heartache | t. muichiro ✓

pouring

「

"but there he remained, his eyes averted and his arms folded across his chest. he stared down at her with a disgust that'd been brewing for far too long within him, fists threatening to ball up at his sides."

」

With reckless abandon, Tokito Muichiro followed the steps to your house that he seemed to remember all too well.

His knuckles almost rapped at the door, quietly taking note of each scratch and imperfection in the wood, before reeling away as if the door had burst into flames. The air felt thinner, the deepness of his breathing fluctuating at times just to match his heartbeat that just could not seem to stop racing.

He knew your household well enough to know not to enter through the front door at this time of the day.

"Mr. L/N? Are you alright?"

"Get away from me, you fucking--"

"That's enough, dad!"

The only other way of entry being...

Muichiro swallowed the remaining pride that remained in his throat like a thick nectar, dragging himself off the porch of your house and into the back side of your home, trying to remember each window like clock work. His fingers ran across the walls of your home until he rounded a corner and located your bedroom window. He could see your familiar f/c lights from the slightest crack it was opened at.

Come on, be strong. Hooking one hand onto the small ledge, he curled his leg up next to his hand and grunted as he pulled himself up onto the wood. He curled his other leg up, exhaling heavily once he'd accomplished the feat.

This isn't for her, rather my own curiosity.

He thought this over and over again, chanting it within his mind like a prayer as he pulled the window open and crawled in.

--

Hearing some commotion outside your house was the last thing you needed right now, your heart dropping to your stomach at a shadow near your curtain.

Your breathing quickened as you backed out of your room in terror, your back hitting a wall of the hallway before you scrambled into your parent's room. Hands trembling, the door swung open.

Your parents' room was typically empty, your mother and father no longer sleeping in the same bed ever since he begun to excessively drink. One single lamp laid on their bedside table, painting the room in yellow hues similarly to how a sunset would paint the sky yellow. Their bed was large, the bedframe wood carved elegantly: reminiscent of a time where you'd lived in a better town.

Your shaky hands desperately pulled on the handle of the dresser drawer, flinging unworn dress shirts and jeans onto the floor and letting your hands feel the cool steel material that laid just underneath. Yanking it out from the handle, the dull sheen of the gun in your hand had your heart racing.

Today,

The thud of feet onto your bedroom floor had you pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle your hastened breathing once more. Your breathing grew shallow as you struggled to stand, light on your feet as you walked back to your room.