make the ghosts stay.
He gave her a small smile, a very rare occurrence in the few months they had been together.
“We tried, but we can't heal each other, Tsurara.”
Tsurara knew they couldn't.
-----
Aizawa walked her home, and he told her that was probably the last thing he would do for her, and she was grateful.
Upon reaching her apartment, she saw a figure, dressed in black, sitting on the steps. The figure - a man - stood up when she neared, crushing his cigarette underfoot.
Her eyes met his, and she felt shock radiating throughout her, for there was no mistake this time, not with Aizawa standing behind her because surely there could be no third person with the same face.
“Oi, Yoshida.” He said, his tone off-handed and casual, as if he had never been away, as if he never disappeared, as if he never left her.
His eyes narrowed when he saw Aizawa, but widened as he took in the other man's features. They really did look alike, and Aizawa finally realised why Tsurara did not let go even as they were falling apart (or perhaps they had never really been together), because she could pretend that everything was okay.
He came down the steps, his gaze distrustful as it swept over Aizawa.
Aizawa did not bother to acknowledge the other man or introduce himself. He turned to Tsurara instead, and for the first time she could remember, she saw concern in his eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She said, albeit shakily.
“Do you want me to stay?” He asked, rather abruptly.
“No. No.” She shook her head. “It's fine.” I need to face my demons, Aizawa, I need to face him.
Take care of yourself, his eyes told her, and she nodded.
Kurosaki scowled as Aizawa left, his gaze scornful as he looked at Tsurara. “Was that supposed to be my replacement?”
“Fuck you.” She snapped, the expletive coarse and distinctively foreign on her tongue.
He laughed, the sound ugly and harsh. “You probably wanted to. But you had to settle for fucking him instead.”
Tsurara took a huge step forward, raised her hand, and slapped him squarely across his face, slapped him with all the strength and anger and frustration all bottled up within her, and slapped him again for good measure. And before he could react, she dragged his head down to hers, and kissed him, kissed him the way he had kissed her, brutal, frantic and almost desperate.
His mouth never lifted from hers as they stumbled up the rickety steps, and then into her little room. Falling onto the futon, with her straddling him, she broke the kiss momentarily to unbutton his shirt, dropping hot, opened-mouth kisses onto every bit of bare skin she uncovered, and he groaned, his hands slipping underneath her shirt, and lifting it over her head, throwing it to some random corner of the room, and unclasped her bra.
Sitting up, Kurosaki reached for her again, fusing his mouth to hers, teeth and tongues scraping and battling, her breasts pressed against his chest and her nipples hardening. He could feel himself reacting, hardening, as she reached down and gripped him through his jeans, almost skillfully.
He gasped, and he thought she might had done this before, done it with that other man, the one that looked like him. That brought on a wave of emotions crashing through him - jealousy, rage, anger - and under her skirt, he pulled her panties aside, shoved two fingers into her, fingering her roughly, and she cried out, in both pain and pleasure.
“Bastard.” She hissed, and bit down on his lip.
“You fucked him, didn't you?” He ran his hand over her breasts, rolling a hard nipple with his fingers as she moaned.
“You left, Kurosaki. You fucking left, and do you have any idea, any idea, what you did to me?” She unzipped his jeans, and reached into his boxers, fingers closing around his erection, and he felt himself getting harder.
“I had to.” He bit back at her, as his fingers manipulated her, and she shuddered with lust and desire. “I had to leave, or...”
She cut him off, pressing her lips against his as her tongue dominated his, heedy and desperate, and he rolled her over, and pinned her down, his erection teasing her entrance. Tsurara stretched towards the small table beside the futon, and grabbed a condom, tossing the foil package at him. He ripped it open with shaking hands, rolled it onto himself, and with one quick motion, he entered her.
She cried out, and he stopped, letting her adjust to his length, and then he started thrusting, fucking her with everything he felt, every single drop of emotion he ever held for this women underneath him, everything.
“I had to leave, for you. For your sake.” He panted, as he thrusted, as he remembered the night he decided to leave, because they were after him, and he couldn't, wouldn't put her in danger because it was not her revenge, not her war.
“The reason didn't matter anymore, Kurosaki. Because you broke me.” She said, and to his shock, he heard a sob in her voice. “You broke me, and I was not Yoshikawa Tsurara anymore.”
He stopped, raising himself off her, but she pulled him down again, marking his shoulders with her nails. “Don't stop, Kurosaki. You owe me this much. You owe me.”
And so he continued driving himself into her, until they both reached climax together, both full of feelings and emotions and regret that could not be expressed through words, and they were spent.
She laid against him for a few seconds, and got up, searching for her skirt. Kurosaki pulled her down again, trapping her against him with his arm.
He looked her, trying to form the words, but he didn't think they'd be any use, and he didn't think that she'd be so broken.
“I'm sorry.”
Tsurara had never heard those words from him before, but something in his voice made her believe him. Even so, she didn't see how that played a part anymore.
“Why say it now?”
“I am.”
She scoffed shakily, prying his arm off her body and sat up, and he caught her wrist as she stood up.
“You didn't forget.”
She whirled around, fire in her eyes. “Did you think that I would, you bastard?”
“Tsurara.”
She stilled, shocked. He said her name.
“I won't leave.”
She laughed, a hollow, empty sound. “And you expect me to trust you? You can't heal me, Kurosaki.”
“I can try.”
And then she broke down, because it was too much, it had been too much for far too long, and he held her as she cried.
-----
Only he could heal her. And only she could heal him.
They couldn't heal anyone else, and no one else can heal them.
-----
Fujikawa glanced furtively around the locker room before sidling up to Hiyama.
“Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” Hiyama grabbed a pen and clipped it to her pocket.
“Aizawa...and Shiraishi.”
Hiyama snorted. “You are very slow on the uptake. No wonder you were the last to go up in the Heli.”
“Ouch, Hiyama, now that is really, really cruel.”
-----
“Don't try to change who I am.”
Shiraishi leaned against Aizawa and intertwined her fingers with his. “I won't.”
-----
Tsurara woke up to sunlight streaming in the windows, her face pressed against a broad chest, and a heavy arm around her waist.
“You're still here.” She whispered.
“I'm not going to leave.” He answered, and pulled her closer.
-----
- end, 4635 words -
All of them has issues. Like serious ones, except Hiyama and Fujikawa (but they had issues too, just not in my fic). My brain just refuses to work out the exact issue between Aizawa and Shiraishi, so let's just say they have issues and leave it at that, okay? You may kill me.
Also brain refuses to work out the EXACT reasonable reason that Kurosaki took off but hey , he's a jerk anyway, right?
I wanted to make Tsurara fall in love with Aizawa, like really really fall in love, but I gotta give the girl a break, she can't fall in love with two consecutive jerks that look alike. Will go mad, right? I gotta say it is fun writing Tsurara as some cynical, worldly woman although it contradicts the drama. Ahhhhh.
I was either on crack, high on pot, or both. Take your pick. I do not know happened here, seriously I don't. I bastardised everyone and anyone and I feel all MUHAHHAHA evil, not in a good way. Also I call it artistic license when towards the end when things become more disjointed. Other people may call it laziness.
Reviews, comments, constructive criticism and even stoning appreciated ♥ Even stoning gets cookies.
Author: kohee
Pairing: Kurosaki x Tsurara, Aizawa x Tsurara, Aizawa x Shiraishi (Kurosagi/Code Blue crossover)
Summary: She thought that maybe he could heal her, but he couldn't really, not when he has some healing of his own to do.
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: R for adult situations
Author's note: Yay my first crossover fic! But I admit I was mad to even think of this, and even madder still to actually write it, and am waiting for pick-up from the madhouse for posting this. Read with an open mind? It is Yamapi x Maki x Yamapi after all. In a way. I hope I didn't break anyone's brains. More notes at the end.
[REVISED 25th Dec]: Added about 900 words more to hash out some characterisations and scenarios, mostly Aizawa x Tsurara *is bricked*. If you want to reread it and let me know if it's any better, I'll be as happy as a few thousand clams :) Thanks!
Tsurara came home late one night to see him standing outside her apartment, his posture suggesting that he was waiting, and had waited for quite a while. Her step faltered and she sighed, not sure that she was ready for another encounter with him. It had been her first day at work as a legal aide in the prosecutor's department, and faced with a demanding, impatient lawyer, she had spent most of the day on her feet, feeling small and incompetent, and she really didn't need him to make her feel worse.
Slowly, she climbed up the stairs, her keys drawn, and as he watched her, she stopped in front of him, keeping her voice polite.
“If you're here to ask about my rent, I've already put a cheque into your mailbox yesterday morning.”
Kurosaki ignored what she said, but moved to block her from opening her door, his eyes unsettlingly intense. When he spoke, his voice was mocking, and although she wouldn't expect him to be anything else but that, it still stung.
“First day on the job, Yoshida? Sentenced any deserving people into jail today?”
She didn't correct him; why would she bother to? It had been years of this, dancing back and forth between that very fine line that neither of them was able to cross, and she didn't see things changing in the near future. And right then, she didn't want to engage in any sort of verbal battle with him, she was in no mood for it.
“I'm not a judge. I'm not even a prosecutor yet,” she said, still maintaining her civil tone as she met his gaze squarely. “And you're blocking my way.”
Unexpectedly, Kurosaki grabbed her wrist, and the keys she was holding clattered onto the ground. He spun her around, pinning her against the wall, and in one swift moment, he leaned down, and pressed his mouth against hers.
Shocked, she struggled, but he persisted, kissing her harder, his teeth nibbling at her bottom lip, and she gave up in resisting because if she was honest, this was what she wanted, and Tsurara liked to think of herself as an honest person. So she kissed him back, her lips sliding over his as she clutched the sleeves of his jacket, and when he demanded entry, she let him in, let his tongue battle and dominate hers. She felt like she was falling; drowning, and she wondered why did she let him have this effect on her, but she had no answers.
Tsurara didn't know long they kissed, it could be two minute, or five, or ten minutes, or maybe even half an hour, but when he finally pulled away, they were both breathless and panting, lips swollen from kisses that were passionate but not tender. He released her, and she steadied herself, bracing herself against the wall.
Neither of them spoke for a long while, and then he turned away. “Good night, Yoshida.”
“Wait a minute!” She reached out, and grabbed his arm. He stopped, but he didn't turn around, and inexplicably, she was angry. Furious, in fact, that he persisted on playing these stupid mind games, and frankly, because she was tired, really tired, and sick as hell of him doing what he did best. “You can't...you can't just do that, and walk away.”
He turned then, and looked at her, and she found that she could not read the expression on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, and then seemed to change his mind, as he took one step closer to her. He lifted his hand as if to touch her face, and she found that she wanted him to, because it may help her understand. But at the last moment, his hand dropped, and his eyes clouded.
“Don't forget, Yoshida.”
“Don't forget?” She asked, her voice raising uncharacteristically, but frustration was overriding reason. “What shouldn't I forget? This? Or the fact that you are a fucking jerk, and will always be one?!”
His gaze was steady on hers, her anger seemingly not affecting him, but he said nothing. And Tsurara, fed up and at her limits, almost at her breaking point, whirled around, unlocked her door, and slammed the door shut.
She didn't see him, not leaving, still standing outside her door, didn't see the obvious tremble of his hand as his fingers clenched into fists, didn't see his lips moving, almost soundlessly, and didn't hear him repeating his last words to her.
Don't forget, Yoshida.
Tsurara never cried herself to sleep, and she tried not to, and she was just barely succeeded.
The next morning, she woke up to sunlight streaming through her thinly curtained windows and the realisation that she was late for work. As she ran out of the door, she saw a white envelope in her mailbox, and on a whim she grabbed the letter and put it into her bag.
She tore open the letter on the subway, reading the crisp, concise letter about forwarding her monthly rental to a nominated bank account upon the landlord's preference.
She folded the letter, her fingers shaking slightly, but she could not allow herself to think about the letter when there was work - a lot of work - to be done, and courts to attend to.
That night, Tsurara returned to her apartment to find the one next to her dark, eerily quiet, clean, and empty.
A day passed, two days, a week, a month, six months, a year.
Tsurara continued to work, and kept working, it felt like that was all she could do. She read the newspapers everyday, keeping her eye out for news of mysterious swindling, or maybe a certain swindler being caught, or anything at all, that might give her a clue, just one clue.
She never found it, and the apartment next door remained silent.
------
Tsurara saw him again, almost over a year later, at a hospital. She was there to collect the medical reports of two men shot during a bank robbery - the suspect and a security guard - when he just popped up, a stethoscope around his neck and medical files in his hands.
He had slightly different hair, and he was dressed in blue scrubs that every doctor in that hospital wore, no doubt another one of his stupid costumes - and how the hell did he manage to impersonate a doctor? - but it was him. The same eyes, with that aloof, distant look, the same nose and the mouth that she could never really forget.
All her files clattered onto the floor as she approached him, one arm stretched out, her eyes wide. She grabbed his upper right arm, and it was solid, real, he was really there and she was not dreaming.
“Kurosaki.” She whispered, and she felt her heart flipping, skipping and missing beats.
He stared at her as if she was crazy, his eyes not registering any flicker of recognition and she wanted to shake him, or slap him, or both. Was she so insignificant to him that he had wiped her from his memory, when it had only been a little over a year? Had he chosen to forget, and simply did just that?
“My name is Aizawa.”
She shook her head - no - pleading with him silently not to deny it, not to deny her, her fingers tightening around his arm.
He flinched, and shrugged off her hand. “Yoshikawa-san, please.” He said, his voice sharp. “I am very busy, and I will appreciate it if we can discuss this as quickly as possible.”
Tsurara faltered. The way he stood, the way he spoke, it was different. It was different from the Kurosaki she knew, Kurosaki was never this direct, only sarcastic. And there was only exasperation upon the doctor's face, there was none of Kurosaki's perpetual mockery.
And Kurosaki never called her Yoshikawa.
“You're not Kurosaki.” It was more of a statement than a question.
It was at that moment that his beeper started going off, and the radio he was wearing strapped to his shoulder started crackling. The intercom above their heads broadcasted the commands that accompanied the beeper's alarm.
“Doctor Heli, to the launching pad. Doctor Heli, to the launching pad now.”
Flipping his radio out, he responded immediately. “This is Aizawa, heading to launching pad immediately.”
Without giving her a second glance, he took off, running towards an exit, gradually disappearing out of her sight, leaving her standing behind, full of conflicting emotions and lots of questions.
-----
It was not Kurosaki, she knew this now. She doubted that Kurosaki, as masterful as he was at disguises, could deceive medical teams and an entire hospital. Even so, she felt a pang, almost disappointed that it was not Kurosaki.
He remained missing, remained lost, and she had no idea where he was, and she had no idea why she still cared.
-----
Tsurara mustered all her courage to return to the hospital, to apologise to Aizawa and to thank him for the medical reports he forwarded to the prosecutor's office. She was directed to the trainee's work area when she asked for him, and as she approached the relatively silent work space, there were only two people there.
One was Aizawa, the other a pretty, female doctor with long hair. They were arguing, she could tell from their rigid body language, although she couldn't hear them. The female doctor looked distressed, and Aizawa looked equally heated. She reached out, and grabbed his sleeve, but Aizawa shook her off, the scowl on his face so familiar that Tsurara felt a stabbing pain at the left side of her chest.
He stalked out of the workspace, his step faltering when he saw Tsurara hovering around the corner.
“Aizawa-sensei.” She said hesitantly.
He glanced at her warily, but his voice was polite when he bowed in greeting. “Yoshikawa-san.”
“I want to apologise.”
He nodded, but didn't say anything, so she went on in a rush. “Can you spare me 15 minutes and a cup of coffee?”
It took him about five seconds to reach his decision, and Tsurara felt sure that it was because of the female doctor. “The cafeteria's this way.”
-----
Tsurara told Aizawa that he looked very much like Kurosaki.
Aizawa did not know why she was telling him all about this other man that looked so much like him, it wasn't as if he cared to know. He had a lot of things to do, but he couldn't go back there when Shiraishi was still there, still attempting to work out all their complications, still trying to make him understand. Wasn't it evident that he never would? He was not like her, and he would never be like her.
They could be together, him and Shiraishi, but yet they could not be.
So he listened to Tsurara, because it was the better option compared to facing Shiraishi. Tsurara continued speaking, offloading her burden on this stranger that didn't look like one, and it was the first time in a long while that she spoke of Kurosaki.
It felt good that he was listening, because Kurosaki never listened.
-----
Fujikawa practically threw himself across the table, eager to spread the gossip, for Aizawa was sitting in the cafeteria with a strange girl and he had been with her for a long while, talking, and what did everyone think, who was she? Maybe she was Aizawa's girlfriend.
Shiraishi turned pale, and the hand holding the pen trembled just a little. Hiyama saw, and threw a pencil at Fujikawa, asking him to get lost.
As Fujikawa slunk out of their working area, wounded that his gossip seemingly did not generate interest, Hiyama gazed at Shiraishi shrewdly.
“Shiraishi...”
“I'm okay.” She cut in quickly, and continued writing her report.
-----
Eventually, Aizawa asked Tsurara out.
He didn't know why he asked, and she didn't know why she accepted. They were together, yet not together.
Their first kiss wasn't tender, nor was it loving. It was passionate, yes, but she kissed him like she was trying to find something, to remember someone that was lost to her, her mouth demanding, her tongue probing and almost searching. He kissed her like he was trying to forget, like he was trying to run; aggressive, brutal nips on her lips.
They then slept together, and when he entered her, he discovered that she was a virgin, but the tears on her face, he knew that they were not tears of pain. They were something else, and when she opened her eyes and looked at him, he knew that, somehow, she had lost a part of herself.
Aizawa did not stop to comfort her, or even ask her why, their relationship was never really about words anyway. But he pulled her up, and held her to him, driving himself deeper into her, bringing both of them to the only release they craved, the only release they could have.
He woke up the next morning to find the spot beside him empty, and a hastily scrawled note that said she had been called to Nagoya for a meeting, and she had left in the middle of the night to catch the earliest train.
------
They were not sure they could call what they had a relationship.
His work as a flight-doctor-in-training kept his hours odd and his schedule erratic. Her work as a lawyer and a prosecutor's assistant kept her weekends busy and most weekdays. They were not a typical couple, far from it. They hardly ever saw each other, and when they did, it was more often physical than not. The sex was good, neither of them was going to deny it. They slept together, but like that very first time, they never woke up together - either he would leave at 6AM in the morning for surgery, or she would, for preparation to go to court.
Strangely, they never left together.
It was dysfunctional, but it suited both of them. Aizawa had never really been normal, and Tsurara had not been normal since she met Kurosaki.
-----
At work, Aizawa avoided Shiraishi. He made sure they were never on Heli-duty together, and he made sure they were never alone together, he even opted to sit with Fujikawa during lunch.
Hiyama tried to intervene, claimed that it was the good for the team, but he knew that she was trying for Shiraishi, because Hiyama cared for her although she would never admit it. So he told her to fuck off, and she flared up and told him that Shiraishi was too good for him anyway.
He knew that she was right. Despite his superiority in knowledge and skills, despite the fact that he was the best out of all of them, that he was a complete class above everyone else as a doctor, he knew that Shiraishi was the much better person.
But he could not change the way he was. Not for her, not for anyone.
-----
Shiraishi was at the work station when Aizawa returned from surgery later that day. She glanced up briefly when he entered, and looked down again, not acknowledging him, avoiding him. Taking her cup, and got up, and left the workspace.
His eyes followed her for two seconds, as his fingers involuntarily fisted themselves, and then he saw a note taped to his desk.
I hope you're happy with her. I hope she loves you for who you are.
He read it again, crumpled the note, and threw it into the bin. A sudden burst of anger overwhelming him, he uncharacteristically swept his files off his desk with a violent gesture.
None of what Shiraishi hoped was true after all.
Behind the wall, Shiraishi shut her eyes, and clutched her mug so hard that her knuckles turned white.
-----
Tsurara was boarding the subway when she thought she saw a familiar figure in black flashed past her on the platform.
Kurosaki.
As the doors beeped and began sliding shut, Tsurara slipped out between the doors, and began running along the platform, her eyes scanning the crowds frantically. But it was rush hour and the subway station was crowded with lots of people, half of them men dressed in black.
It was futile.
Almost despondently, she whirled around, and ran up the steps to take a different train, the one that would take her to Aizawa's apartment instead of taking her home.
She didn't see a young man watching her as she ran, a young man that just barely stopped himself from following her.
-----
Tsurara threw herself at Aizawa once he opened the door, kissing him aggressively, her hands going to the buttons of his shirt.
He stopped her, tearing his lips away, his hand catching hers and stopping them.
“Tsurara. You know that there is no future.”
She looked at him, and tried to keep her face from crumpling, because she felt like she couldn't lose Aizawa. She didn't know the reason why, perhaps she didn't want to know the reason why, but Aizawa was the only thing in her life that she felt was concrete, because he was there, because she could feel him.
“I don't want to know.” To her horror, she felt tears spilling out from the corner of her eyes, and she turned away from him.
“Tsurara.”
“Don't, Aizawa. Just...don't.”
That night, she stayed over, curled up in his arms as they both tried to sleep. It was the first time they slept together without actually sleeping together.
-----
“Aizawa.”
He turned around to see Shiraishi, her face carefully blank, but the way she was twisting her hands and fingers together gave her away.
“I think we need to talk.”
“No, we don't,” he muttered roughly, as he pulled opened his locker, threw his tag and stethoscope in, and slammed it shut again. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm, and her voice was pleading.
“Look at me.”
He did, and then he wished he didn't. He couldn't stand the wounded look on her face, in fact, he hated it. He hated the way it made guilt washed over him. He never felt guilt, never, not even when he amputated the arm of a teenager.
He was Aizawa Kosaku, and he hated the way Shiraishi made him feel like he wasn't, like he couldn't be the Aizawa Kosaku that he knew when he was around her. He hated how unsure he felt, and he hated how in spite of that, he still couldn't hate her, even as he wanted to hate her.
With a frustrated growl, he grabbed her shoulders, pulled her to him, and kissed her, bruisingly hard.
She responded without hesitation, arms going around his back, on his neck, and she didn't stop him when his hand crept up her blue top, and unhooked her bra. He didn't stop her when she fiddled with the drawstring of his pants, pulling it loose.
They just didn't stop.
-----
Tsurara knew there was no future, and it was time that she tried to let go, and move on. Move on, without Aizawa, without Kurosaki.
-----
“I love you.” Shiraishi told him, her arms going around his waist as she rested her cheek against his back.
Aizawa didn't respond, but he placed his hands over hers, and held them there.
-----
Aizawa was waiting for her in front of the court-house, and she felt a slight jolt of shock seeing him there, for he had never waited for her. She knew it wasn't some romantic, whimsical gesture on his part, for that was not Aizawa, so it must be the opposite scenario, and she was right.
“I can't fix you,” he told her quietly. “And you...you can't fix me.”
She nodded, understanding, and she didn't cry because there wasn't anything to really cry about.
“It was Shiraishi, wasn't it?” She asked.
He looked at her steadily, and didn't answer her, instead, he asked her a question. “It has always been Kurosaki, hadn't it?”
Tsurara looked at him, and she saw that they were similar, yet so different, in many ways. They were both trying to escape, her the past, him the present. She was chasing ghosts, and he was trying to make the ghosts stay.
He gave her a small smile, a very rare occurrence in the few months they had been together.
“We tried, but we can't heal each other, Tsurara.”
Tsurara knew they couldn't.
-----
Aizawa walked her home, and he told her that was probably the last thing he would do for her, and she was grateful.
Upon reaching her apartment, she saw a figure, dressed in black, sitting on the steps. The figure - a man - stood up when she neared, crushing his cigarette underfoot.
Her eyes met his, and she felt shock radiating throughout her, for there was no mistake this time, not with Aizawa standing behind her because surely there could be no third person with the same face.
“Oi, Yoshida.” He said, his tone off-handed and casual, as if he had never been away, as if he never disappeared, as if he never left her.
His eyes narrowed when he saw Aizawa, but widened as he took in the other man's features. They really did look alike, and Aizawa finally realised why Tsurara did not let go even as they were falling apart (or perhaps they had never really been together), because she could pretend that everything was okay.
He came down the steps, his gaze distrustful as it swept over Aizawa.
Aizawa did not bother to acknowledge the other man or introduce himself. He turned to Tsurara instead, and for the first time she could remember, she saw concern in his eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She said, albeit shakily.
“Do you want me to stay?” He asked, rather abruptly.
“No. No.” She shook her head. “It's fine.” I need to face my demons, Aizawa, I need to face him.
Take care of yourself, his eyes told her, and she nodded.
Kurosaki scowled as Aizawa left, his gaze scornful as he looked at Tsurara. “Was that supposed to be my replacement?”
“Fuck you.” She snapped, the expletive coarse and distinctively foreign on her tongue.
He laughed, the sound ugly and harsh. “You probably wanted to. But you had to settle for fucking him instead.”
Tsurara took a huge step forward, raised her hand, and slapped him squarely across his face, slapped him with all the strength and anger and frustration all bottled up within her, and slapped him again for good measure. And before he could react, she dragged his head down to hers, and kissed him, kissed him the way he had kissed her, brutal, frantic and almost desperate.
His mouth never lifted from hers as they stumbled up the rickety steps, and then into her little room. Falling onto the futon, with her straddling him, she broke the kiss momentarily to unbutton his shirt, dropping hot, opened-mouth kisses onto every bit of bare skin she uncovered, and he groaned, his hands slipping underneath her shirt, and lifting it over her head, throwing it to some random corner of the room, and unclasped her bra.
Sitting up, Kurosaki reached for her again, fusing his mouth to hers, teeth and tongues scraping and battling, her breasts pressed against his chest and her nipples hardening. He could feel himself reacting, hardening, as she reached down and gripped him through his jeans, almost skillfully.
He gasped, and he thought she might had done this before, done it with that other man, the one that looked like him. That brought on a wave of emotions crashing through him - jealousy, rage, anger - and under her skirt, he pulled her panties aside, shoved two fingers into her, fingering her roughly, and she cried out, in both pain and pleasure.
“Bastard.” She hissed, and bit down on his lip.
“You fucked him, didn't you?” He ran his hand over her breasts, rolling a hard nipple with his fingers as she moaned.
“You left, Kurosaki. You fucking left, and do you have any idea, any idea, what you did to me?” She unzipped his jeans, and reached into his boxers, fingers closing around his erection, and he felt himself getting harder.
“I had to.” He bit back at her, as his fingers manipulated her, and she shuddered with lust and desire. “I had to leave, or...”
She cut him off, pressing her lips against his as her tongue dominated his, heedy and desperate, and he rolled her over, and pinned her down, his erection teasing her entrance. Tsurara stretched towards the small table beside the futon, and grabbed a condom, tossing the foil package at him. He ripped it open with shaking hands, rolled it onto himself, and with one quick motion, he entered her.
She cried out, and he stopped, letting her adjust to his length, and then he started thrusting, fucking her with everything he felt, every single drop of emotion he ever held for this women underneath him, everything.
“I had to leave, for you. For your sake.” He panted, as he thrusted, as he remembered the night he decided to leave, because they were after him, and he couldn't, wouldn't put her in danger because it was not her revenge, not her war.
“The reason didn't matter anymore, Kurosaki. Because you broke me.” She said, and to his shock, he heard a sob in her voice. “You broke me, and I was not Yoshikawa Tsurara anymore.”
He stopped, raising himself off her, but she pulled him down again, marking his shoulders with her nails. “Don't stop, Kurosaki. You owe me this much. You owe me.”
And so he continued driving himself into her, until they both reached climax together, both full of feelings and emotions and regret that could not be expressed through words, and they were spent.
She laid against him for a few seconds, and got up, searching for her skirt. Kurosaki pulled her down again, trapping her against him with his arm.
He looked her, trying to form the words, but he didn't think they'd be any use, and he didn't think that she'd be so broken.
“I'm sorry.”
Tsurara had never heard those words from him before, but something in his voice made her believe him. Even so, she didn't see how that played a part anymore.
“Why say it now?”
“I am.”
She scoffed shakily, prying his arm off her body and sat up, and he caught her wrist as she stood up.
“You didn't forget.”
She whirled around, fire in her eyes. “Did you think that I would, you bastard?”
“Tsurara.”
She stilled, shocked. He said her name.
“I won't leave.”
She laughed, a hollow, empty sound. “And you expect me to trust you? You can't heal me, Kurosaki.”
“I can try.”
And then she broke down, because it was too much, it had been too much for far too long, and he held her as she cried.
-----
Only he could heal her. And only she could heal him.
They couldn't heal anyone else, and no one else can heal them.
-----
Fujikawa glanced furtively around the locker room before sidling up to Hiyama.
“Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” Hiyama grabbed a pen and clipped it to her pocket.
“Aizawa...and Shiraishi.”
Hiyama snorted. “You are very slow on the uptake. No wonder you were the last to go up in the Heli.”
“Ouch, Hiyama, now that is really, really cruel.”
-----
“Don't try to change who I am.”
Shiraishi leaned against Aizawa and intertwined her fingers with his. “I won't.”
-----
Tsurara woke up to sunlight streaming in the windows, her face pressed against a broad chest, and a heavy arm around her waist.
“You're still here.” She whispered.
“I'm not going to leave.” He answered, and pulled her closer.
-----
- end, 4635 words -
All of them has issues. Like serious ones, except Hiyama and Fujikawa (but they had issues too, just not in my fic). My brain just refuses to work out the exact issue between Aizawa and Shiraishi, so let's just say they have issues and leave it at that, okay? You may kill me.
Also brain refuses to work out the EXACT reasonable reason that Kurosaki took off but hey , he's a jerk anyway, right?
I wanted to make Tsurara fall in love with Aizawa, like really really fall in love, but I gotta give the girl a break, she can't fall in love with two consecutive jerks that look alike. Will go mad, right? I gotta say it is fun writing Tsurara as some cynical, worldly woman although it contradicts the drama. Ahhhhh.
I was either on crack, high on pot, or both. Take your pick. I do not know happened here, seriously I don't. I bastardised everyone and anyone and I feel all MUHAHHAHA evil, not in a good way. Also I call it artistic license when towards the end when things become more disjointed. Other people may call it laziness.
Reviews, comments, constructive criticism and even stoning appreciated ♥ Even stoning gets cookies.