Drop A Heart, Break A Name
Disclaimer: FFX-2 is © Square-Enix
Author's Note: I wrote this for myself, really. This doesn't follow the storyline -generic, I suppose- and the writing style is not my usual. I tried to write in comprehensive fragments, if there is such a thing, so that it seems as if he's just relaying his actions instead of writing in his own meanings, because so much can be said within suggestion. If you don't like it, don't read it. Flames are laughed upon.
Summary: Gippal never found a heart he couldn't break. (YGR Triangle) (drabble)
ooo
She's pretty, she really is. Tracing a heart into the sand with a toe, left foot swinging and fingers playing against the wood of the park bench -some unwritten melody and probably something I shouldn't wish for. She always plays compositions I'm not allowed to hear.
Her summer skirt is fluttering, something pink and green in gentle pastels, and sandals, misplaced in favour for warm sand and hazy dreaming. I'm never the one she's waiting for.
Swoop down in a fluid movement, grasp a daisy shooting off from the grass, and brush her ankle with my knuckles. "Sorry" and a blush, even though it's not her fault. There's the gentle slope of an uneasy smile, remembering a kiss and a touch and nighttime, and the unfamiliar pressing close. "Don't worry about it" I say, accidentally -purposefully- brushing a ribbon of russet back behind her ears. Lock the texture into memory, and walk away without looking back, until I need her again.
(Forgive me, lover.)
ooo
Green eyes now, under amber lamplight -fingers thrumming along the spine of a book, taking her bottom lip under her teeth. She's pretty -beautiful- and there isn't any sand, only an ocean of soft sheets and her nightgown flooding white onto blue. A frown is falling, guessing and telling. I'm tired of her back turned to me, and tension where there was the curve of her body against mine.
Take her golden hair to my lips to ease away the suspicion, and she whispers, "I missed you." Kiss her lips so I don't have to say the same, try to place her taste into the familiar and ignore the nip of blame edged into her touch. Link a hand in hers, diamond like a bloom on her finger, rasping against the band of gold around mine. Press the daisy into her hair, and give a faulty promise: "Cherish you, always."
(Forgive me, bride.)
ooo