In honor of the 10th anniversary of Gravity Falls we are proud to announce that the Gravity Falls 10 Years Later zine is now available for pre-orders! This zine features 25 artists and writers who are catching up with the Pines family.
This zine is a charity project, with our proceeds going towards Planned Parenthood. We believe that our charity represents a relevant need and falls in alignment with what Alex Hirsch stands for.
Pre-orders are open May 23, 2022 to June 30, 2022. Available for purchase are:
Jeffrey Cranor: I’m really excited, we wrote this script recently coming up in this last performance for tonight. And I got real excited for writing it, cause we haven’t written like a, to do a live show full length in a new voice. And it was a lot of fun to do.
Joseph Fink: Yeah so tonight we are presenting the first Welcome to Night Vale show that is entirely from the point of view of someone who is not Cecil, this is the time when the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home gets to step out from her secret.. place in your home. [laughter] And tell you a little bit about herself.
Jeffrey:One of my favorite things about writing the Faceless Old Woman stuff is cause the way Joseph and I work is that we’ll write episodes or write parts of episodes and pass it to the other and that person will, sometimes have questions but oftentimes just maybe like add something to it. So a lot of times it’s either, when I get stuff back from Joseph and I dunno if he feels the same way getting stuff back form me, with the Faceless Old Woman script it was always either something really hilarious for something really upsetting. [laughter] And I really love that a lot.
Joseph:This is maybe the most upsetting thing we’ve ever written, I hope you guys enjoy it. [laughter]
Jeffrey:Have fun, good night! [applause]
Joseph: I guess we should start that show we talked about.
Jeffrey: Let’s do it. You guys, let’s welcome to the stage your friend and ours, Mara Wilson!
[applause] [long silence]
Mara Wilson: I am the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. Hello. You don’t know me, but I know you. I know you very well. I’ve been going through your medicine cabinet. You take too much Advil. Do you realize how hard that is on your digestion? I know a couple gelcaps and a glass of water before bed can alleviate a morning hangover, but it also puts you in a bad mood, because you don’t get good sleep with all that extra stress you put on your guts. You know what’s a better hangover cure? Not drinking like it’s the last day of community college. I replaced your vodka with clear Windex, and your Advil with Ipecac. This won’t help your hangovers, but it certainly will be more entertaining for me. I don’t sleep, so I need better late night entertainment than Netflix. I’ve already watched every episode of “Money Heist” and “Criminal Man” and “Planet documentary”, I have to spice it up a little bit.
Which reminds me, sorry about the tarantula incident last week. And here I’m speaking specifically to you, Tony. Yes you, in the shirt. The one hoping I’m not talking about you. I’m not sorry you woke up with a tarantula covering your face, nor that it bit you, causing your eyelids to swell up like Kinder eggs filled with purulent discharge instead of toys. I am sorry that I forgot to turn the flash off of my camera, which alarmed both you and the spider, and I never got a good photo. I’ve been building up my portfolio for an art exhibit I call “Gross Things on a Sleeping Tony”. It’s going up June 1, exclusively in your living room. I’ve already gotten “Open-mouthed Centipede Bouquet” framed. You’re gonna find this show absolutely terrific. Wait no, not terrific, what’s the word? Terrifying.
Tony, you’re one of my favorites in Night Vale. I know you hate your direct marketing job selling high interest credit cards to twenty-somethings, but the benefits are great. You have health care, a 401k, and you get to take advantage of people less fortunate than you. Everything is its own reward. But I’ve read your poetry, you love poetry. To be fair, there isn’t a big job market for poets, but you need to explore what makes you happy. I tattooed one of my favorite lines of poetry on you last month. It’s by Mary Oliver. “Instructions for living a life. Close your eyes. Be scared. Good luck.” And then I drew a little butterfly next to the words. I’m not the best artists, though, so it kind of looks like a radish or a sarcoma. Doesn’t matter, you still haven’t noticed. It’s just right below your right shoulder blade, don’t try to find it now, it’s still healing and given that I used the metal rod from that fondue set in your closet as the needle, it’s possible it’s infected. Better to leave it alone.
Tony, look at me. Imagine where my eyes would be. You have a lot to work through. I’m here to help you, I really am. I’ll prove it by giving you some advice. If a venomous arthropod is on your face, don’t scream.
Anyway, it’s not you Tony who’s bothering me, it’s the new people. They are elderly, like me, and they just moved into a house in the center of Night Vale. Or maybe this is decades from now, time is a little hazy for me. I’ve never been in this house nor noticed it before they moved in. it’s a one bedroom and there are three of them. I thought polyamory, but they have three separate beds and they never speak to each other, rarely look at each other, and never leave the home. The first night I secretly lived in their home, I realized they never slept either. They brushed their teeth, put on pajamas and get into bed. But they all lie there, eyes open, through silent hours of darkness.
I tried whispering to them but got no response. Usually when I reveal myself in the dark, I get the thrill of witnessing horror dawn across a person’s distorted mouth and bulging eyes as they see my faceless face pressed up against their own. One of the best parts of visiting new residents. But not these three. For once, I’m the frightened one.
Speaking of frightening, did you get your taxes (-) [0:08:20] on time Alex? You, you’re Alex. You with the shoes. I had to file for an extension. I don’t owe any money because I have no income, but I’m over 200 years old, never got a social security number, have no permanent address and I wasn’t born in this country, it’s a lot of paperwork. And Alex, you know your Wi-Fi is terrible and I was having a hard time downloading the forms I needed, so I just wrote my name on some yellowish-black Boston lettuce you’ve left in the crisper for the last three weeks. But the leaves kept falling apart, I think more like melting. After about 20 minutes, I got frustrated and just made myself a salad. Also, I used the last of your parmesan cheese, but don’t worry, I replaced it with dried skin I’ve been collecting from your bed sheets. Don’t be grossed out, Alex. Same texture and nutritional value, you won’t know the difference. I got the idea from a Food Network’s “Beat Bobby Flay”, where this one winner tied up Bobby and ran a (micro-) [0:09:17] across his forehead to make a chimichurri sauce.
I love that show, but I’m a bigger fan of HGTV’s “House Hunters”, the desert dystopian version. That’s where I met you, Addie. Yes you, with the face. You were shopping for a new home here in Night Vale. You told the realtor - who was inside of a living deer, its belly horrifically distended and quivering with every one of the agent’s words and gesticulation – that you wanted three bedrooms, a back yard, and something close to an outdoor community space. The first home, the yard was not in good shape, lots of (- remains) [0:09:55] and the lawn was glowing, perhaps from underground radiation testing. It was well under your budget, but you would have had to spend your savings on fixing it up. Also, in the bathroom mirror you saw, crawling across the ceiling, a faceless old woman devouring what looked like a rat. You didn’t need to worry about a rat infestation, Addie. It was a chipmunk. The second home was a condo right in the heart of the arts district. You loved the design: a simple large black cube, no doors, no windows, no interior. A true closed floor plan, so popular these days. But you weren’t sure there was enough room for entertaining, or anything else at all. The house you selected was perfect. Three bedrooms, a Jacuzzi en suite, and a large patio backyard. Plus it was right in the middle of town next to a community dog park. Although you would be disappointed later to learn that your dog had been arrested for domestic espionage after peeing inside the park’s forbidden walls. I think you made the right choice, Addie, but I can’t help wondering every time I watch “House Hunters”, who is this person running away from? You left Queens to move to Night Vale. Queens is where your family lives, where your best friend lives, and your girlfriend of two years. Are you afraid of stasis, Addie? Of being loved, of commitment? You might be afraid of that pinkish ooze coming out of your ear, might wanna see an ENT about that. Or if not an ENT, an entomologist.
Speaking of putting woodboring beetles inside orifices, I tried a similar thing with the elderly room mates who recently moved to town, or will move to town many years from now, again time is strange to me. But these room mates are also so strange. When I went to put a beetle into one of their ears, I noticed a lot of scar tissue there, making the hole too small. In my haste, the beetle scurried away and I got kind of desperate and just made a bunch of spooky moans and hisses like this: [moans, hisses] but not one of the three responded to me. They continued their meaningless pantomime of sleeping, and in the morning they got up and each went quietly about their days. One of them made coffee, but did not drink it. They then went to the window and waved at their neighbor, Susan Willman, who was on her porch stretching before her morning run. Susan looked at the figure in the window next to her and froze. She stared in terror, then darted back into her home and locked the door. Susan has always been unfriendly. I ran her bed sheets through her office shredder as a reminder to be more open and loving toward the world.
The other two room mates climbed into the shower at the same time. I’m not one to get off on others’ sexual activities, I just thought I might see something new, something human here. But no, they stood side by side, cleaning their cold gravity-defeated bodies, not once looking at each other let alone speaking. A squelch and a squish and grey water falling around yellow toenails. They toweled off, but when they hung the towels up, those towels were completely dry.
I’m used to being the one who does inexplicable and disturbing things. Last year during the community players’ production of “Romeo and Juliet”, I decided it would be more fun if they used actual poison. But it was a last minute idea, so the only poison I could find was Borax. Which just gave the two kids playing the leads several unhappy hours in the bathroom on the night after the show ended, so I don’t know. I could have made a stronger directorial choice. But so could the actual director, I get that Shakespeare plays are long, but he cut out all the best parts like the train robbery, and also Tybalt winning his bowling league. Although I did appreciate that they left in Juliet’s famous line: “Good night, good night, your blood and guts and marrow, which worms shall eat inside your grave so narrow.” It’s a classic story. Kids these days just don’t try to fake their own deaths anymore.
Oh. And Morgan. Yes Morgan, I’m talking to you, you with the fingernail sand the teeth. I need to explain something to you. You tip 20 per cent. You can afford it, stop using it as a measure of how much you approve of the restaurant service. A 20 per cent tip is not bonus, it’s a fee. Restaurant owners don’t pay their staffs, instead they make the diners pay their employees through this idiotic notion of capitalist meritocracy. I don’t care how bad the service, tip them. You have money, Morgan. I would also tell you to stop asking to speak to a manager every time your Long Island Ice Tea is a bit like, but I got out your tongue last month, so they wouldn’t understand you anymore anyway. Do you know what a cut human tongue tastes like, Morgan? Yes you do. You just don’t know that you do. Remember Applebee’s last week? You ordered soup. It was a beef base with little onions and little perfectly sautéed flecks of your own tongue that you had used to lash out at a manager the last time you ate there. You could blame them for poorly expediting your orders, but really the onus is on you for going to Applebee’s. Which serves neither of the items its name promises. It’s false advertising. It’s like an egg cream soda, or Taco Bell.
Speaking of eating, the elderly room mates made lunch together, but not for each other. They were all in the kitchen at the same time making separate meals in silence. They sat around the dining room table together and ate. They carved and stabbed and pushed foods quickly into their mouths, but their eyes were empty. One of them began to spit out their food. No one seemed to care or notice. They all began to vomit, but not with muscular heaves of shoulders and necks, the vomit spurted out like water from a hand pump, their torsos and heads perfectly still. After each bodily rejection of food, they would start shoveling it back to their mouths, repeating the same process. Eventually one of them stood up and threw their plate into the kitchen window, glass bursting everywhere. That person leaned into the hole and began punching the jagged shards out with their clenched fists as blood poured out of their forearms and wrists. They screamed mournfully into the suburban street. Neighbors and passers-by passed only briefly, as if they had barely heard the sad howls spreading across the valley. Susan’s lemon tree next door died instantly and all the lemons fell with wet plops to the ground. The fruit pealed open and inside of each was a fleshy crimson pulp, like meat that has been ground for too long. The other two room mates kept eating and vomiting, not even noticing the shattered glass being subsumed by the growing pool of blood on the floor.
You know, I wasn’t always like this, faceless or old. Secretly living anywhere. Once I was born upon warm water. The smell I remember is sharp citrus and the peppery sting of grass. The salt funk of ocean. I was once a child. I grieved once. I smelled blood. Once I was a thief. I lived among thieves, I saw empires rise and fall, centuries cast themselves upon infinity as fruitlessly as waves upon cliffs. Once I was a recluse. I lived amongst bandits and farmers, I spoke a different language then. I’ve spoken many languages.
Once I was under the sea. That was a quiet time. I lived amongst the coral and dead-eyed fish. Once I was a wanderer. I’ve seen the (head) [0:18:14] waters of the Mississippi and I’ve seen the cobbled streets of Paris and I’ve seen the empty arches of Franchia. But I’ve never seen anything like those three room mates. Of all the things I’ve been – child, thief, recluse, wandered, faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, I’ll tell you this: I’ve never been more scared.
Fear is in the unknowing and the mystery. Fear is seeing everything about an old woman except her face. Fear is the uncertainty of her secretly living in your home. Fear is not the spider you see on the wall. It’s the spider you no longer see on the wall when you look back again.
In the unnerving din of shattered glass and mournful howls of that house, I found the loose thread that unraveled this mystery. The room mate who screamed had no tongue. And one of the others had an ear swollen shut from a previous surgery. And the other had a red mark, like a radish or sarcoma adorned with poetry drawn upon their shoulder blade. I realized I knew these three strange room mates. They are you, Tony, the special tattoo I gave you. And they are you, Addie, with your oral scar tissue from the beetle I jammed in there. And you, Morgan, with your tongue removed and digested. The three of you do not exactly live together in that home, not at the same time. You are living three different lifetimes in that same space. You do not speak or respond, because you are dead. Each of you alone in that house together, or you will be, time is confusing for me. Decades from now after you die, your souls will be trapped in the house, because something in this world is unresolved for you. You know this, paranormal neuroscience is required for all high school freshmen. But what they don’t teach you is how to resolve it. I know how and when each one of you die. I wrote it down on the back pages of your journals. Iv’e done this for everybody, but nobody ever reads it, because while people always think they’ll write every day, after a few pages they fall off the wagon and never see the lsat pages of their journals. Except Jonathan Franzen. He didn’t seem bothered by what he read. But he did cross out all my adverbs and added some Oxford commas. In case you’re wondering how Jonathan Franzen dies, here’s the answer: he doesn’t.
I am the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home. You might find this ambiguous, after all the word “home” is singular. So whose home is it that I secretly live in? Listen, some things in this tangled world are simple. I live in your home, and your home, and your home, I live in all of your homes simultaneously. I am many. [echo] I am many. I am one. [echo] I am one. You all live such different lives, teeming, that’s what you are: teeming. And I am there watching you.
You, Tony, you dream of being a poet. Resolve the unresolved. The worst that can happen is crushing disappointment and public mockery, and eviction when you can’t pay your rent. Many more awful things after that, get to it!
And you, Addie, you fled your previous city to escape a murder charge. Strangely, you didn’t commit the murder you were charged with, but you have committed murder. Weird choice to go on “House Hunters” as a wanted fugitive, but maybe it was a good first step to healing your soul.
And you, Morgan. You have an idea that could save us all, an epic defining idea, one of the greats, but you don’t know which one. You have so many ideas. I can tell you this: most of them are not important. One of them is vitally important. Good luck. Also, tip 20 per cent.
And you, I forgot your name, you tweet too much. We all tweet too much, but that doesn’t let you off the hook. That’s why I ate your phone. You can thank me later. You can all thank me later. Because you all will be seeing me soon. I think that tonight is the night to let slip my secret. You’ll soon see me fumbling wet and gray from out of the bathroom mirror, or folded up strangely loose skin and mashed bones in the bottom drawer of your dresser. Or you will see me scuttle on your walls, the hair hanging down from my faceless face. Or you will look out your kitchen window and there will be someone standing in your driveway, and it will be me, and there will be no one in the driveway and instead, I will be next to you in the kitchen. Faceless and so very very old. Won’t that be nice?
I’m the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. And your home. And your home. And every home. And I will be seeing you very, very soon.
[music, applause]
Today’s proverb: Never judge a book by its cover. Judge it by the title page instead.
“I promise I’ll keep a low profile, just let me come with you.” Nanami entreated as she sat at the kitchen island. Overhaul was cleaning up after dinner, his back turned as she made her case.
“This is not a casual outing, I’m meeting with a contact and he doesn’t appreciate extraneous variables, which, in this case, would be you.”
“And when have you ever cared about what other people do or don’t appreciate?”
He paused, turning to her, setting down a cleaned dish and folded towel, “Flattery is appreciated, but it will not get you out of this house before Sunday.”
She pouted before trying a different angle, “But strategy might, right?” He knitted his brows, folding his arms across his chest, a silent tell that he was just bored enough to entertain her pitch, “Hear me out—though indirectly, you’ve been targeted by the Okamura—a rival org, right? Wouldn’t it be nice to have some back-up just in case they find out you’re meeting this contact and decide to strike before the raid can happen?”
“That’s what the Precepts are for.”
“Sure, but they might send the wrong message. If I was meeting somebody under the pretext of civil conversation and they brought along backup that looked like Rappa or Kurono—I’d feel pretty threatened. But me? You’d hardly even know I was there. Besides, it’s not like I’m the most physically intimidating person to begin with anyway.”
He looked down thoughtfully as he considered her proposal. Nervous he might still reject the idea, she chewed her lip, waiting for his response. Just as the feeling of defeat seemed imminent, he answered, “We’re leaving at noon. Wear your hair differently and dress in muted colors. If you’re not ready by 11:59 exactly, I’m leaving you behind.”
She beamed before quickly reeling her excitement back in, “Understood. I’ll be right here and ready to go at 11:59am, sharp.”
Though the two-week sequestration at his house was nearing its end, Nanami was beginning to get stir-crazy. Overhaul had been working long hours, strategizing the retaliation against the Okamura, knowing that taking them down would be much more complicated than simple massacre. On the other hand, Nanami knew even after the raid, she’d have to limit her time in public and remain especially vigilant for months to come until the dust fully settled. Though it may have only been a trip to the park to exchange information, it would probably be the most amount of time she’d get to be outside for a while.
Nanami awoke from a light sleep, having been too excited about the outing. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was without its dangers and that the possibility of her having to spring into action wasn’t real, but given the circumstances, she thought it wise to take what little joy she could when she could.
Rummaging through her luggage she tried to keep in mind his wardrobe mandates as she reluctantly passed over a myriad of cute, but boldly-colored clothing. A look of self-satisfaction crossed her face as she assembled a fitting ensemble and quickly got dressed. Trotting out of her room at 11:55 she carried her shoes to the entrance way, slipping them on as she heard him emerge from his room. Looking up she saw surprise in his eyes as he stopped a distance away from her. Slipping on the other chunky sandal, she stood up straight showing her full outfit, hoping he’d approve. She’d chosen a casual, sage dress with subtle ruffles and her favorite oversized, beige cardigan just in case it got chilly. Her hair was done in a low braid that went over her shoulder and to the front, a few wisps of hair loose on the opposite side making her look softer than her usual professional get-up. He wore his usual black dress shirt, slacks and dust mask to do his version of blending in. Noticing his silence, she panicked momentarily, worried she’d made the wrong choice in clothing and he’d make her stay put, “Do I need to change? Sorry, I’ve obviously never done this before, but I’ve got other outfits if this doesn’t wo—”
“No. Don’t change.” He replied a bit too quickly before clearing his throat and continuing, “You look…” he trailed off as his eyes continued to rake over her,” …This outfit will work. Let’s get going.”
“Oh ok, great— right behind you!”
They made their way to the car, a skip in Nanami’s step as she felt like a kid being taken out for ice cream, though instead of ice cream it’s intel for a hit job and some sunshine, but to-may-toes, to-mah-toes ~. The drive was relatively short, though it was hard for her to tell. Time flew while she gazed out the window, enjoying the overcast weather and seeing people out-and-about.
Parking, they exited the car, as Overhaul surveyed the area and checked his watch. “He should arrive in the next 15 minutes. Follow me.” He walked briskly to a bench overlooking the river that ran through the park. For a Saturday, it was relatively calm and empty, save for a few joggers running by and couples gazing at the holiday decor and the last of the fall foliage without a care in the world. Food trucks lined the other side of the river as people ate small treats.
After he went through his usual ritual to santize the seat, they sat down and waited patiently for the informant to arrive. Five minutes passed, then ten, and then twenty. It was obvious Overhaul was beginning to get irritated at the tardiness, his knee bouncing as he checked his watch for what felt like the umpteenth time. On the other hand, Nanami was beginning to get bored, staring dreamily across the river at one truck in particular. Sighing, she decided to go out on a limb and ask hoping it might lighten the mood,” So… do you wanna—“
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m gonna ask,” She retorted to his stern answer, completely undeterred.
“Yes, I do. You’ve been staring at that crepe truck since we sat down. As I said before, this isn’t some casual outing and patronizing a food truck is the very definition of casual.”
“It’s not like I’m gonna skip over there and play in the leaves while I stuff my face—it’ll just be a quick breakfast/brunch and then we’re back sitting down, waiting patiently and ~incognito~. Besides, I know you’re hungry, probably not the best idea to do something stressful on an empty stomach anyway.”
“And how long have you been formulating that rebuttal?”
“Mm, about as long as you’ve been stealing glances over there, thinking I was too busy staring myself. It’s ok to indulge every now and again, and we’ll have a clear view of this spot in case he comes by while we’re up.” She reasoned, knowing he couldn’t deny logic or his grumbling stomach.
“… Fine. Let’s make this quick.”
Before he could finish, she hopped up and made a b-line towards the bridge nearby as he reluctantly followed after her. They ordered crepes, the decadent, cute concoction providing a comical contrast to her partner’s otherwise intimidating aesthetic. Nanami bit her lip, trying not to laugh as she promised herself she’d describe the visage in great detail to Kurono later. Hers wasn’t very conservative either, smothered with a superfluous amount of strawberries, chocolate syrup, and powdered sugar that kept the all-black clad Overhaul at a safe distance. They made their way back to the bridge, Nanami admiring the scenery as the auburn-tinted leaves made their descent to the water below.
Sitting back down, there was still no informant in sight, though a comfortable silence fell upon them as the sounds of birds chirping and the river flowing gently filled the air. Pulling out a small bottle of hand sanitizer from her bag, she put a dollop into his waiting hand and then her own after he disposed of his used gloves in the plastic bag she’d brought, replacing them without a word. He handed her extra napkins and a wet wipe, fully aware she was a messy eater. They’d gotten into a routine having eaten together so often that now words were no longer needed, neither of them able to fully remember what it had been like before the other. She let her eyes wander as she took another bite, until she settled on watching the leaves fall. The descent of one in particular caught her eye as the golden leaf danced lazily through the air before finding its resting place atop his head. Knowing full well how very unwelcome he’d find the accessory; she decided to do the right thing and alert him.
“Overh—” She stopped short, realizing it probably wasn’t the best idea to use his villain name in public. It wasn’t the most dire of situations but, she was very aware that they’d never referred to each other by name At least not while sober anyway… She agonized for a moment on how to address him, unaware she’d already gotten his attention.
Seeing the conflict in her features, he responded simply, “Chisaki is fine, or Kai if you’d like.”
Her eyes went wide before quickly looking away, flustered at what felt like a very intimate moment. She’d only heard two people refer to him by name and even then, it was seldom—only twice between the two of them to be specific. It felt like she held a grave secret simply by knowing it, much less casually addressing him by it. Well, if he says so…
“Ch-Chisaki…” she swallowed, as he regarded her calmly, though his eyes had a glint in them as soon as she uttered his name.
“Yes?” He coaxed, unconsciously leaning in closer.
“There’s a leaf on your head.” He went to grab it though his hands were full, his fork in one and the crepe in the other, finding the thought of touching a dirty leaf and then his eating utensil repulsive. He considered his options for a moment before she offered her assistance motioning him to lean down so she could reach. He paused for a moment, before acquiescing, lowering his head to be within reach. She grabbed the leafy offender gently, holding it betwixt her fingers, “Got it.”
Looking between him and the leaf, a candid smile formed as she noticed it matched his eyes. He lifted his head back up, admiring the visage. By all accounts, she was physically beautiful to him, but what he savored most in this moment was her smile. He remembered being equally touched by that radiant smile when they met at the tea shop almost a year ago, though he would have never admitted it back then. Their circumstances had seemingly changed for the worst, yet it hadn’t dimmed; it was though it refused to. Chisaki had never been a sentimental, nor particularly emotional man, but her resilience was nothing if not captivating to him. In his weary eyes, Nanami was the picture of strength. She possessed a power—not from brawn, cunning or some misguided self-righteousness, but something else entirely. He found himself drawn to it, to her competence and constant challenge. What others had readily accepted out of fear, she appraised, demanding more. Though her hands shook momentarily, she’d steady herself without fail, demanding him to be more. He felt proud knowing she’d be the one by his side on this path. Until someone else discovers her. And then what? What if that radiance is directed at someone else someday? He didn’t want an answer to that question. He had waited long enough; the decision having been made long before he was fully aware of it. His face was blank, though he imbued his words with as much sincerity as he was capable of, “Go out with me.”
Her smile persisted for a beat as she fully registered what he’d said. Then it promptly dropped, her eyes going wide as the leaf was blown out of her now-limp grasp.
“Ahem. Sorry for the lateness,” a man said from the bench next to them as he continued to face forward. Chisaki kept his gaze fixed on Nanami as hers shifted to what was behind him. Hm guess the movies are actually kind of accurate about this kind of stuff… she commented inwardly as the man was dressed in a baseball cap, glasses and hoodie. “I’ll leave what you asked for here.” He continued, patting an envelope placed on the bench before rising.
“First you come late, and now you rush off? That’s not how this is going to go. Sit down, I have more questions for you.” Overhaul chided, shaking himself from their little moment, still finding time to be peeved that he’d been made to wait.
“Look, I’m sorry but I have to go,” the man began rather nervously as he glanced around,” No amount of money or threats could get me to stay. I don’t know how you got involved, but I don’t want anything to do with this shit. I got you the intel, I’m out.”
Nanami rose hoping to calm the man down. At the angle she sat, her form was hidden from the man by Overhaul’s larger frame, and it was painfully obvious when she came into his line of sight. The man flinched like he’d seen a ghost, turning white as their eyes met. “G-get the fuck away from me,” he sputtered almost tripping over himself. It was truly a sight to behold as a grown man scurried away, terrified of a person half his size. “Here’s a last bit of intel, I’ll give this one on the house: if you’re smart, you’ll stay away from her.” He continued, leering at Nanami, “I haven’t seen a bounty this high in a long time and I’m sure whoever’s paying out knows they’ll get their money’s worth. She’s probably worst than the rest of us; a true monster.”
Though his brow furrowed questioningly for a moment, in the next Overhaul had decided he’d heard enough and was making a move toward the man. His gloves were already discarded, but a tug on his sleeve kept him in place, “Let go.” He seethed through gritted teeth.
“No, it’s not worth it. He’s right.” Came a small but firm voice.
He turned to see a familiar small hand gripping him. Her head was hung low, though guilt was obvious in her countenance. By the time he had taken in her appearance, the man was disappearing through the trees, vanishing from sight. As his rage ebbed momentarily, a nostalgic feeling took its place as he remembered her face when he asked her the question that had been on his mind for months now: rejection. He snatched away his arm in a move that startled her out of her own trance, “Fine.”
Grabbing the envelope, he turned on his heel, making a b-line for the car. He strode to the parking lot, no longer abating his usually wide gait for her to keep up. As he reached out for the handle of the car, the distinct sound of her shoes hurriedly beating the pavement became louder before coming to a stop behind him.
“I… I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity, I could never pity you. I just… I shouldn’t have let it get this far without being honest with you.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I misread our relationship. It’s over now.”
“But I—wait, what do you mean you ’misread our relationship’?”
“You know what I mean. The least you could do is refrain from dragging it out.” He intoned, a poorly hidden look of hurt in his eyes.
She had expected anger, maybe even disappointment that she’d still kept such a large secret from him but hurt had never crossed her mind as an emotion he’d ever display, much less in this situation. She’d never told a soul about her real past and wanted to be absolutely sure before breaching that barrier. I know it was wrong, but if anyone understood secrecy, I thought it would be him. I mean why does he look like he just got dumpe—“Oh my fucking gosh. This is all a big mix up, this is what I get for being all cryptic and vague,” she chided herself, rubbing the bridge of her nose in frustration.
“Don’t worry, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”
“No, no, you don’t get it, this is one of our trademark Misunderstandings™!”
“There is nothing to misunderstand. I assumed you had feelings and that assumption proved to be… foolish. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Just let me explain,”
“I don’t want to, nor do I need to hear i—”
Before he could turn away, she closed the distance between them, reaching up to grab his face in her hand. He was startled by the abrupt contact after she’d made it a point to be cognizant of his boundaries, but she noted he made no efforts to move away or resist her. If she weren’t so riled up, she could’ve sworn she could feel the slightest bit of pressure as though he’d decided to rest his chin in her palm. Good, because I plan on touching way more in the future… she confirmed to herself, enjoying the feel of his square jaw in her palm before locking eyes with him to speak.
“You didn’t misread anything,” she corrected as confidently as she could before continuing. “But you need to hear me out. What I meant to say was this: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it get this far without being honest with you because I want to be closer… I want us to be closer. I didn’t know if you felt the same, so I didn’t know what to say when you asked the first time… but I do now. So, ask me again. Please.”
He looked at her searchingly, taking a centering breath, “Nanami, go out with me.”
“That’s more of a command,” she amended. His eyes narrowed in annoyance, though his glare lost much of its usual edge with his cheeks squished between her fingers, “but I’d love to, Kai.”
Upon hearing her answer and his name, his hardened gaze softened, and she reluctantly let him go, “Let’s go home.”
As they entered the car, his usual slouch was replaced with a more confident posture, though Nanami still felt a heavy weight upon her shoulders, “Hey… about the whole honesty thing… I still do need to tell you something.”
Undeterred, his smug face persisted, “That’s fine, you can tell me over dinner.”
