pokémon -- ohio is for lovers (1/2)
title: ohio is for lovers
wordcount: 2858
rating: PG
summary: Twenty secrets, twenty different ways to say I love you; different people have different ways of expressing themselves, and it doesn't have to be through words.
oo1 → shadow claw
She tries not to react when she sees him on the television-he’s barely changed over the years, even if he’s got more wrinkles around the eyes than he used to, and his hair isn’t as dark or abundant as it once was. Then and again, he would probably say the same of her-she’s not as young anymore, not as energetic or proudly straight-backed; worst of all are the aches and pains which assuage her some mornings, reminding her of her age.
With the mere sound of his voice as he rambles on enthusiastically about his research, Agatha is transported back to her youth, remembering him as he used to be before he softened up.
How many years have passed since they last spoken? How many years since she first fell for him? How many-?
Without thinking, she picks up the phone, dials the number which is printed on every single phone book across all the regions. She mulls over their shared history in the silence, twining the thick spiral cord around her fingers as the dual-toned rings pile up, until it seems as though she’s been sitting there forever waiting foolishly for her call to be picked up.
Just as she is about to set the phone back in its cradle, a voice bursts through the earpiece, breathless and tinny-but unmistakably recognisable.
“Hello? Oak speaking.”
Agatha is content to listen to the sound of his voice, to remind her of why she never pursued him. Just as he sighs - another crank call - and sends his breath rasping over the fragile bridge of their connection in a rush of static, she breaks her silence, sends a low chuckle juddering along the airwaves.
You sound well-but you don’t seem to have changed one bit, you dried-up old codger, she imagines herself to say, and wordlessly replaces the receiver with a sharp click.
oo2 → surf
When she finally allows herself to be pressured into surfing, she does so with tentative reluctance-it is a far cry from her area of expertise, but Roxanne figures that she owes it to him: after all, Brawley has visited the library often enough with her in the recent past.
If anything, she is immensely proud of the fact that he has read all her favourite books from cover to cover and can quote them back to her practically verbatim.
However, there are two main things wrong with the very idea of going out to face the deep blue sea on nothing more than a glorified piece of laminated wood and plastic polymer. Her first concern is the fact that whilst it is all very well and fine to read up on the subject and reassure herself with the fact that she has the theory behind the techniques down pat, it is another matter entirely to actually get onto a surfboard and ride the waves.
The other is that Brawly will have ample opportunity to laugh at her abject failure-an unbearable notion which brings a petulant, resigned grimace to her face.
Still, it isn’t half bad to feel his hands - large, warm, calloused - steadying her on the bobbing board, a delighted chuckle bubbling forth from his lungs at the mere idea that she has actually agreed to this.
There is no need for words, even as she topples off the accursed thing for the umpteenth time that hour, treading water as he snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her - red-faced, sputtering and stammering like a schoolgirl - to his pleasantly sculpted chest, kissing her shamelessly on the cheek even as she turns stubbornly away.
oo3 → tailwind
Sometimes, he wonders what his father would think if he were to see him with her.
You should be concentrating on your duties; you’re still young-you shouldn’t be jumping into things like this just yet.
Falkner treats whatever his father says as the best advice anybody could possibly give him, but this is where he has to disagree; true, he feels more than slightly foolish for following the capricious whims of his heart, but that does not mean he is unable to decide on the course he wants to take.
Follow your heart, he remembers somebody telling him; he cannot quite put a finger on the elusive voice which occasionally speaks forth from the back of his mind, but he is certain those were the words of his mother, though he cannot be sure-not when he barely knew her. Still, he suspects she would be glad to see him now, pursuing his desires instead of allowing duty to stand in his way. Doubtless, she would have approved - whilst he knows that his father is a great and honourable person, he also accepts the fact that Wayne is a hard taskmaster, strict and goal-orientated, a man who never had much time for family.
But this is my life, Falkner argues to the shadows. Haven’t I filled your shoes enough as it is?
Of course, he gets no reply.
The questions burn through his mind in the cool of the evening as he turns to Janine to meet her impassive eyes, the question tumbling forth from his lips in an inglorious mass of words. “D’you…would you like a…could I do you the honour of escorting you home?”
Janine turns an inscrutable half-lidded gaze to his faintly-flushed face, then nods, a slow, measured dip of her head. “I have two scores of poison needles concealed on my person,” she says with amusement as the corners of her eyes crinkle into a smile. “As well as a number of Pokémon on hand, whose poison will have any assailant rendered incapacitated for up to a week. Tell me, what can you offer that those safeguards cannot?”
His throat is dry as he speaks, wishing he could see more of her features-which she conceals behind the scarf pulled drawn her face. “My heart,” he whispers hoarsely, feeling the blood pound in his head.
She draws in a breath, pulls down her scarf, opens her mouth to respond-but he silences her before she can move - a first, that, he notes with some giddy hysteria - and presses his lips to hers.
oo4 → petal dance
He is of the earth - stalwart, steadfast, an anchor amidst the turmoil; she assures him of the fact that no matter who he is, she will love him, but he nonetheless feels ashamed of his comparatively unrefined appearance.
He knows what she’ll say to him-never change; I love you as everything you are. Still, he is always conscious of the inquiring stares they get when they are out together: they are so unlike, the both of them-his pams are rough and calloused from training, and his clothes border towards the hardy, tough and functional. She is truly a lady, dignified and composed; she moves with the grace of a willow, and surrounds herself with beauty - be it in the form of grass Pokémon wafting sweet scents, or the elegant floral print of silken kimonos. When he takes note of these contrasts, Brock is sure that when they are seen together, half of Celadon City wonders whether he is Erika’s bag-carrier or something equally lowly.
But all his doubts fall away when she turns to him with a gentle smile curving across her lips, slender fingertips brushing across his wrist; as he bows his head to meet hers, she bestows upon him a chaste kiss-and his heart nearly stops.
You’ll always be my perfect gentleman, she seems to say; he tentatively twines his fingers with hers and they continue down the city square.
This time, he meets everybody’s eyes with unabashed pride.
oo5 → magnet rise
He first sees her from his lonely perch within the Vista Lighthouse as he squints against the glare of the setting sun at the unfamiliar figure who pads barefoot through the beach, heedless of the cold seawater which inches up the shore.
Volkner does not recall seeing her before-he would definitely remember if he had. Either way, he only watches as the lone silhouette paces to and fro along the stretch of sand, and is suddenly struck by the oddest compulsion to join her.
From then on, he abandons the solitude of the lighthouse and takes the initiative to greet her - and before he knows it, they are meeting at Sunyshore Beach on a daily basis, just to watch as the sun sinks ever-lower along the twilit horizon. They slip effortlessly into a pattern of idyllic days filled with meandering strains of conversations and quick, almost embarrassed pecks on blushing cheeks in the shadow of the harbour, feeling nothing but the sea-breeze in their hair and one another’s heartbeats through thin fabric.
When Jasmine returns to her home region, he finds himself writing endless letters and receiving a constant stream of correspondences from his - dare he say it? the words sounds so alien and strange on his tongue, yet oddly fitting - long-distance lover. He keeps the photographs she sends him, of the cobbled streets of Olivine City; the docks with their innumerable proud ships waiting to sail the world; the occasional snapshots of her taken by friends. Day by day, the little scraps of their shared history build up on his desk until he realises one week that he can barely find his official Pokémon League paperwork amidst the jumble of prettily-patterned stationery with loose, looping cursive print.
One evening, he’s back down at the beach with pen in hand and a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm, absently tossing scraps of bread at the raucous mob of Wingull that circle the air high above his head.
I heard Olivine is quite pleasant at this time of the year, he writes after debating at great length. Are there any attractions you think I should visit?
oo6 → rain dance
Their eyes meet over the expanse of a crowded contest hall, and for an instant, the world falls away. The chatter of enthusiastic crowds fades to a distant hum like the swell of the sea; as he quirks an eyebrow and bows his head in a small salute, she curtsies slightly in return, a crescent-moon smile curving across her lips.
Por lo que comienza, Juan whispers as he calls forth his Kingdra; across from him, at the other side of the stage, the statuesque woman briskly smooths down her expansive skirts, conversing absently with the stoic Drifblim beside her.
And so it begins.
The contest begins. He watches with interest as the other participants are put through their paces, as they effortlessly command their Pokémon to perform breathtaking moves of startling complexity; he claps appreciatively when the dance competition begins-the movements are flawless, exquisite, like living poetry in the fluidity of the motions.
The violet-clad woman - Fantina, the emcee calls her - with the intricate coiffure wins the contest; he is not in the least surprised, and applauds along with the audience as she accepts her award and blows kisses to the crowd.
“A most magnificent performance, mi señora,” Juan murmurs as she glides gracefully past; she responds with a coy smile.
“Je vous remercie, mon bon monsier,” she demurs, but then pauses. “Ah, that is to say, thank you, good sir. You must pardon my English - I have not yet acquainted myself properly with this language. The best way to improve is to practice, non?”
He responds in the affirmative. “Quite. But, before you leave-may I make a most humble request?”
Fantina blinks, lashes fluttering like butterfly-wings as she presses her hands to her hear, fingers moving in an elaborate pantomime. “Yes?”
A dashing smile spreads itself across his features. “Mademoiselle, a dance, if you please. Nobody needs to know-the night stars shall be our only witnesses.”
oo7 → grass knot
If the mechanics behind her trademark attack are anything to go by, then Roark is sure he has fallen hard.
The beauty of it is that none of them were expecting it.
He first saw her chatting animatedly with a citizen in Eterna City, when he was just passing by to visit his grandfather.
He misses the knowing smile his father’s father wears on his creased face when he asks about the young woman with the chestnut bob. He misses the old man’s chortle as he ruffles his hair and tells him he’s all grown-up now-whatever that may mean. When Roark returns to Oreburgh, his thoughts are preoccupied by visions of heavy, scuffed hiking boots and tangerine eyes, a cheeky grin and a forest-green poncho.
The next time he sees her, he is too preoccupied with searching for the slim-framed figure to notice where he is going, and promptly walks into another pedestrian.
“I’m sor-” He opens his mouth to apologise-and all his words die in his throat as soon as he catches sight of who it is. His stomach does a somersault (and a mincing pirouette, a couple of backflips, then finishing with a soaring grand jeté), and for a moment, it’s almost as though he’s been felled by a stealthily-placed Grass Knot.
The young woman is unfazed, and stretches out an arm to help steady him; her eyes twinkle with impish mischief and she beams broadly, taking slightly longer than is strictly necessary to release him. “Oh, no worries-it was silly of me to be breezing around without looking where I was going. By the way, I’m Gardenia,” she declares; he nods absently, willing his heart to stop pounding - what is he, a lovestruck schoolboy?
“And I’m, uh, Roark. A pleasure to meet you. So, um, are you from around these parts?”
oo8 → magma storm
The way she burns against his skin - slow, calming, inexorable - is so unlike the cool distance of unusual stones he plucks from rocky geode-walls. She is filled with the vibrant exuberance of youth, the raw fire of inexperience-but that’s what makes Flannery different from the others he had in his life before.
So when he watches her in one of her gym battles against a challenger, Steven is struck by fond amusement at her haphazard attempts at intimidating bluster, tactics which backfire on her by revealing her nerves and uncertainty. In the aftermath of the match, he consoles her as she bemoans her lack of bravado.
“You should just show them the real you,” he says gently, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Show them the Flannery I have come to know and love, the girl who has steel in her spine and the fiery passion which we all know so well.”
She blushes a fierce crimson, but shoots him a quick, crooked smile.
There’s no need for her to reply.
oo9 → teeter dance
Once upon a time, she was the one who chased after him. She was the one who had lagged behind as he charged forth with little regard for whatever perils lay ahead-after all, wasn’t it his role to clear the path of all treacherous obstacles for the lady?
Once upon a time, he would constantly threaten to fine her exorbitant sums if she continued to drag her feet.
So what happened? When did Hikari overtake him and leave him struggling in her wake?
Slow the world, Jun wants to say as he tries to keep up with her dwindling silhouette. Slow the world so I can run alongside you again.
o1o → fake out
In the aftermath of yet another one of their drearily typical rows, he is left to pick up the pieces.
Sorry, he wants to say when she turns pointedly from him, shoulders stiff as she stalks away with a curse-but he knows it is futile to express his apology - not when the tang of denial is so thick and raw in his throat, clamouring to break into the air. The taste of the lie on the tip of his tongue is not as sweet as he once envisaged it to be-he no longer sees the fragile beauty of trying to protect her from the uncertainty of his own emotions: instead, it is heavy with regret, dragging down the very words he struggles to choke out.
I hate you, she shrieks in an apoplectic rage. Don’t just casually shrug things off like that. Her eyes are overbright with unshed tears fight for domination against the dull flush of anger which rises up her throat, and Ruby can only glance down at his shoes, murmuring the same word he has always used.
He knows the words she longs to hurl at his face, the words which he can barely prevent himself flinching at. I gave you my heart but you tossed it away. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you-for leading me on like this, for making me think you felt the same way, for lying to me, for everything.
The same pathetic, hackneyed apology is the only thing he can offer, and it will never be enough.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. The words repeat themselves over and over, playing in an endless loop in his skull. One day, I’ll tell you the truth.
forward
part 2
back to index.
wordcount: 2858
rating: PG
summary: Twenty secrets, twenty different ways to say I love you; different people have different ways of expressing themselves, and it doesn't have to be through words.
oo1 → shadow claw
She tries not to react when she sees him on the television-he’s barely changed over the years, even if he’s got more wrinkles around the eyes than he used to, and his hair isn’t as dark or abundant as it once was. Then and again, he would probably say the same of her-she’s not as young anymore, not as energetic or proudly straight-backed; worst of all are the aches and pains which assuage her some mornings, reminding her of her age.
With the mere sound of his voice as he rambles on enthusiastically about his research, Agatha is transported back to her youth, remembering him as he used to be before he softened up.
How many years have passed since they last spoken? How many years since she first fell for him? How many-?
Without thinking, she picks up the phone, dials the number which is printed on every single phone book across all the regions. She mulls over their shared history in the silence, twining the thick spiral cord around her fingers as the dual-toned rings pile up, until it seems as though she’s been sitting there forever waiting foolishly for her call to be picked up.
Just as she is about to set the phone back in its cradle, a voice bursts through the earpiece, breathless and tinny-but unmistakably recognisable.
“Hello? Oak speaking.”
Agatha is content to listen to the sound of his voice, to remind her of why she never pursued him. Just as he sighs - another crank call - and sends his breath rasping over the fragile bridge of their connection in a rush of static, she breaks her silence, sends a low chuckle juddering along the airwaves.
You sound well-but you don’t seem to have changed one bit, you dried-up old codger, she imagines herself to say, and wordlessly replaces the receiver with a sharp click.
oo2 → surf
When she finally allows herself to be pressured into surfing, she does so with tentative reluctance-it is a far cry from her area of expertise, but Roxanne figures that she owes it to him: after all, Brawley has visited the library often enough with her in the recent past.
If anything, she is immensely proud of the fact that he has read all her favourite books from cover to cover and can quote them back to her practically verbatim.
However, there are two main things wrong with the very idea of going out to face the deep blue sea on nothing more than a glorified piece of laminated wood and plastic polymer. Her first concern is the fact that whilst it is all very well and fine to read up on the subject and reassure herself with the fact that she has the theory behind the techniques down pat, it is another matter entirely to actually get onto a surfboard and ride the waves.
The other is that Brawly will have ample opportunity to laugh at her abject failure-an unbearable notion which brings a petulant, resigned grimace to her face.
Still, it isn’t half bad to feel his hands - large, warm, calloused - steadying her on the bobbing board, a delighted chuckle bubbling forth from his lungs at the mere idea that she has actually agreed to this.
There is no need for words, even as she topples off the accursed thing for the umpteenth time that hour, treading water as he snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her - red-faced, sputtering and stammering like a schoolgirl - to his pleasantly sculpted chest, kissing her shamelessly on the cheek even as she turns stubbornly away.
oo3 → tailwind
Sometimes, he wonders what his father would think if he were to see him with her.
You should be concentrating on your duties; you’re still young-you shouldn’t be jumping into things like this just yet.
Falkner treats whatever his father says as the best advice anybody could possibly give him, but this is where he has to disagree; true, he feels more than slightly foolish for following the capricious whims of his heart, but that does not mean he is unable to decide on the course he wants to take.
Follow your heart, he remembers somebody telling him; he cannot quite put a finger on the elusive voice which occasionally speaks forth from the back of his mind, but he is certain those were the words of his mother, though he cannot be sure-not when he barely knew her. Still, he suspects she would be glad to see him now, pursuing his desires instead of allowing duty to stand in his way. Doubtless, she would have approved - whilst he knows that his father is a great and honourable person, he also accepts the fact that Wayne is a hard taskmaster, strict and goal-orientated, a man who never had much time for family.
But this is my life, Falkner argues to the shadows. Haven’t I filled your shoes enough as it is?
Of course, he gets no reply.
The questions burn through his mind in the cool of the evening as he turns to Janine to meet her impassive eyes, the question tumbling forth from his lips in an inglorious mass of words. “D’you…would you like a…could I do you the honour of escorting you home?”
Janine turns an inscrutable half-lidded gaze to his faintly-flushed face, then nods, a slow, measured dip of her head. “I have two scores of poison needles concealed on my person,” she says with amusement as the corners of her eyes crinkle into a smile. “As well as a number of Pokémon on hand, whose poison will have any assailant rendered incapacitated for up to a week. Tell me, what can you offer that those safeguards cannot?”
His throat is dry as he speaks, wishing he could see more of her features-which she conceals behind the scarf pulled drawn her face. “My heart,” he whispers hoarsely, feeling the blood pound in his head.
She draws in a breath, pulls down her scarf, opens her mouth to respond-but he silences her before she can move - a first, that, he notes with some giddy hysteria - and presses his lips to hers.
oo4 → petal dance
He is of the earth - stalwart, steadfast, an anchor amidst the turmoil; she assures him of the fact that no matter who he is, she will love him, but he nonetheless feels ashamed of his comparatively unrefined appearance.
He knows what she’ll say to him-never change; I love you as everything you are. Still, he is always conscious of the inquiring stares they get when they are out together: they are so unlike, the both of them-his pams are rough and calloused from training, and his clothes border towards the hardy, tough and functional. She is truly a lady, dignified and composed; she moves with the grace of a willow, and surrounds herself with beauty - be it in the form of grass Pokémon wafting sweet scents, or the elegant floral print of silken kimonos. When he takes note of these contrasts, Brock is sure that when they are seen together, half of Celadon City wonders whether he is Erika’s bag-carrier or something equally lowly.
But all his doubts fall away when she turns to him with a gentle smile curving across her lips, slender fingertips brushing across his wrist; as he bows his head to meet hers, she bestows upon him a chaste kiss-and his heart nearly stops.
You’ll always be my perfect gentleman, she seems to say; he tentatively twines his fingers with hers and they continue down the city square.
This time, he meets everybody’s eyes with unabashed pride.
oo5 → magnet rise
He first sees her from his lonely perch within the Vista Lighthouse as he squints against the glare of the setting sun at the unfamiliar figure who pads barefoot through the beach, heedless of the cold seawater which inches up the shore.
Volkner does not recall seeing her before-he would definitely remember if he had. Either way, he only watches as the lone silhouette paces to and fro along the stretch of sand, and is suddenly struck by the oddest compulsion to join her.
From then on, he abandons the solitude of the lighthouse and takes the initiative to greet her - and before he knows it, they are meeting at Sunyshore Beach on a daily basis, just to watch as the sun sinks ever-lower along the twilit horizon. They slip effortlessly into a pattern of idyllic days filled with meandering strains of conversations and quick, almost embarrassed pecks on blushing cheeks in the shadow of the harbour, feeling nothing but the sea-breeze in their hair and one another’s heartbeats through thin fabric.
When Jasmine returns to her home region, he finds himself writing endless letters and receiving a constant stream of correspondences from his - dare he say it? the words sounds so alien and strange on his tongue, yet oddly fitting - long-distance lover. He keeps the photographs she sends him, of the cobbled streets of Olivine City; the docks with their innumerable proud ships waiting to sail the world; the occasional snapshots of her taken by friends. Day by day, the little scraps of their shared history build up on his desk until he realises one week that he can barely find his official Pokémon League paperwork amidst the jumble of prettily-patterned stationery with loose, looping cursive print.
One evening, he’s back down at the beach with pen in hand and a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm, absently tossing scraps of bread at the raucous mob of Wingull that circle the air high above his head.
I heard Olivine is quite pleasant at this time of the year, he writes after debating at great length. Are there any attractions you think I should visit?
oo6 → rain dance
Their eyes meet over the expanse of a crowded contest hall, and for an instant, the world falls away. The chatter of enthusiastic crowds fades to a distant hum like the swell of the sea; as he quirks an eyebrow and bows his head in a small salute, she curtsies slightly in return, a crescent-moon smile curving across her lips.
Por lo que comienza, Juan whispers as he calls forth his Kingdra; across from him, at the other side of the stage, the statuesque woman briskly smooths down her expansive skirts, conversing absently with the stoic Drifblim beside her.
And so it begins.
The contest begins. He watches with interest as the other participants are put through their paces, as they effortlessly command their Pokémon to perform breathtaking moves of startling complexity; he claps appreciatively when the dance competition begins-the movements are flawless, exquisite, like living poetry in the fluidity of the motions.
The violet-clad woman - Fantina, the emcee calls her - with the intricate coiffure wins the contest; he is not in the least surprised, and applauds along with the audience as she accepts her award and blows kisses to the crowd.
“A most magnificent performance, mi señora,” Juan murmurs as she glides gracefully past; she responds with a coy smile.
“Je vous remercie, mon bon monsier,” she demurs, but then pauses. “Ah, that is to say, thank you, good sir. You must pardon my English - I have not yet acquainted myself properly with this language. The best way to improve is to practice, non?”
He responds in the affirmative. “Quite. But, before you leave-may I make a most humble request?”
Fantina blinks, lashes fluttering like butterfly-wings as she presses her hands to her hear, fingers moving in an elaborate pantomime. “Yes?”
A dashing smile spreads itself across his features. “Mademoiselle, a dance, if you please. Nobody needs to know-the night stars shall be our only witnesses.”
oo7 → grass knot
If the mechanics behind her trademark attack are anything to go by, then Roark is sure he has fallen hard.
The beauty of it is that none of them were expecting it.
He first saw her chatting animatedly with a citizen in Eterna City, when he was just passing by to visit his grandfather.
He misses the knowing smile his father’s father wears on his creased face when he asks about the young woman with the chestnut bob. He misses the old man’s chortle as he ruffles his hair and tells him he’s all grown-up now-whatever that may mean. When Roark returns to Oreburgh, his thoughts are preoccupied by visions of heavy, scuffed hiking boots and tangerine eyes, a cheeky grin and a forest-green poncho.
The next time he sees her, he is too preoccupied with searching for the slim-framed figure to notice where he is going, and promptly walks into another pedestrian.
“I’m sor-” He opens his mouth to apologise-and all his words die in his throat as soon as he catches sight of who it is. His stomach does a somersault (and a mincing pirouette, a couple of backflips, then finishing with a soaring grand jeté), and for a moment, it’s almost as though he’s been felled by a stealthily-placed Grass Knot.
The young woman is unfazed, and stretches out an arm to help steady him; her eyes twinkle with impish mischief and she beams broadly, taking slightly longer than is strictly necessary to release him. “Oh, no worries-it was silly of me to be breezing around without looking where I was going. By the way, I’m Gardenia,” she declares; he nods absently, willing his heart to stop pounding - what is he, a lovestruck schoolboy?
“And I’m, uh, Roark. A pleasure to meet you. So, um, are you from around these parts?”
oo8 → magma storm
The way she burns against his skin - slow, calming, inexorable - is so unlike the cool distance of unusual stones he plucks from rocky geode-walls. She is filled with the vibrant exuberance of youth, the raw fire of inexperience-but that’s what makes Flannery different from the others he had in his life before.
So when he watches her in one of her gym battles against a challenger, Steven is struck by fond amusement at her haphazard attempts at intimidating bluster, tactics which backfire on her by revealing her nerves and uncertainty. In the aftermath of the match, he consoles her as she bemoans her lack of bravado.
“You should just show them the real you,” he says gently, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Show them the Flannery I have come to know and love, the girl who has steel in her spine and the fiery passion which we all know so well.”
She blushes a fierce crimson, but shoots him a quick, crooked smile.
There’s no need for her to reply.
oo9 → teeter dance
Once upon a time, she was the one who chased after him. She was the one who had lagged behind as he charged forth with little regard for whatever perils lay ahead-after all, wasn’t it his role to clear the path of all treacherous obstacles for the lady?
Once upon a time, he would constantly threaten to fine her exorbitant sums if she continued to drag her feet.
So what happened? When did Hikari overtake him and leave him struggling in her wake?
Slow the world, Jun wants to say as he tries to keep up with her dwindling silhouette. Slow the world so I can run alongside you again.
o1o → fake out
In the aftermath of yet another one of their drearily typical rows, he is left to pick up the pieces.
Sorry, he wants to say when she turns pointedly from him, shoulders stiff as she stalks away with a curse-but he knows it is futile to express his apology - not when the tang of denial is so thick and raw in his throat, clamouring to break into the air. The taste of the lie on the tip of his tongue is not as sweet as he once envisaged it to be-he no longer sees the fragile beauty of trying to protect her from the uncertainty of his own emotions: instead, it is heavy with regret, dragging down the very words he struggles to choke out.
I hate you, she shrieks in an apoplectic rage. Don’t just casually shrug things off like that. Her eyes are overbright with unshed tears fight for domination against the dull flush of anger which rises up her throat, and Ruby can only glance down at his shoes, murmuring the same word he has always used.
He knows the words she longs to hurl at his face, the words which he can barely prevent himself flinching at. I gave you my heart but you tossed it away. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you-for leading me on like this, for making me think you felt the same way, for lying to me, for everything.
The same pathetic, hackneyed apology is the only thing he can offer, and it will never be enough.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. The words repeat themselves over and over, playing in an endless loop in his skull. One day, I’ll tell you the truth.
forward
part 2
back to index.