Yuri story 2

It started off innocently enough.

A crush. Someone with whom I was enamored. The first of my life, at that.

I thought myself silly, quickly falling for someone with whom I'd had very little interaction with, overall. For all intents and purposes, it was clear that when he joined he was taken with the girl who had brought him in to begin with, albeit he hadn't yet realized it himself. Yet, even knowing this, I found myself sneaking glances. Shamefully eavesdropping in on conversations he'd have.

On one occasion, he dropped a pen. I took it. I still consider it one of my most prized possessions.

I had resigned myself into staying out of his life, at least as a romantic interest. It was clear to me that he had, at least subconsciously, set himself up to be with her. It hurt, but it was simply true. Life was oft unfair, and this was just another case. Besides, how many people actually got their first crush, and stayed with them? Not many that come to my mind, at the very least.

But then something happened.

A spot of luck. A chance.

Our mutual leader, the head of the club of which we were both members, announced that we would be doing a project for the school's annual festival. I was given the task of decoration creating, which isn't difficult in and of itself. Something simple. I wasn't going to complain. My mind had already begun racing with ideas and possibilities, causing a slight smirk to form. However, as I had begun to delve into the meat of the ideas, she continued. He - the object of my affection - still had nothing to do. He made a slightly self-deprecating joke, before he was given a choice. He would have to help one of us. The choices were quickly narrowed down between a club member with whom my relations were chilly, at best, and myself. He switched glances between us a few times, seemingly stuck on his decision. I gave a weak smile; expecting anything was foolish, wasn't it? Idealistic. Besides, decorations weren't exactly something mind blowing, nor particularly fun. I wouldn't have held it against him if he decided against picking me. However, he opened his mouth, and the words that fell from his lips spoke in my favor. I quickly became flustered, asking him if he really meant it. He sheepishly insisted that he did, much to the chagrin of the club mate who he had chosen me over. I felt my heart pounding in my throat. A bit of sweat rolling down my forehead, teeth digging into my lower lip as the president kept speaking, deciding things once and for all. Fantasies began piling up rapidly in my head, enough to fill an entire book in seconds before having enough left over material to be halfway into a sequel.

He had chosen me.

I was a choice, to him. One he decided to pick.

I felt as though my chest would rupture.

Before the meeting had ended, I stopped him, out of earshot of the others. Timidly, I made plans with him. He gave me his phone number, and address later. Apologizing to him, I thanked him for choosing me; if only because he felt bad for me. He quickly reassured me that he didn't do so out of pity, but rather because he genuinely wanted to be with me and help me with my task. I clutched them tightly, so much so I was worried that my nails would pierce my own skin, as I quietly thanked him and told him I would see him on the weekend. As soon as I left, I ran into the nearest restroom, locking myself in the farthest stall I could. I stared down at the piece of paper in my hand containing his number, memorizing every digit, immortalizing them into my memory. I was shivering with anticipation, smiling and giggling so much that I became worried. I needed to calm down. I couldn't afford to let elation ruin anything. Shakily, my hand slipped into the pocket of my uniform jacket and withdrew what was inside. A pocket knife, wickedly sharp and elegant in design, both in terms of appearance and effectiveness. The blade clicked out, the edge gleaming in the dull light provided by the bulb hanging from the ceiling. I lifted my left sleeve, revealing the multitude of slashing scars. Even as I stared at them, knowing what I was about to do, I couldn't stop grinning, giggling and writhing as I continued to fantasize further about being alone with him, in his own home at least. I pressed the knife down on a clean spot of my forearm's back side, devoid of scars. The blade met my skin and I drew it across slowly, the soft laughter quickly replaced by a soft, slow intake of air through grit teeth as the excess energy had begun to ooze out from the newly opened wound. Slowly, very slowly, I had begun to calm down.

Something above had given me another chance. A chance I had considered impossible.

One I would take.

I took the chance to speak with him privately, albeit over text messages. I was incredibly nervous at first, but quickly found myself opening up to him far more than I had initially planned to. I was giddy; absolutely ecstatic, to be frank. It was entirely one-sided for me, but I really felt as though I had already won his heart. They were just fantasies, delusions even, but I wanted to believe that I could feel some warmth, some care to everything he typed out to me. Some love. Time passed slowly, but finally, it was over. The day came in which I was to meet with him. I hadn't slept the entire night, alternating between indulging in the fantasies I had (with the use of the pen, I shamefully admit) and trying to not explode with excitement. I was dressed and out nearly an hour before I was supposed to be with him, hoping that perhaps a walk around calm my mind, allow me some clarity before we actually met. The bag slung over my shoulder carried many of the supplies we would need for making the decorations, and he would have the rest. I felt bad for asking him to buy the extra, smaller pieces, but he insisted that he contribute monetarily to the cause. He didn't live very far away from me at all. Perhaps a twenty minute trip, even if I was being incredibly leisurely in my stride. What had initially been planned as an outing to clear my mind before I would see him for what, in my mind, was our first date, had begun to fail fairly early on. My legs moved autonomously as my mind raced, alternating between grinning to myself and rubbing my arms in anticipation. Before I had even realized it, I stood outside of his house, nearly fifteen minutes ahead of when I was scheduled to appear. I felt flushed. It was incredibly embarrassing, to think that even just imagining spending time with him would accidentally lead me up to his doorstep. Tentatively, I pressed the doorbell, staying in place as I began to fidget idly, my nerves getting to me. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Each moment outside feeling like an eternity. Is he asleep? Did he not hear the doorbell? I began to peek over the fence, but spied no movement, be it from windows or the door itself. Here, panic begins to set in. Did he change his mind? Did he cancel? Did I do something wrong, say something wrong? I pressed the doorbell button again. And again. Over, and over, with increasing frequency. I rapidly pressed my fingers into the button, tears welling in my eyes as my heart rate skyrocketed, the thumping echoing in my head as the world around me began to turn to harsh static. As my world began to crumple around me, all I wanted to do was scream. Then I heard it.

"Yuri?"

I turned to face the voice with enough speed that I almost broke my neck. He stood in front of me, wearing a worried expression and a casual outfit. Immediately, the sound filling my ears cleared back to silence, and the tears dried. Inhaling sharply, I smiled, apologizing for appearing early. He quickly shook his head, explaining that he wasn't home at the moment and that he was extremely sorry for making me worry. He gave me a pitiful expression, and I quickly assured him it was fine. I couldn't leave that cute face unanswered...one of my weaknesses, I suppose. Content that I was well and calmed (I was, if only by his presence) we went inside. My heart was pumping as he lead me up the stairs and to his room, the smile I was wearing concealed by the fact that his back was turned to me. As he finally opened the door and lead me inside, I was worried I might die of anxiety. His room was spotless; everything in a perfect place, not a hint of dirt on anything. When I complimented him, he nervously laughed and scratched the back of his head, ensuring it only looked so good because I was coming over. It was a courteous thing to do; nothing special about it in and of itself...but I still blushed. The blood was beginning to rush to my head as the fantasies running within it began to go wild. I needed a distraction. Anything. Looking at his desk, I noticed a drawer. Without thinking of the consequences, I reached for the handle, which caused him to jump. In a panic, he grabbed my wrist, stopping me from making contact with the handle. Time seemed to freeze as I stared at him, his hand around mine, face bright red. I could feel my breath catch in my throat as a bead of sweat rolled down my temple. He was touching me.

Touching me...with a firm grip. Even recalling it...makes me shiver.

I apologized profusely, stating that my mind had begun to wander and I acted without thinking, and he quickly told me it was fine. He was so considerate, kind and caring...it should be illegal. Finally, after taking a deep breath, we began to work together. I went over a rough outline of the ideas I had in mind. Aromatherapy, paper decorations, the works. He stared at me with a mix of bewilderment and amazement, praising me with a bit more honesty than I think he had intended too. I fidgeted and blushed further, ensuring him that it wasn't as impressive as he thought, but he didn't relent, going so far as to call me an 'intense', passionate person...saying that he liked it about me. The sound of my heartbeat came back into focus as I sneaked glances at him whenever I could. Soft features, brown hair...by all accounts, incredibly normal, and yet...why couldn't I stop thinking about him? Moments pass, and the idea springs into my mind. I asked him what he knows of aromatherapy, to which he relents that he does not know much, when I pulled out a diffuser, for use with essential oils. I explained how aromatherapy can be positive to an environment, and offered to show him what I had meant. When he agreed, I flicked the switch. Vapor began to pour into the air of the room through a small hole in the top. Jasmine. A lovely scent, both in actual smell and the effects it has. He seemed to like it a fair deal, complimenting me on it before I continued my explanation. I could feel its effects set in quickly, the tension slowly floating away from my muscles as I smiled, becoming more relaxed. I explained to him what my plan for the event was, and again, without so much as a hint of hesitation, he complimented me once more, causing my cheeks to burn bright red. I giggled it off, giving him a soft smile, before we set in to work. The ribbon that sat before me had to be cut, and luckily I had just the tool. Reaching down into my back, I withdrew my knife. The same one I used to cut myself mere days earlier. It was a trusty tool, a beautiful piece any collector would be happy to own. However, a voice rang out from behind me.

"That's...no ordinary pocket knife. It looks really fancy..."

A cold chill shot through my body as I turned to him, the blade deployed and held tightly within my grasp. Oh, God. He was staring at it so intently, eyes fixated on the gleaming edge. I began to panic. I sputtered and stammered, trying to find the words that would help me escape from this situation with my image untarnished in his eyes, but my mind failed me. Tearfully, I began to admit my fascination. He gave me an incredulous look, but quickly smiled. He shook his head when I told him of my worries that he would find it 'weird' or unsettling, going so far as to say it suits me. I stammered once more, asking him to elaborate. He said that, much like me, it's an intense interest, and that the knife itself was surely beautiful. I smiled. A huge flood of relief flowed through me, washing away any fear. He just kept getting better and better, didn't he...? Timidly, I asked him if he would like to hold it. He agrees, and I pass it to him. He studies it intensely, turning it over and looking at every facet of the edge, the engravings...it truly felt as though, if even for a moment, he shared my passions. Another thing to love about him, I guess. While I was lost in my own thoughts, however, he made a mistake. I didn't warn him that the blade was honed to a razor's edge. He took the tip of his index finger, poking the tip to test it. He let out a soft grunt of pain, and I was torn out of my delusions. He'd hate me for this, wouldn't he? Think I was crazy for carrying something so sharp. Taking him by the wrist, much like he did me earlier, I examine the wound that I was inadvertently the direct cause of. It wasn't bad, by any measure; a light prick. But he was still bleeding. The blood trickled down the side of his finger, and...I became entranced with it. Holding his hand, watching the crimson flow slowly from his wound...something inside of me flipped. A switch. He tried to speak, but his words fell on deaf ears. In that moment...I knew what I wanted. I pressed his finger into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the wound, cleaning it to the best of my abilities. His blood, the little that there was, coated the inside of my mouth...and in that moment, I felt no better bliss. I could feel my senses dull, eyes glassing over as I shivered before him, tasting and savoring everything I could. He pulled his hand back in a panic, a trail of saliva still connecting his finger to my tongue as I stared at him with a far-gone gaze. My senses all returned to me at once, however, and I immediately felt a part of me die. I was panicking, apologizing and trying to excuse myself, as I hung my head low. He hates me. He thinks I'm a gross, sick freak. He hates me. He has to hate me. He was speaking to me, yet I couldn't hear. I wanted to die. I could've ended my life then and there with the knife. I should've.
In the midst of my panic attack, I missed his actions. The action that would cement my love for him in my heart. Taking me by the hand, he lifted my fingers up to his face, and with a pause of hesitation, mixed with a nervous glance up to me, pressed them into his mouth. I stared at him, face absolutely ignited, as he quickly pulled back, declaring that we're even. I looked down at my still wet fingers, then up to him, at a loss for words.

That moment...I knew. That without him, I wouldn't be able to keep going.

Things calmed down from there as we both laughed it off, his soft, genuine smile returning, as I did my best to return it. We finished the door curtain, thanks to our joint efforts, and began to move on. Our next task was the banner, one I was actually looking forward too quite a bit. I asked him if he would be so kind as to bring six small cups of water so that we could mix the paint accordingly, and begin.

As soon as he left the room, I plunged the finger he had sucked on into my mouth, tasting as much of him as I could. My body burned, everything ached with desire, a dull pain echoing from both my head and groin. It was happening again, I knew it. I was getting too excited. I glanced at the knife, and up to the door. I had enough time. I'd be fine. Rolling up the sleeve to my left arm once more, I quickly drew the blade across it, muffling my groans by letting them out into my shoulder. Oh, God, it felt so good...knowing that part of him was still on the edge as it went across my skin, I felt as though I could nearly climax from the sensation alone. I had no time, though. I could hear his footsteps approaching. Cleaning the blade, I had just barely finished rolling my sleeve back down over the still bleeding cut. He gave me a worried look, commenting on my bright red face and asking me if it was too hot. I insisted that I was fine, and we began to mix the paint. I felt bad for being so dismissive, but I couldn't just tell him what I was doing, could I? Of course not. We began to work on the banner, having light conversation in between, which helped infinitely as it helped to soothe the raging beast I was trying so desperately to contain. He seemed pleased with the conversation, wearing a smile I don't think he was aware of...adorable. As I reached for a paint brush we had yet to use, he moved for the same, and our heads collided, causing quite a shock to me. I let out a soft squeak, and he quickly apologized, stating that it was his fault. I shook my head in response, insisting it was mine, but noticed that he was staring at me. With a bit of hesitation, he admitted to me what the problem was; a bit of paint on my face and neck. Nothing horrible. Before I could assure him that it was fine, he left the room, quickly returning with a warm, moist towel. Quickly, and before I could brace my aching heart, he pressed it lightly to my cheek, cleaning the paint from me. Immediately, I began to shiver and quake before him, biting my lower lip as I stared at him. His eyes shifted from the paint he was cleaning to me, asking me if I was alright. I nodded, saying that I was merely just surprised, before he began to retract his hand. I gripped it firmly in response, keeping it to my neck, quietly begging him to not go, not yet. He shakily complies, starting to blush. In that moment, I wanted so badly to kiss him. I even began to lean forward, just a bit, and he didn't react negatively...but I relented at the last moment, the terror of moving too fast clutching my breast at the last moment.

I regret it, even now.

Muttering an apology for being so light headed, he chokes out one of his own, clearly flustered. We move to finish the banner, but my head is swimming with a mix of lust and longing. A desire for him, to have him all to myself. When we finally finish the it, it comes out a lot better than I had initially expected. We decide that doing the lettering then and there was impossible, and so he should bring it early the next day. He expresses a bit of relief that the work, for the most part, is over, and I meekly ask if he had a good time. He nodded almost immediately, insisting that spending time with me was enjoyable. As we begin to leave his house, I wanted to ask him if I could stay. If we could just...be together, for a bit. But before I could, we were outside. I hung my head low, disappointment practically visible on my face, as I begin to say my goodbyes. However, he stops me right before I turn to leave. With a slightly embarrassed smile, he begins to say what must've been incredibly hard for him, but magic words for me. That I'm welcome to come over any time, be it for club or socializing reasons, that we could do whatever I wanted, if he had the time too. He stumbles and trips over his words, and I smile, taking him by the hand. That was my chance, I had decided. I stepped closer as he flushed dark red, telling him how I loved how thoughtful he could be. He began to stumble over his words further. I opened my mouth to say more; to tell him how I wanted him, how I needed to be with him, how I wanted to learn all I could about him to make him the happiest man on Earth...

But I noticed something.

Behind him, a girl wearing a melancholy expression. My words leaped from my mouth before my mind could process what was happening.

"S-Sayori?!"

He quickly jumped back, and I did the same. Sayori stood before us, wearing a pitiful excuse for a happy expression, the sadness evident more than all else. I excused myself quickly, running as fast as I could. There was a burning, deep in my chest. An agony, unlike any other I had felt before. Agony and anger. Why? Why did she have to show up at the pivotal moment, right when I was about to finally confess the feelings I'd had building up within me? Why? It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair by any margin! I finally had my chance, my one, singular opportunity, and it was ripped away from me as quickly as it was given to me. Why? Why?!

As I ran into my home, I locked myself in my room and fell into bed, sobbing into my pillows. I could feel my heart cracking in two, the pain seeping out and spreading through the rest of my body. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, it isn't fair, so why? Why should I have to suffer like this?

As the clock turned from sunlight to moonlight, I laid awake, staring at the wall. Very slowly, I rose up from my bed, stepping out, down the stairs, and on to the street.

"It isn't fair," I chanted to myself as I retraced my steps, a route with which I had became familiar with after a single day.
"It isn't fair," I quietly whispered as I opened the fence. Trying the lock to the main door, I found it open. I stepped inwards.
"It isn't fair," I mused as I opened the door to his room. He was asleep, down like a rock.

Quietly, I slipped in to bed next to him, wrapping my arms around him, pressing him to my body as I nestled myself against his. Resting quietly beneath his arm, cheek on his chest, I shivered. He'd awake, eventually. My life would be over, but it was fine. I realized how empty life was without him, all after spending one evening with him. Experiencing love and heartache, all at once in rapid succession. I leaned up, kissing his cheek, garnering no response. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I could still see something. Spools of heavy ribbon. The idea filled my mind to the brink. The knife clicked out slowly as I took long ropes out, staring at him as he slept. He would wake, but not where he fell asleep. I felt bad, then. Horrible, even. But I remembered something very important, in that moment.

It isn't fair.