Pairing: Lance/Kotone.
Note(s): Writing has been very hard lately… and I have a question. Do you guys like stories that are pure emotion, like this, or ones that have more plot, more adventure? I'm just curious. Thanks ever so much for reading and I appreciate any feedback, darlings.
Penicillin
her signature would be all over it.
He's not sure when his world began. Perhaps it was the time when her flower chained smile entered the scene. Or maybe the chance when she gave him the broadest grin, flashing a row of crooked pearly teeth, that made his stomach erupt with a horrible feeling, a wrong feeling, really.
Take a few encounters, give a few away, it would all be the same.
She's still fourteen, for Pete's sake, and he's twenty four. She dots her letters with hearts and signs her name with a flourish of a texting emoticon smile. She's oh so childishly infuriating, shedding purple tears, making it too easy for him to fall in love with his own cheery vice.
And he's sure she doesn't even notice--
--because the whole wide world is at her fingertips.
She can do anything, everything. She is champion. Champion, champion, champion. She is the biggest, most dire trainer of all, or so she likes to think. She likes to flounce around in her tight overalls, brandishing her white hat as a biker's helmet. She likes to pretend she's ripping wings off of butterflies, like she's horrible, when truly, she's far from it.
She's just an actor painting fascist stages of bitter lies of the evil hearted masterminds.
And he doesn't really care since he still gets to stare at her bubbly scented smile, her velveteen legs, so long, so wrong.
He thinks of what Elm would do to him when he realizes the thoughts he thinks – castration, maybe? It's too early to tell.
But, he does know this; he can make her heart lull to sleep with sweet songs, he can slip away in the dead of night, claiming to be sneaking to Sinnoh to see Cynthia. He can make her believe that he loves another champion.
It would be all too easy for her to just shrug and say "be happy" than for him to rip his own heart to shreds because that, in its own end, would be like destroying a masterpiece. Now, that molten piece of artwork is too singed to even tell that it was alive. That it used to flutter like useless gilded butterflies, too beautiful to be normal.
But hearts are like that, too unique to be real, but now his was tattered like harsh vindictive lies.
He knows this now; her signature would be all over it.
end.
