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Seeing him again at your doorstep after months of separation almost feels like a fever dream. He seems unchanged, standing as tall and as confident as he always does, looking down at you with mild interest and something that feels constantly calculating but at the same time unreadable in its intention.
He doesn’t seem out of place either. Even in a crammed hallway of a run-down apartment complex, surrounded by a constant sound of slamming doors and footsteps somewhere around the many-story high-rise building, he is almost like a fish in the water: entirely unbothered. With a bottle of alcohol wrapped in a brown paper bag and an unlimited amount of patience, he just waits.
You opened the door without even thinking about it, ready for the silent exchange. How else could it be? After all, you knew all about his move back to town long before he showed up at your doorstep.
He is a careful man, his source of income too mysterious to pry into much, so he never keeps his information out in the open or a phone number for long. He does have a separate one for you. At least he did. It still working now and being available for tracking is either a fuck up on his part or an active consent to being monitored. Either way, you do not care as long as it works.
“Were you really this sure I’d open the door?” you ask, hands crossed over your chest, body leaning against the door frame not letting him in just yet and obstructing the view of the inside of your apartment. Judging by the slight change in his expression no other option was even considered by him.
“You did open. I wasn’t wrong.”
His silent cataloguing of every change is almost infuriating, his gaze lingering on your features, on your hair that was now a bit longer, on the outfit not exactly fit for meeting guests at such a late hour. Only under his scrutiny do you notice a slight difference in him too, his eyes that at a certain angle look red are a bit more tired, less bite in them. Under a warm light of the hallway his face is illuminated unevenly, the scar running vertically across his face and visually splitting it into two parts seems harsher.
“Here for long?” you continue, the choice of words deliberately avoiding any clarification as to whether you mean the town or your place in particular.
Something about the question seems to amuse him enough for the side of his mouth to quirk up before briefly turning into a smile that exposes his teeth.
“Depends entirely on whether it’s an invitation from you or not.”
There’s absolutely nothing that would make it a good idea on your part. The relationship you’ve had with him before was anything but healthy. It was mutually possessive, mutually jealous to the point of mental breakdowns and countless separations. A breakup seemed like a good option back then. Those close to you were congratulating you, endlessly going on and on about his arrogance, his immorality, his violent streak, his egoism, and countless of things the growing list of which made any interaction with him unjustifiably careless at best, and stupid at worst. And yet, you step away from the door to let him in after barely a second of deliberation.
For a moment your gaze does slide across the row of your neighbors’ doors, all while wondering if anyone sees and silently judges. Probably not.
His tall frame moves past with ease, his smell still familiar after his long absence. He doesn’t stray away far, just watches as you lock the door behind him, steps out of his boots before shrugging off the extra layers of clothes needed for late autumn.
“Same locks, same little trinkets on your door, all working for an extra key I have on me. Look at you still waiting for me to come over.”
You don’t answer. Your attention now focused on the visible black lines over his body that are as rich and as dark as you remember them being. No new tattoos. At least none that are visible considering how clothed he still is.
He doesn’t mind having no answer. He moves through an apartment like he owns the place, scans the mess here and there, his heavy gaze lingering on pictures on the walls, then on an array of shoes left in the entryway, on the dishes drying on the rack as if searching.
“Looking for something?” you ask, though the answer is painfully obvious. “Or maybe someone?”
His laugh to that almost seems a bit strangled, though the result is clearly satisfactory with how his momentary demeanor changes from guarded and heavy almost right away.
“Making sure you let no dog come sleep in your bed while I was gone.”
You scoff to that but it doesn’t interrupt the process of you taking out two glasses out of your kitchen’s cupboard under his gaze that practically screams of ownership more than ever.
Your place is at a constant state of stillness. No one likes the thought of being entirely dependent on another person, and yet, ever since he left no evolution took place. All those who said it was for the best and assured that the life would be better, weren’t saying much now; not when the only change in the pace of life happened when you were late to your work commute or when you stared off into space wondering what else is there to do in life. Talking to your peers was hard, coping with a growing need to not stay alone was even harder.
“As if I have the patience to court men…or women, for that matter,” you reply after a long pause.
He takes his place across the table from you, the same place he’s claimed a long time ago. The bottle in his hands already open and now only waiting to fill out the glasses.
“You’ve always had some peculiar tastes.”
No words can refute that. After all, it was him who you chose as your partner despite his rough past and even rougher present. His lack of care for anyone never seemed to stop you. Some of his cruel words still echoed in your head from time to time, his destructive tendencies back then made it feel like the only thing he ever felt for you was disdain and pure want to have something of his own with no commitment but all the benefits. You did not know when your own self-destructiveness turned into something he kept on coming back for. But he never returned with words of love or adoration. He had his own ways of doing things.
Even when pouring the drinks, he keeps on watching.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been cooped up in here the entire time,” he continues on, his little way of showing concern making you smile. “Even for you that’s a new low.”
There’s no easy answer to that. You know that he knows that you were exactly here, just like you were aware of his changing location: one day in Tokyo, five in Kyoto, seven in Sendai, a month overseas, two more back here…
“Anyone you met I should know about?” you ask to change topics.
The question seems to make him smile, though that tiredness in his eyes is suddenly back even when he takes the first sip.
“No. There’s no one.”
You want to believe him. He doesn’t give a reason not to. He is here, in your apartment, lounging in your chair, looking at you the same way he always does, the lines on his arms stretching over his skin that you’ve traced a thousand of times before.
He might go again, leave the bed cold in the morning and disappear with no explanation, hurt you again like he did before dripping just the right amount of soothing words that burnt no less than the salt on an open wound and made you cry when he left again and again.
As you finish your glass filled with the familiar burning sensation of alcohol scratching your throat after every gulp, there’s only one thing on your mind.
This time will be different. Right?..