Disclaimer: I'm not a middle-aged Japanese man, so I'm pre~tty sure I don't own Pokémon.
Summary: …each note was slow and purposeful, meant for something bigger than even themselves… [Kotone/Lyra x Silver/Rival; SoulSilvershipping.]
A/N: Just a random thought I had after listening to lots of classical music lately. I've had the urge to write for these two for a while, especially after playing my DS too much, (SOUL SILVER IS STEALING MY… SOUL /bad pun) and writing for Pokémon has been lingering in the back of my mind, too. I'm thinking Contestshipping next.
/stretches writing muscles
It was she who first began the dance, grabbing his hand much too tightly in her excitement and dragging him onto the dance floor; the beginning point of a series of somewhat strange circumstances that lead to an even stranger relationship, rather like the first push to a stack of dominos. He was unsure as to what pattern would immerge until all the pieces had fallen into place, but continued to watch with revered anticipation.
It was she who first felt the urge to slip away from her seat, smiling sweetly and tilting her head in a childish fashion that was just so Kotone before her lips began to move ("you dropped your trainer card!") and her hand extended towards him.
He had yet to join her. His dancing shoes were old and broken and much too small, a child's size for the child that had died, shiny black leather worn until it turned a distorted shade of grey — destroyed by years of neglect and abandonment. Hers, however, where gleaming in the light, brand new and sparkling red; he often wondered when he would receive his own pair that grand. However, he would refrain from holding his breath, lest he suffocate while waiting through the undoubtedly long years that it would take.
But, all the while, she remained, that delicate hand always there with fingers slightly curved in invitation, standing patient and unmoving against the storm that was his destructive emotions.
She would be burned, he'd insisted himself; left emotionally disfigured from his icy touch and poisonous words (just like his parents to him). His feelings were sullied and black — polluted by his father and, though he would admit most grudgingly, of his own unintentional design.
She'd just laughed at his obvious attempts at pushing her away, teasing him about some nonsense he couldn't bother remembering ("so tsundere, Silver~") before walking off with her Meganium following close behind. Laughed, like it was nothing but a child's fear.
It was times like that he hated her. So unbelievably infantile herself, yet able to insinuate him as a child with a mere wave of her hand or a single glance from her aged brown eyes.
And yet, the dance continued; rhythm increasing, tempo rising.
Rather ironic, he couldn't help but muse, that now it was he who initiated them, shiny black dancing shoes adorned his feet. Their roles were switched, and now he was leading them through the twists and turns.
She still smiled as she placed her tiny hand in his.
A/N: THE WHOLE DAMN THING IS A GIANT METAPHOR. Dancing? METAHPOR. Shoes? METAPHOR. Initiating the dance? FUCKING METAPHOR.
Good god, is classical music influential on my style.