ORIGIN RECORD — AUTHOR NOTE
Status: Unindexed / inspiration material
Related Character: Themis
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People who eventually read my story might assume that Hikari represents me the most.
And in some ways that might even be true.
But the strange thing about writing characters is that you inevitably leave pieces of yourself in all of them.
Ironically, this little sketch from my personal notes probably reveals more clearly than anything else what Themis has inherited from me (though there is some Hikari in this as well).
So consider this something like:
an origin fragment... or a small piece of character DNA.
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His gaze was confident, almost amused, as if he already knew the answer.
His fingers tightened around my hand.
He had already been holding it far too long.
My lips pressed together before I could stop them.
He sounded genuinely offended.
It clearly hadn't crossed his mind for even a second that this might be a possible answer.
I tried to meet his gaze, but his eyes were already drilling into mine again.
“I think I've explained often enough that I don't like being touched. By anyone.”
His eyes slipped away for a brief moment, drifting down to our hands.
“And yet you're holding mine.”
My voice came out rougher than I expected.
“Because that's how you communicate.”
He tilted his head slightly. His gaze sharpened again.
“That’s correct. I need it to feel the energies.”
As if my body already knew there was no point correcting him.
Once again he had only heard the part of the sentence he wanted to hear.
He stepped closer and crouched down until our eyes were level.
“…you need to look at me now. So I can see you. And understand you.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Something flashed in his eyes.
“So let me understand this,” he said slowly.
“I tell you that you're good exactly the way you are. That you can be whoever you want to be. That you're perfect as you are…”
“…and you call me creepy because I communicate differently than most people?”
Something inside me shifted.
Sometimes it was better not to answer immediately.
“That’s not what you're trying to say, right?”
His eyes were directly in front of mine now.
He nodded, as if that confirmed something.
Then he leaned forward again.
My hand found a loose thread on my sleeve and began twisting it.
I said his name out loud.
My voice sounded different than usual.
“Stop what? I'm just looking.”
“Since when is not wanting something not a good enough reason anymore?”
His gaze didn't move an inch.
But something flickered in his eyes.
“But how else am I supposed to read you?” he said.
“—communicate, yes,” I cut in.
“But you’re not listening. You're just thinking about yourself.”
His other hand suddenly closed around the one that had been stimming.
If something inside me had shifted before, now it tipped completely.
His hand gripping mine too tightly.
His other hand holding my wrist.
Stopping me from stimming.
Forcing me to look at him.
It felt like someone had replaced the blood in my veins with something cold and thick.
My eyes snapped up to his.
For a moment he seemed pleased.
Like he had finally gotten what he wanted.
“Good,” he said softly. “You're looking at me now, so I can—”
But we both knew something was wrong.
It didn’t feel like he was looking at me.
I could never hold eye contact for long.
After that the urge to look away would start building until it became unbearable.
Even he noticed something was different.
His brain was already trying to process it.
Trying to reinterpret this behavior in a way that still fit his narrative.
“You're disgusting,” I said.
His mouth opened slightly.
Now he was the one who looked away first.
“I told you I'm trying to speak your language,” I said quietly.
“And I'm very good at speaking other people's languages.”
“Even when they aren't mine.”
I lifted my chin slightly and waited until his gaze returned.
I turned my wrist until I was the one holding his hand now.
Not the other way around.
I squeezed as hard as I could.
“Let me literally hold your hand so you understand.”
“Just because I speak your language,” I continued,
“doesn't mean it's the way I want to communicate.”
“You know perfectly well that I hate being touched.”
“And that I can't look at people.”
“And yet you keep forcing me to do both.”
“Apparently ‘I don't want to’ isn't a valid reason anymore.”
“And on top of that you stop me from stimming.”
I could see the gears turning in his head.
The version of me who had met him earlier that day would never have said this.
“And then,” I added quietly,
“you try to make me feel guilty when I point it out.”
His mouth opened and closed.
“What’s your problem?” I asked.
“Did I not react like your other test subjects?”
His answer came far too quickly.
“I don't have test subjects.”
“…don't have test subjects,” I echoed.
“You haven't echoed anything in a long time.”
A laugh slipped out of me.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
“The echo always happens.”
“Even without echolalia.”