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laurent tentatively stepped through the doorway of makoto’s apartment, toed off his shoes and left them at the mat. he watched makoto’s frame retreat to the small balcony at the far side of the room, and after a moment of hesitation, followed after him. he stepped outside next to the shorter man, and let his arms rest on the railing of the balcony.
“what did you want?” makoto asked, but it was more of a statement than a question. his eyes were fixed away from laurent.
“to talk,” laurent started with. “I'm confused. you seemed fine at the end of the case, what’s going on now? what changed?”
“nothing fucking changed. I just stopped playing pretend,” makoto stated, firm, and took a drag of the cigarette that was resting between his first and middle finger.
“you shouldn’t smoke,” laurent pointed out, but he’d be wrong to say that watching the smoke flow from makoto’s lips didn’t make his pants feel just a little tight – god, he was such a creep. “it’s bad for your health,” he finished lamely.
makoto was positively glaring at the building across them. “don’t fucking do that,” he said, and his tone had a certain bite to it that laurent couldn't place. “don’t act like you care about me.”
laurent frowned. “I do care about you,” he said honestly.
“bullshit,” makoto bit back, and oh– the bite, it was anger. pure, fervent anger. he stood up straight and turned his glare over to laurent, piercing through the other man's eyes with thunder. “you never fucking cared about me. you cared about getting revenge. I was just some toy you strung along for fun.” he shook his head and let out a rough chuckle. “I can’t believe I ever fucking believed you. I was so naive.” he turned back to the balcony.
it was quiet for a moment as laurent processed this perspective. “edamura," he said, throat dry, "I… I know that I've hurt you, blinded by my own rage. I didn't mean to use you," laurent excused poorly. "I… I involved you because I was selfish. I wanted you. I had to have you.”
makoto laughed again. “you’re fucking sick,” he said, voice rough. “you had to have me? what, am I just an object to you? something you— you can just pick out at the store and buy? own?”
laurent felt his throat tighten. this wasn’t going the way he’d expected. “no, edamame, that’s not—”
“do not call me that.” makoto interrupted, smoke spilling from his mouth and mixing into his words. laurent’s frown deepened.
“okay. um, edamura.” he paused. “I never meant to make you feel like that. I don't own you. I was just.. infatuated with you. my infatuation made me— it made me desperate," laurent tried to explain. "maybe I am sick. but— but I know, I promise, edamura, I care about you," he rambled desperately, searching for the words that would make makoto understand. "edamura, I lo—”
“don’t fucking finish that sentence. don’t,” makoto said shakily.
laurent was breaking, fast. “please, edamura,” he begged, and his heart and his throat and his stomach were unraveling, spilling onto the floor to get on their knees and beg. his eyes watered. “I love you, please, please—”
makoto slapped his hand away and glared at him with red eyes. “you do not,” makoto said, and stepped into laurent’s space easily, like he owned it. “fucking. love me.” he punctuated his words by jabbing the end of his cigarette into laurent’s chest. as makoto stepped back the cigarette fell to the ground and he stepped on it, swiveling his foot to put it out.
laurent felt more than he saw the burn mark on his shirt, but he didn’t care. “edamura, you can’t tell me how I feel. I know I've hurt you. I'm terrible for it. but I know how I feel about you, I love you.” he barely noticed the tears that started to rain down his face, a thunderstorm brewing.
“I don't get it! I don’t fucking get you!” makoto threw his hands up and stormed back into the apartment. “you’re supposed to be lone wolves,” he scowled at laurent. “how can you fucking fall—" he choked on the word, voice cracking like brittle, dry clay, "—fall in love with someone when you only work with yourself?!” laurent saw the shine in makoto's eyes.
“I know,” laurent said, walking towards makoto. “I know, I didn’t plan on it, but I don’t care, I love you, I’ll do anything, anything—”
“stop acting like spewing your affection at me will make me change my mind!” makoto yelled. he was pacing around the apartment, gesturing wildly with his hands. “you’re so— infuriating!” he stopped pacing and walked over to laurent. “you’re still fucking sick, laurent. I don’t fucking love you! get it out of your head that I ever will!” he screamed and shoved laurent back.
"makoto…"
"no. NO. you do NOT get to fucking call me that!" makoto yelled, tears falling rapidly down his face. he shoved laurent again. "you don't deserve to call me that." he walked away to sit at the chair next to the kitchen table, leaving laurent baffled, standing by the balcony.
makoto dragged a hand across his face. "get out," he said firmly. he grabbed a box of cigarettes from his back pocket and took one out.
laurent said nothing, just stood like a deer in the headlights as his tears flowed freely, a waterfall of emotion spilling over him, drowning him.
makoto slammed his fist on the table. "I SAID GET OUT!" he roared, startling laurent from his trance-like state. makoto lit the cigarette held in his other hand. "I'm fucking sick of your stupid face, and your excuses and your lies," he mumbled shakily and took a drag from the cigarette. "you make me sick."
laurent moved, zombie-like, toward the front door where his shoes laid on the mat in front of it. he slid them on wordlessly and went to open the door, hand resting on the knob. "I'm sorry, makoto," he tried. he opened the door.
makoto stomped over to laurent and shoved him out of the apartment. "I DON'T CARE IF YOU’RE SORRY! I never want to see you again, get the FUCK OUT OF MY LIFE!" he yelled, and slammed the door in laurent's face.
laurent couldn't say how long he stood in front of that closed door, hand outstretched and resting on the worn wood. thoughts buzzed in his brain, a trainwreck of what ifs and I should haves and what have I dones and what do I do nows hurdling into each other and the walls of his skull.
what hurt most was that he understood. he was a terrible person. he'd ruined makoto's life– manipulated him, used him, broke his trust, his sense of self.
he'd taken makoto's sanity, and makoto took his heart, ripping and tearing it into shreds with vigor, stomping and swiveling on it like he had with that cigarette, earlier. he guessed that was only fair.
but it still hurt so fucking bad.