Like The Water Loves The Air (Chuuya x Reader)

Chapter Two

Y/n sat at her desk, her hands poised above the keys of her computer. Ever since that night a week or so before, she hadn't been able to get the strange customer out of her mind. Maybe it was his demeanor, his confidence, his looks. Maybe it was just the fact that he had insulted her work. Y/n didn't know. What she did know was that writing was a way to get things out of her head and so, taking a deep breath, she began.

I met a man who looked like the ocean. He was made completely of steam, caught between the calm waters of his complexion and the fire of his mind. The man made of steam was

Y/n paused in thought before deleting everything on the page before her. Hands back to the keys, she began again.

Poetry is what keeps people human. When you write about the tragedies of the world, the power of nature, the inevitability of human frailty, there is no better medium than poetry. Nothing captures it all in the same way, nothing else evokes the emotion quite right. Poetry is the most human form of art. The man who looked like the ocean did not like poetry.

I do not actually know if that is true. It could be that he just didn't like my poetry. That would be a different beast entirely.

She paused again, rereading the scant paragraphs she had written. Shaking her head, Y/n deleted the second of the pair.

He was the sea during a storm, all violence and made of grace. There was a fatality to him as he sat at the table, an inherent sense of loss. To not like poetry and to sit there, looking like that, was a crime. It was some sort of convoluted self hatred, some wild and unforgivable sin.

I stood between soft wood and harsh water. I was storm clouds in the gray of his unrelenting gaze.

Two days later and the man was back. Y/n made a point of not watching him, not even sparing him a glance, as he walked up to the bar. She expected him to avoid her the way she avoided him, she expected some unspoken and frankly uncalled for animosity. At the sound of knuckles rapping against wood, she looked up from the glass she had been cleaning, lips slightly parted.

"Hello again." she hummed, placing the glass to the side and drying her hands on her apron, "What can I get for you?"

"Same as always."

With a nod, Y/n turned her back to the man.

"Have you done it?"

She froze, her hand poised to pour. 

"Done what?" she asked, turning to meet his gaze over her shoulder, confusion lacing her voice.

"Written something better."

Immediately, she turned back to the glass, hiding her rosy cheeks. What was she supposed to say? That all she had written since meeting the strange man had been about him? That she was now more insistent than ever on her poetry because of him?

"No."

Placing the bottle back on the counter, she turned to him, glass in hand. They traded, card for liquor. Gently, she tucked the card behind the register once again.

"Shame. You'll tell me when you do."

"How do you know?"

She hadn't meant to let the words slip from between her lips. Something about him just made her angry. Comments like his didn't normally get to her but, she couldn't help it. The anger boiled in the pit of her stomach.

The man stopped, his back half to her. Their eyes met.

"Because I told you to."

Y/n shut her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands sharply. She grounded herself in the feeling.

"Please let me know if you need anything else."

As soon as she got home, she rushed to her computer. The blue light threw her features into sharp contrast with one another as her fingers made contact with the keys.

Made more of violence than the reality of the situation, I wonder if your dislike of poetry says more about you than it does about my writing? How can you be human. How can you be a man, a real person, and not read it, not internalize it, not glow. 

You want me to write something better? This is my something better. No one will ever see it because it is better in your eyes, not mine. 

You snap your jaws, sharks teeth spilling out of your throat like remnants of a meal. How many things has that maw destroyed? Ravaged? Eaten?

They say to be eaten is to be holy. I would rather be forever condemned to hell than spend one moment in your eyes.

Gazing at the paper, Y/n sighed. She highlighted the block of text, deleting it.

Anger doesn't suit me.

She began again.

Anger doesn't suit me, but it suits you. I will not allow you to pull me any further into being something I am not. If to be eaten is to be holy, I will watch with wide eyes as you devour yourself. I will never be holy.

The familiar ache, the internal rot, began to set in to the marrow of her bones. Y/n felt herself standing on the ledge, overlooking the chasm of her old ways. The same strange, familiar sickness of her youth. She chuckled.

They say to be eaten is to be holy. If that really is true, then I am Holy a hundred times over. My skin bares eternal scars, my mind draws a blank. I am not holy. I have never been holy. I think the statement is a lie, a simple misstep, a comfort to those who cannot escape the hungry jaws that snap threateningly at their heels. 

I will give it one last try. I will be devoured, dissolved into hips and ankles and heart one more fatal time. I will do this to prove to you, dear reader, that it is a falsehood. I will do it to myself so that you don't have to. Then again, some lessons can't be learned by listening. Sometimes, they can only be learned through imitation.

I have spent such a very long time being strong. Would it really be so bad to let it win?

The hollow beast snapped open in her chest. It had lain dormant for such a very long time. The next morning, Y/n bought a pack of cigarettes. The bitter taste on her tongue was like hugging a childhood friend. She opened her arms, letting the shadows creep back in.