[Fanfiction - The GazettE] Whispers of Children Reita/Aoi [2/?]
Title: Whispers of Children
Author: sorrowofanangel
Chapter: 2 of ?
Genre: Romance, angst, mental illness, 1st person narrative, (more to add as we go along...)
Band: The GazettE
Pairing: Reita x Aoi/ Aoi x Reita (main), Reita x Kai (one-sided), Kai x Uruha/ Uruha x Kai
WARNINGS: Strong language, mental illness, (more to add as we go along...)
DISCLAIMER: Pffft, no of course I don't own The Ga- KAI PUT THAT DOWN!!! (><)"
Rating: PG
Synopsis: "I moved away to escape my past. Foolishly I believed a new start would help me forget. Help me move on. What I hadn't realised... was that it will follow you wherever you go. No one can know. No one. And that includes Yuu..."
Summary: Akira has an unexpected encounter . . .
Notes: Yush, felt like writing another chappie . . . so I did! (lol) Hope you enjoy! (＾∇＾*)
Previous Chapters ~ [Prologue] ~ [Chapter One]
*
The note was all I could think about within the next coming days.
And my agent, who had tried time and time again to get a finished manuscript off of me, still hadn’t received the one I’d promised her by the end of the week.
Because even though I tried to form the sentences in my novel, my mind couldn’t help but flash back to that note, and the sorry, scared soul who must have wrote it.
I’d scanned the street a hundred times over. I’d even gone so far as walking up and down it, whispering out callings that could possibly give me a reply to someone in distress.
As predicted, no call came. No screams, no signs of struggle. I didn’t even come across skid marks of car tyres or drops of blood on the sidewalk. No clues whatsoever in fact.
I had debated several times on whether to contact the police; however the only evidence that would be eligible would be the note handwritten to me personally. Besides, where would they even start? I didn’t know who had left it here and I certainly didn’t know what kind of trouble they were in.
For all I know it could have been a practical joke. A “let’s pick on the new neighbour” game by a few kids perhaps. Not that I would blame them; my lazy attire of jeans and shirts with thick black glasses perched on my nose passed me off as the neighbourhood nerd no doubt.
But something didn’t feel right. And it frustrated me as to what I should do.
It was only when I came back from the grocery store on a Wednesday evening that I took out my mobile phone and decided to call the police after all.
Besides, if someone in this area had been in danger, it would only be a matter of time before the police investigators, or whoever, came across a crime scene or suspicious dwelling.
If someone died because of my ignorance I would never forgive myself; part of me believed I was already too late.
I place my grocery bags on the floor as the call connects, patting my pockets with my other hand to search for my key.
I press “2” for the police service, once again letting the phone ring and wait for it to be picked up.
I wonder what I should report; a kidnapping? Suspected murder? Rape?
“Aki . . .”
I close my eyes and shut it out, hearing a middle aged lady answer the phone at long last,
“Kyoto Police Department, how can I be of service?”
“Oh hello there,” I finally locate my keys, fiddling with them as I try to find the right one; all the others either for back doors, windows, or locked cupboards, “My name’s Akira Suzuki. I’m calling to report a . . .” I pause to think, “. . . A disturbance in my village,”
“What kind of disturbance Mr. Suzuki?”
“Oh. W-Well, I’m not sure really,” my keys jingle in my grasp and I struggle to hear her properly, “You see, I found this hamper on my doorstep and -“
“- Sir, with all due respect, I’m going to have to remind you that you face police custody if you are found to be wasting police time,” she tells me sternly.
I sigh, “I know that, it’s just- it’s a little hard to explain . . .”
“Would you like to call back once you’ve figured out what you’d like to report?”
I can’t help but get the feeling she isn’t taking me seriously; probably filing her nails at her desk as we speak, making fun of me just to make her shift a little easier,
“Sure, why not,” I shove my key in the lock, twisting it hard in annoyance, “I’ll call again soon then,”
“Goodbye sir,”
She hangs up on me and I stand on my front porch staring at the phone with a frown, though I’m not sure what good it would do.
I shove it back in my pocket and push the door open, shaking my head to myself as I lean down to pick up my grocery bags.
I’m only halfway through the doorway when a voice from behind scares the living hell out of me,
“Who were you talking to?”
It sounds accusing and I spin my head around swiftly, placing the bags back down onto the floor again.
I stand up straight and push my glasses further up my nose, turning to face a young boy a few inches shorter than me standing on the top step of the porch,
“Why is it any of your business?” I reply quietly, taking note of his fists clenched either side of him.
Almost immediately I guess he’s probably a wise guy in his school; probably does drink or drugs or a combination of both and somehow thinks I’ve grassed him up to authorities.
Maybe that’s the case. Although he doesn’t look like a thug. I examine his skinny frame and soft dark hair, layered and shaped around his face with a few strands sticking out here and there. His eyes, with darkness to match his hair, shine against the light beaming on my porch, and his clothes don’t speak of much; a grey hoodie and stonewash jeans.
Although I find it odd he’s wearing sandals for this time of year. Unless of course he’s a hippie of some kind . . .
My opinion suddenly favours in that of a drug dealer,
“Was it the police?” he asks shakily, his fists starting to follow suit.
I sigh and scratch the back of my head, “Look, kid, if you think I’ve snitched on you for something then I haven’t okay? It’s got nothing to do with you. Now get off my porch,”
I step forward to shoo him away but he doesn’t even flinch. Nor does he intend to leave so abruptly,
“But it is though isn’t it?” he says quietly, “You were going to tell them about that hamper left outside your house last night?”
I’m taken aback by his knowledge, my eyes widening considerably behind the lenses of my glasses,
“How do you know about that?” I ask slowly, the teenager’s head dropping to stare at his feet, “Hey, if you know something -“
“- No!” he bursts out, his eyes gleaming as he faces me once more; his expression looking more frightened than angry now, “I don’t know anything! Just . . . p-promise me you won’t tell the police anything about it! Or the note! Promise me!”
My eyes narrow as he stares at me pleadingly; his breathing becoming an erratic mess the more the seconds tick by and I still haven’t given him an answer,
“You do have something to do with it don’t you?” I ask quietly, after my mind pieces his sentences together line by line and he whimpers lowly, “Listen if you know who’s done this, you can help me! Do you know who wrote the note?”
He stares at me for a while, and he opens his mouth to say something before he bolts down the steps and out across the street,
“Hey kid!!” I scream after him, jogging a little way up the road before the darkness affects my eyes and I can no longer see where he’s gone.
I didn’t even catch the boy’s name, nor why on earth he had been eavesdropping on my conversation and so I found I was back at square one. Only more confused than before.
I sigh; city life may have been stressful.
But it was nothing compared to this . . .
*
I don’t catch the kid around for a long time.
I’d expected to bump into him when out and about in the area but it seemed he had locked himself away somewhere.
Out of sight and out of my reach.
I sigh and collect my things, a chilly autumn air greeting me as soon as I pull open my front door and make my way to the car, pulling my scarf up a little tighter.
I do as I always do every morning; scan the street up and down for any sign of the boy, though I knew the chances of him showing up just when I happened to go to work were very slim indeed. Still, it was worth a shot, and I catch the neighbours in the house to my left shouting at each other again.
They’d been doing that a lot lately. At night especially. I’d noticed it when driving home from the store or from the publisher’s office in the city.
At first it didn’t seem so bad. An ordinary couple fighting as every other married spouse in the country do.
But I’d noticed it had become a regular thing; often getting louder each day as well - they left their windows open half of the time.
It was hard to believe really. Living in a sweet thatched cottage like that, you would have thought the residents would have been kind hearted and good natured. When I first moved here, I’d envisioned an elderly couple with lots of grandkids.
I couldn’t have been more wrong, and the shouting gets noticeably quieter as soon as I slide into my car and close the door.
I pull my coat around me tighter and tuck my briefcase on the passenger seat next to me; having finally written that manuscript my agent had been milking me for. At least now I could give myself another few months to finish the entire book.
I didn’t mind missing deadlines or being late with set objectives. I wasn’t that popular a writer to begin with; it earns me a good sum of money - enough to own a nice Ford Mustang and live in this gorgeous house by the sea.
I had a good life, I knew that. If the sales of my books increase, then that’s fine. But I’m happier as I am now.
Comfortable in fact.
I catch a glimpse of the time and realise I should get a move on if I don’t want to face a bollocking for being late on punctuality too. My agent may not be all that, but the publishers don’t give you a second chance.
I shift into reverse, blessed with the privilege of having my own driveway; a strong contrast to the hit and run episodes I’d usually have most mornings back in the city.
The tyres barely make it down the curb when I hear something tap against my window, my reaction too late to see who it was before my briefcase is being thrown in the back and someone has seated themselves in my car,
“Can you take me to high school?” the other breathes, and my blood boils as I realise it’s the kid from a few weeks ago, “I missed the bus this morning and I’m really late. Please?” he adds, strapping on his seatbelt while I stumble over my words,
“What the fuck are you -?” I stare at him, and it maddens me all the more that he just quietly stares back innocently, a leather shoulder bag propped neatly on his knees, “Get out of my car!”
“No, but please it’ll only take a second!” he whines, glancing around for help and I notice his eyes flicker to the dashboard, “I-I’ll cover the cost of fuel! Just . . . please?”
I sigh impatiently, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, “I can’t believe you,” I murmur, “For one thing, I barely know you and above that you scared the shit out of me a few weeks ago, creeping up on me like that, so tell me why you think it’s completely appropriate to just waltz in my car and hitch a free ride to school when I am on my way to -!”
“- I know, I’m sorry,” he mumbles, cutting off my blabbering and I watch as his eyes linger to the floor, his fingers gripping the strap of his bag tightly, almost shaking like they were the last time I saw him, “But I really need your help,”
I figure my best bet is to just take him to the God damn school before I get arrested for kidnapping. I’ve already seen how stubborn he can be so I say nothing and press my foot gently on the accelerator again. Not only that, but the quicker I get him there, the quicker I can get to my appointment with the publisher,
“Alright,” I mutter lowly, “But this is a onetime thing, agreed?”
In the corner of my eye, I see him nod shyly, pressing his lips together and blushing considerably,
“You’ve got some nerve kid,” I tell him firmly, once we’re cruising down the street at a steady speed, “Eavesdropping on my conversation like you’d been following me or something. And then you pull a stunt like this,”
He says nothing, his head still dipped towards the ground.
I breathe out through my nose; all of a sudden curious at this sudden shyness.
Perhaps he had something to do with that note after all; he made that clear when he bolted from my house a couple of weeks back.
But why? That’s what I wanted to know,
“W-What’s your name?” he asks next to me, shuffling a little, his gaze finally lifting to look out the window,
“Didn’t you hear me say it on the phone?” I smirk teasingly,
“Yeah, b-but I forgot it,”
I frown; I never meant it to be serious,
“Akira,” I answer, pulling to stop at a junction and waiting for oncoming traffic to pass by, “Akira Suzuki,”
He nods and stays silent once more, his chin propped on his palm as he gazes outside, watching the trees and countryside flash by the more we pick up speed,
“So, you’re not going to tell me yours squirt?” I ask after a while, catching how his eyes close from time to time. Whether it was from sleepiness or not, I couldn’t tell,
“Don’t call me that,” he mutters, and I look at him for a second before my eyes return to the road, “I hate it when people call me things like that,”
“Sorry,” Wow, he really wasn’t what I expected at all. Body of a teenager, mind of a three year old.
He sounded sulky when he said it, which suggested to me he probably got teased a lot.
Even the way he sat was childish. Wringing his hands over themselves again and again, clutching his bag tight to him as though it was some kind of comforter or cuddly toy.
I wondered if he was maybe insecure. Either that or plainly disillusioned. He’d proven that to me twice already,
“So what is your real name then?” I suggest lightly, noting how the pout on his lips was probably caused by me and I worried I may have started his day badly.
Well it’s his own fault. He was the one that chose to jump in my car,
“Yuu,” he tells me softly, making an invisible pattern against his bag with a single finger, “Yuu Shiroyama,”
I nod, “It’s nice,”
Yuu continues his pretence drawing, though I’m not really in a position to pay attention to the pattern his hands are making, his shyness revealing itself further as he descends into a silent cocoon once more.
I don’t have to concentrate too much on my driving for now; the main road we’re now on was straight for a few miles; a couple of corners after that and we’ll be in the city,
“Yuu, why were you so scared the other night?” I ask, knowing that he can’t avoid the topic and run away this time so I figure it’s the only chance I’ll get to have an explanation, “Why did you run away from me?”
I notice him swallow hard, “Y-You’re still mad at me aren’t you?”
His voice is almost inaudible, and I strain to hear him over the engine humming,
“I’m not mad,” I shake my head, “Annoyed maybe, but not mad,” I realise I’m almost breaking the speed limit, my foot having subconsciously pressed down on it at the anger topic, “Yuu, what’s a guy to think when you creep up behind me outside my own home? You invaded my property, you spoke to me rudely . . .” I sigh in dismay, “And then you ran away before I could get another word out of you,”
“S-Sorry,” Yuu mutters lowly, and his voice sounds so hollow I think he might be crying.
Oh God, he’s emotionally unstable too . . .
“Yuu, if you’re scared about something, there’s no need to be,” I tell him gently, remembering the paleness across his face when I asked him about the note. Whether or not he knew who wrote it,
“Yuu, if you know who wrote the note then it’s worth telling me. Or if not me, then the police. Or your parents,” I add, the teen shaking his head vigorously against the head restraint,
“No one’s in danger,” he tells me, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, “But promise me you won’t tell anyone,”
He sits up in his seat, and I can see the plea in his eyes, the dark circles underneath them . . .
The bruise on one side of his cheek,
“What’s that?” I ignore his request to point at the purple patch on his cheekbone, spreading so wide it had almost touched the corner of his eye.
I wonder why I never noticed it before, and it only increases my worry further the more I reflect back to our conversation,
Yuu backs away from me, turning his head again so I can’t see the injury,
“Yuu . . .” I warn gently, all of a sudden concerned for his well being, “Where did you get that bruise?”
“What do you care anyway?” he shoots back at me, “You don’t know me, I don’t know you! Why the hell should I trust you?”
“And yet who jumped in my car this morning?” I snap back at him, meeting his challenge head on, “You don’t just hop into some stranger’s car without thinking about it, Yuu,”
This is why I don’t want kids. I’m reminded of it when the sulky pout returns, his trembling hands clutching the strap of his school bag even tighter, “Yeah, well, it was an emergency,” he mumbles,
“Look, kid,” I say sternly, frustration making my grip on the steering wheel tighten, “Either you tell me what the hell is going on or I am going to phone the police tonight and tell them exactly what happened the other day,”
He flinches at that and I dare to believe my threat worked.
I know he’s hiding something; it’s almost blatantly obvious. All I need to do is just piece the facts together.
The nervousness, the shyness, the bruise on his face . . . his entire personality seems to be a mask for something I know he’s trying to keep secret.
He proved it when he ran away from me two weeks ago. And he proved it again just now.
I know he has something to do with it. Despite the fact we’re strangers to each other, I know this much.
I wait impatiently as he takes a moment to chew his lip; I know I’m running out of time now, the city’s West High School only a couple of blocks away,
“Yuu,” I remind him solemnly, knowing that this could possibly put someone’s life in danger if I don’t do something about it.
After all, that note was pretty brief. Someone in trouble doesn’t have time to enlist a full description of their situation,
Help me . . .
And not to mention it was left at my door. Why me? Why my doorstep and not someone else’s?
Could they have been close to me? Was my house the nearest salvation of hope for them?
I didn’t know, but when I finally pulled up outside the high school bustling with traffic and school buses and crowds of kids pushing to get indoors, Yuu remained looking unsure in his seat.
I tug on the handbrake and turn to face him,
“Come on kid,” I urge gently, “I promise you won’t get into any trouble. But if you know who wrote the note or what’s been going on that could have made someone write a note like that then you need to tell me,”
To my surprise he scoffs, “What are you? Some kind of private detective now?”
“A novelist actually,” I smile a little, trying to coax him a touch, “So I know how human’s feelings work. I write about it all the time,”
“Why do you care?” Yuu sniffs, still refusing to meet my gaze, “It’s not like it’s your business or anything,”
“It became my business when the note was left on my doorstep,” I answer softly, sneaking a look outside as most of the kids had dispersed indoors ready for class.
Yuu seems to notice the quietness from outside too, “I-I better be going -“
“- Not unless you want me to phone the police,” I call after him, as he takes hold of the door handle.
He hesitates in his seat and slides back to face me, his eyes fixed on a random spot by the speed dial,
“Yuu,” I clasp my hands in front of me, “Tell me who wrote the note,”
For a brief moment I have a horrified feeling that he may just be daring enough to make a run for it; call my bluff and see whether I’d phone the police after all.
But it seems he’s too scared to find out, and he bites his lip hard, looking warily out of the window towards the front of the school, “You promise you won’t tell?” he whispers softly,
“I promise,”
I watch as he takes a deep breath, one of his legs starting to shake beneath him,
“It was me!” he blurts out, not giving me chance to take in his words before he’s thrown open the door and escaped, sprinting to the school doors with his bag dangling lazily from his arm.
I watch him leave with widened eyes, slumping back in my seat as I process his words through.
Yuu wrote the note?
*
A/N: I really need to write better (>//////////////////<) Please comment and let me know what you think <3 I'll send Kai in a big package and send him to your door if you do!! (O///O)"
Well, perhaps that's breaching human rights . . . xD xD