*drops shitty one-shot thing*

*sprints away*

Others speak down to people in his situation.

They call out to the man overboard, screaming from their boats. Be wary of mystifying waters, every lapping wave is a double-edged blade. Watch perfection unfurl, sprawled as an offering, but do not indulge.

There is certainly a craving for the silk of skin. That's why the most saccharine invitation is that of the body. It must be ignored, for the sake of what is right and just.

Anyone who has said those things while sitting atop their vessel is worthless.

He finds that drowning is euphoria ever since he met her.

His pockets are filled with debts. He's starved half time. Work and school come end to end, with no time to live in between. Still, this is how the world functions. He's most bothered to think that he's staggering through it by himself. With home on the opposite end of the country, and no time for a social life, that's how he first imagined he would die. Alone.

Out of nowhere, Miku walked into his world and smiled at him.

She is like drowning. She's the same delight chased by chain-smokers and cultists, but most importantly, she's his vice. At this time, he doesn't even joke in defense of his innocence; he knows every dip and curve of her flesh by taste.

It's really wrong. He doesn't care.

At least she is not intangible, as a psychological addiction tends to be. When all is said and done, there is something to hold. This contact is mind-boggling to him, a sensation so precious he wouldn't mind dying for it. He snaps up his phone, silencing the alarm he set for four in the morning. The mattress creaks. Unfortunately, it isn't used to the company of two people.

He lingers just to marvel at her, watching her sleep. Long lashes cast dainty shadows on her cheeks. He'd love for her to be awake, if only to talk. Her conversation would wind through this world and the next, picking up thoughts to turn them over and examine every detail. Her mind floats in a wonderful, contemplative cloud.

He doesn't dare disrupt her slumber.

No matter how slowly it burns, the blazing dawn always startles him. It sets her turquoise locks alight, glittering every way she shifts. He is reminded of their rules.

Very delicate mechanics run their world. There are laws that govern, forces that march to the beat of a clock. He doesn't know what time it is, but certainly it's past four. He has broken an important law. Now, the scarlet sun has stooped in her window. It bares its teeth at him.

With a gasp, twin orbs of emerald open to him. He returns his gaze to her. As she focuses on him, the color of roses fills her cheeks.

Her ambrosial lips tilt in his favor. "You're here to wake me up, aren't you, Prince Charming?" She speaks in absolute music. Weighed down by sleep, but laced with high spirits, her voice tells that all nights spent without him are forgotten.

He doesn't answer her. He chooses to lean into her to take a sweet kiss instead, their breath mingling. His skin pricks as she drags her nails against his scalp. He can feel his heart work when he's with her.

"Its so late already," she sighs. They part slowly, painfully.

"Its only five-thirty-six," he murmurs. He rests his forehead against hers. He realizes that she has pulled away, only to leave a broad grin on his face. She can hurt him any way she pleases, because she also creates joy where she has touched him. Nothing would be better than doing to same for her.

That's why the twinkle on her nightstand doesn't deter him, even if it's sunlight dancing off her discarded wedding ring.

The space between them evaporates with a moan. She's sensitive, hyperaware of every scorching peck he trails on her collarbone. He can't tease her enough. He grazes her thigh with an eager palm. Her legs almost part at the suggestion. However, she doesn't ignore time as willingly as he does. Her common sense wins out, stopping him short of any activities.

"Len...He comes home early today..." She trails off. The vibrancy that she exudes turns somber.

They detach. Her hands slide from his neck, too easy to disentangle from loose strands. The new distance between them leaves an ache. He thinks it's the same as breaking off parts of himself, but he might prefer that form of torture to this one.

It feels like a dress up game when they pull on their clothes. She returns his black cotton shirt - her favorite shirt - and exchanges it for a less questionable bathrobe that he hates. He's quite reluctant to pull up his jeans. With their hair disheveled and their expressions drowsy, they're a bit less than presentable. Clearly, he doesn't leave the front way.

The distant slam of a car door jerks his shoulders up to his ears. She drops the finger-trap of marriage before she can slip it back on with her façade, for when she faces her spouse. It still glitters on the floor, begging for their attention. They don't take any notice.

She takes his hand to lead him. The relief it offers is that of a raindrop on a desert, leaving him desperate. Her home is intimidating, spacious and decorative. Her influence is draped all over the walls in the form of beautiful paintings. By the time the front door has been unlocked, he barely finds himself making it to the back entrance.

Her eyes dart all over him as her brow is cinched by worry. "Len, it's time." He hasn't released her hand, nor has she made any indication of letting go herself. In the distance, they hear a man's footfalls. They're snapping the rules to pieces in order to keep this moment, to keep the natural machine running.

He wants one last kiss to part. She throws her arms around him and grants his wish.

They seal passion this way, tongue dancing to the teeth with little intention of stopping for air. Blood races along his muscles and bones, screaming that he is alive, that he's lucky to live at the same time as her.

Her husband's pace is now their countdown, one step for every second growing louder with each passing moment. "I want us to go to the pier," she giggles, her mouth free.

"Hmm, really?" He's nervous, at present. She is the sole thing that keeps him in good humor. Her scent, that of wildflowers, has him giddy all this time.

"That's what I think of when I see your eyes, darling. The way the water calls out to you, while you watch it..."

The rush in his veins halts. His jaw clenches unconsciously. He's the last of the two of them to notice the way his tear ducts sting. Somehow he always forgets that, like him, she finds salvation in stupid habits. Every time they separate, both sink deeper into the maelstrom.

He wants to take her with him, to wake up with her in his own bed, to go by without the devastating thought that she shares some other man's name.

Just a name. In the sheets, she belongs to Len. In her heart she's his, too. Only call her Miku Shion, and all of the sudden, she's not his to treasure.

He would give her his everything, except there's nothing for a penniless student to give. She can't live off of contented mornings no matter how badly they both need them. These are the principles of their reality. They're ugly and warped.

After all, everything is distorted underwater.

He backs away first, his stomach churning. A curt, masculine voice rings out. "There you are. Where's my cheque book?"

One last glimpse passes between the worthless man and the woman he adores. She shows him something bittersweet by mouthing her affectionate farewell; at the same time, her look begs to know if he truly will take her to the ocean someday.

When she turns, a forced smile stains her loveliness. "I-I don't have it, Kaito. I swear I haven't touched it..." Their tense exchange of words is made private by a closed door.

Someone invaluable has fallen through his fingers again today. He has to leave immediately, but of course, he lingers.

He knows that the only way to keep her is to plunge into the sea and let it kill him.