BakuJirou Oneshots

Impermissus

The neon-touched city blurred into an unrecognizable amalgamation of shadows and flares as she walked a familiar path to find an escape to her thoughts. Her head felt heavy; a 10 ton weight, or a pressurized bomb about to blow from the tension building between her ears.

With jacks coiled tightly in her hair to keep it up, Jirou glanced at the streetlights as her heels clicked in rhythm on the pavement. The evening beckoned them to flicker on, one at a time in a perfect line down the stretch of concrete. Even as cars raced past her—some barely making the green light—or the low roll of thunder in the distance, Jirou stayed unfocused. Nothing snapped her from her daze.

She wasn't completely there.

Why did she agree to this meetup anyway?

In an attempt to rack her brain, even as it fired shots through her nerves, Jirou partially covered her face.

She had no answer.

She was acting solely on impulse or habit now.

It was as if her fingers, legs, and mind were on autopilot and her common sense was strapped in for the ride.

While meeting wasn't entirely uncommon, it was usually to wind down and catch up after a long period of time. A drink, a few laughs, and then departure for months at a time.

But with every meeting, something rooted deep in her heart seemed to pulsate with gut-wrenching life. It was almost as if the way his eyes scorned her in softness was nourishing a seedling that began to wrap immovable brambles in her ribcage to act as an anchor so nothing budged.

The things she felt made her worry that she'd regret every second of what's to come.

A few more paces. The sliding glass door separated her from a fate that would be sealed the second she entered the building.

Double checking her phone to ensure it was the proper place, Jirou swallowed the lump that formed in her throat before striding through.

The dark clouds began to roll in.

·    ·    ·

Katsuki wasn't exactly the most patient type, especially when it came to rare occasions when he was the one initiating contact. The cross look on his face burned through the crowd of people serving him passing glances as they continued with their evening.

By now, he was damn tired of the bar scene.

He had called someone to meet at a lounge, more on the classy side than anything. Merry swing music drolled on from the band's spot in the corner of the joint, a lively saxophone coloring the atmosphere with jazzy tones.

Draping his arm over one of the couch edges, Katsuki tapped his finger on the leather covering to distract his temper.

She's fucking late. She's never late.

What the fuck is she doing?

His internal dialogue drowned out the tapping, causing his teeth to grind in frustration. But he couldn't let it show too much, else he ran the risk of coming off as desperate.

With someone donning such remarkable pride, he would rather cut his own finger off than let anyone see him crack. The thought pissed him off.

Especially over some woman.

It just wasn't in his nature.

It's not like he cared or not whether she showed, he didn't even know what he was trying to achieve by calling her here. He had no plans.