disclaimer: i do not own watashitachi no shiawase no jikan. i do own a broken heart ;A;
title: glass wall
summary: He's dead, and she's left with a million feelings of love and one of life.
dedication: to my other friend, you special you
notes: asdfghjkl; that manga broke me. i've written stuff for it before wink wink and i read it a long time ago, so why not write MORE stuff right? i literally was ded by the end of it. a literal mess. SPOILERS IF YOU HAVENT READ IT I RECOMMEND IT OK THE ART IS PRETTY GOOD AND ITS ONLY 8 CHAPTERS IT ONLY TAKES 8 CHAPTERS TO COMPLETELY BREAK YOU
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come; follow, follow, follow
—follow, follow, follow me
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Death likes to call her with lipstick stains.
It kisses the glass wall between her and itself, slowly, painfully pressing its blackened lips to the glass. She weakly brushes her fingers over them and causes them to fade, thinking of ways she could kiss Death back.
Then it's her turn to call to Death.
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She's thought about killing her mother in more ways than one.
It's quite impossible, though. For one who had failed to die of one's own hand, it would be awfully arrogant of her to assume she could bring down her mother like the way her mother brought her down.
Her mother successfully killed her already, way back when. Sixteen years old, one piano teacher, and absolutely no clothing allowed.
Dead, just like that, except not quite so.
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"No," she says. She's just gotten out of the hospital again; third time suicide victim and a failure at Death.
Her foolish little nun of an aunt shakes her head in disappointment (nothing new), and tries to convince her again. What, like it'd be fun to sit all day every Thursday with some death row convict – somehow less of a person than she yet more successful than her.
—talking to someone who had already been able to kiss Death back would be like Tantalus's eternal punishment.
'I want,' she thinks.
"—come on, it's not like you have anything better to do; you need this to change yourself—" the annoying aunt says, and she snaps.
"Fine! I'll go to your stupid whatever it is! Stop bothering me," she fumes out. "I'm not some kid."
Aunt (what was her name again?) Monica sighs and she can see the worry etched in the wrinkles of her old nun face, as if the elderly lady can't believe that she can take care of herself—!
She kicks the ground and almost smirks in satisfaction as the old bag chokes on the dust.
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(really, she should be nicer to the last caring relative she has left)
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"Juri," she slurs to the warden.
"Last name?" he replies, a shitty looking pair of big nerd glasses perching on his nose. What a stupid looking man.
"Mutou," she sketches out the kanji in the air.
"Alright, Mutou-san and Aunt Monica, head right in," the warden says, and ushers them in.
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The convict's name is Yuu and he's kind of handsome and she can't really think when she's talking to him.
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It's kind of a rhythm now. Every Thursday, to the prison, and an hour later, back to home. The visits are interesting, but the man is so nice and what did he do to get on death row and she wishes they could trade places because fuck, she deserves it ten times more.
Every Thursday, she presses her lipstick-free lips to the glass wall between them and talks until her voice is hoarse.
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Life is strange, because it turns out that he knows her. Back right before she quit piano; back when she was still a famous teen piano player; back before it happened. It turns out that he liked her piano playing. It turns out he wants her to play again, but screw her life over if that's ever happening again.
His brother, dammit, he didn't – doesn't deserve this. It was all an accident, the dead guy's fault, the train, not him, fuck, not him.
And although he's killed before, she can't help but think that he's a good guy. He talks to her, and she finds her passion too. Drawing and teaching – well, she's not good at drawing quite yet, but she's improving. And teaching too – if she can't fix her life anymore, she should at least help some kids not make the shitty mistakes she made.
She finds herself living.
The lipstick stains on her own little glass wall fade faster, and each step she takes is another step away.
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She knows he kinda has some issues with people that pity him, so she doesn't. She treats him like her, because they're different as can be, but she understands. She understands the way he awaits the sound of the guard's feet tapping on the floor (or used to await it, anyways). She understands his love affair with Death, and she also understands how to fix him.
She tries, anyways.
By the time he's fixed, it's too late.
Death is drawing closer, and its kisses grow yet more fervent.
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She talks to him through that glass wall and wishes she could cross it — wishes she could call to him, like she used to wish to for Death.
In her life, it's always been a series of glass walls, and still she is not strong enough to break a single one.
She presses her lips to that wall, but nothing stains. Nothing lasts.
She watches Warden Inoue put on his official uniform and dies a little inside.
But it's okay, because he's kissed her enough life through the glass to survive even then.
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It's hard to say, but she misses the feeling of her fingers flying over the piano.
She was scared, now she's not. She's playing for a purpose, and that liberates her. It's not for her mother. There's no one standing behind her, watching her moves, waiting, plotting.
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Concert day.
Not nervous.
No tears.
Calm and clear — that's what she has to be.
He's sitting there now; she's playing now; she's not crying now. For the first time, she sees him for real — not across a glass wall.
Then she sees him and her and what it's been all along and the way he stands to be taken away.
She feels the bubbling of tears in her eyes, and the caught up choke of all the words she wants to say but can't, because it will make it harder for him when his chained body breaks through that former-envied glass wall.
It's all too late, because he was stepping away, and now he's back.
She's alone again, and it's all over, and she loves him and she's pretty fucking sure he loves her back and fuck he's dead, I think.
And then she breaks that glass wall without breaking herself and steps through it, to that other side.
It'd been calling to her all along, and she hadn't noticed. He helped her, now he was dead somewhere, limp on the end of a rope.
It'd been calling to her with its no-lipstick lip stains and vibrant eyes.
She steps through, just like she'd always wanted—
—but this time, on the other side, is Life.
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whither shall I follow, follow, follow,
whither shall I follow, follow thee?
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