*Click…*
I learned, from long ago. That there are people, all over the world. Even in your own small town…
There are, and will always be people-
That will burn their world down just for a chance to block out the sun. But do they know that after a fire, the grass grows so much greener? "
*Click….*
She wants to be a photographer. She doesn't really know why, other than she hates letting go. Of everything.
Anything.
She wants to take it, roll it, fold it. Wad it up like garbage—which it is, anyways, because really. That's just life.
She takes pictures of everything, all the things that make her happy or sad. The things that make her cringe and scream. A picture of a baby, crying for its mother.
A worn sepia photo of a couple standing together on a bridge, faint clouds of steam rising in the distance. The sharp mustard yellow of a newly tuned Vespa, locked to its parking meter. A shoe.
Of course she takes pictures of other things as well.
But these things in particular…. They stick to her conscious like glue. The tackiest kind.
Even now she fumbles with the dirty camera, not evening bothering to wipe the lens off before taking a quick snap shot of an unfamiliar riverbank, in an unfamiliar town. The wind is slightly chillier now that the sun has set, and nearby reeds whistle faintly. It could be perfect, but she's so thirsty, and her sweater has three holes in it, which haven't really been helping her creativity because her arms are cold.
This fact doesn't change the beautiful ghostly blues and violets of dusk, the faint shimmer of pollution and smoke… If anything, the cold just intensifies everything in her heart, vibrates it out of stale hibernation and into some kind of…shaky bullshit.
"ugh…"
The feelings. It's a love and hate relationship, truly.
She wants to pile up all the pictures, mail them. Send them to where she knows he can see.
But every time she has a chance—she doesn't—and probably won't ever really know why, except for when she looks at the sky, and the beginnings of stars, it's that shade.
She always ends up blaming it on the blues.
These days, I often wake up from the strangest dream. Having this familiar phantom, night after night, everything was exactly how I thought it seemed. Cars stopped at stop signs, and the rain fell like any other conventional day. That's how it was in the dream. It taunted me, but was a talisman.
Something that was just…completely ordinary.
I remember planning on taking a nap to pass the time—the ebb and flow of a once dull existence—but the ground was wet and cold.
Even while sleeping, I could smell the petrichor. But the thing I remember most?
Footprints, two pairs leading up to that spot under a bridge where we lurked, when we were school kids.
It's not the stupidity. It's just those prints, those subtle indents.
And this is really just how it is. I can't seem to quit.
'Click'
And she admits, even though it's been a ridiculously long amount of time since she's even heard him say the words, she still hears them every time she lights up a cigarette. She tries to not feel guilty about it as her shoulders hunch in a nonchalant pose, smoke lingering in loops around her ears. It's not really even a pleasure, at this point.
It's dark and it seems so, so stupid, but there's something deep inside that keeps her waiting, waiting, waiting on some bridge somewhere. It seems, especially these days, that she's always searching for a familiar face in the mess.
Perhaps it's the night, or the rain—so damn cold tonight. Who knows.
What she does happen to know however is that it's wet as hell, and the wind just so happens to be blowing in such a way as to extinguish the flame on her lighter. She'd lingered too long, and her second to last cigarette went out. Really, she should save it, but right now she really doesn't care. She just wants something that will help her ebb into a trance of forgetting.
(Though she knows as well as anyone that forgetting that sort of thing is nearly impossible.)
'click… click… click…'
The Gods must have it out for her, she swears.
"Oooh. This so annoying….. I know I shouldn't but honestly, this is just cruel…"
And then—click.
A small muffled prayer of thanks, and then, a sigh.
It's not forgetting, no matter what sort of demented idealism she attempts to brainwash herself with, and it's been on the back burner for a while, this dream…
Perhaps—
It may be time to go home.
And after such a long time, I'd come back to this place. After all that had happened, there was just no way I would be able to stay there being the way I was. Not with my memory of her lingering like a thousand ghosts.
I'd gone and traveled around, stayed in a nice little place of my own. No fog, lots of trees.
I tried to convince myself that it was the dream, but at night the stars would come out to plague me, and during the day, the sun would beat down on me like a thousand memories drawn into a thousand fists.
Now that I'm home though, It's comforting to know that it hasn't changed much. There's the hustle and bustle of course, but it's still too quiet.
It's funny that I wanted to come back, because, It's ordinary.
I think to myself and question: is this what I want? The still nature of a place that contains so much more under the surface? Boredom laced with starlight?
Or do I want something else?
Is it the need and want to return to the scene of the crime, to watch the ghosts unwind like a film? To see something, or even hear it, and then move on as planned? To stay there forever, maybe wait for the click of a lighter? The acrid smoke of a cigarette?
Honestly though.
I don't know why I even have to ask.
His head hurts bad.
Like really bad.
He's been waiting for the pain medication to kick in, but it doesn't seem to be working, and he's actually starting to get pretty worried. Not to mentioned agitated.
Every two minutes he checks, threading his hands through a thick matt of black hair, feeling for foreign bumps.
Nope.
No bumps, just a ridiculously familiar migraine that he hasn't felt for a very long time. It beats at his brain like a hammer, and pierces his eyes, even when the lights aren't shining.
He has to sigh with relief.
Not that having that familiar ache is in any way a respite, but it's better than being bashed in the head repeatedly with a guitar.
It's the headache that has him out so late at night, walking under the grey clouds where only a faint gleam of moonlight threads its way through the atmosphere. He blames it on restlessness, the plain nature of things. Blames it on the town, the people. Perhaps even the memories.
Deep inside, it feels as if it could be something different. A sort of omen, perhaps. But he really was never one to believe in fantastical things like that, always trying to maintain a serious and logical outlook on life. (Though in reality, that didn't always end up working out.)
Usually with this headache, comes trouble.
And with trouble comes….
He stops walking. Stares and blinks at the small cobwebs of smoke lacing their way through the air, at the even shorter hair, lips pursed into thoughtful pout, ripped jeans and a worn knapsack stuffed with books.
That old dirty camera.
He catches his breath when he sees her eyes.
Damn.
When I see her, I can't speak.
It isn't my ideal reaction, but then again, this isn't my ideal situation. If I'd known…. If only I'd known… Known that she'd be there with that stupid cigarette… Those big eyes… pale skin…
Well shit.
It's so very easy to feel small, in this town. It's even easier to feel small around her, even though now she's the tiny one, she's the fragile piece of glass, and I…well I would like to think that I'm stronger now.
Capable.
She seems wiser, even though the cigarette dangling does retain the 'no shits given' edge that was always a signature….. I don't even really have time to explain it, it's happening like this…
Honestly, though, if the dark doesn't frame her perfectly and if the whispering grass doesn't rustle and call her to burn, burn, burn… and isn't that what she's doing right now? She glows like an ember, but this time—
It seems like she burns in a different light.
So there they are. Standing in the misty deluge, staring like two idiots.
It's a little past midnight, and the darkness wraps around their shadows like a blanket, the wind is chilly but neither of them notices these things.
Instead what she sees is his hair, and those eyes squinting back at her. It's pretty much the same for him, and if it isn't for the random passerby whistling obnoxiously, the fragile ice that has been keeping it all together probably would have stayed frozen forever.
Her toes scuff against the ground, and the ashes fall near them. She takes another puff. Sighs.
"Fancy seeing you here…"
He doesn't realize just how damn relieved he is to hear the familiar aching whine in her voice, the scratchy nature of her reckless words. He was so…
"I…"
Smoke puffs like tiny storms from her lips as she chuckles lightly. The rain settling on her cheeks shines like the stars at night. The stars he can't currently see for the clouded atmosphere. He can't contain himself, his heart. He didn't think it could possibly ever beat as hard as it is.
"Well, why not finish what you were going to say?"
It's with this that he realizes that he's actually shaking.
And here he was, trying so hard, to be capable. To be in control. Damn her…
What should he say? 'Hello?'
'How have you been?'
He should be nice…. Maybe he should just keep his fat mouth shut…
He takes a breath—
"Where the fuck?! Where the hell have you been?!"
And that's it. He's officially an idiot.
The first time he's seen her since she disappeared like the smoke that follows, and he screams at her like a spurned school girl. Honestly, he really shouldn't be this upset, but she's just so nonchalant. Standing there, smoking and shining like the stupid, stupid, stupid girl she's always been.
"You're not stupid…." He sighs, finally, after the sharp edges of her silence cut him more than the chilly wind ever could.
She scoffs. "Well of course I'm not…"
In reality, she's shaken.
When she'd arrived earlier, she'd never thought he'd have ventured back to that desolate place. He's always seemed so concerned with hating that town, hating everything surrounding it, even sometimes hating her…. She just wanted….
She knows what she wanted. But now… Is she sure? She eases her heart, the pounding ocean of blood pulsing in her arms. Her hands they ache, and she knows.
She knows what she wants.
"…. Are you here for the same thing…." a pause "…Naota….?"
And then, it's with that.
It's that, it's that thing. It unwinds him, just breaks and shatters everything. It's coming unstuck, but really, what an unordinary thing for such a boring ordinary town. He may as well say it here, in the now, in the rain.
It's fitting, right here.
"I'm here because…"
And she's staring, he can't look at one spot for more than a damn second, because he's shaking like a girl.
"I wanted to see you…."
"See who?"
He's staggered. She's suddenly so steadfast. He sees this, sees the sharp intuition, the ebb and flow of a wisdom that reads like a thousand novels. Has it really been that long? He can't remember, time seems like it's been so meaningless without….
Without her.
"I'm here… I'm here to see Mamimi."
The gradual smile that forms on her face, a star in his eye.
That's how it ends, truly.
Rainy darkness, ever persistent muggy fog that gets everywhere. In your clothes, eyes, hair…
It ends—
With the warmth from some kind of stupid girl... The warmth from some kind of stupid guy.
And they say, everything happens for a reason.
I always knew it was true, even if It hurt. That didn't matter.
And when I see myself in this ordinary town, standing in this grass, it's easy to say—
The beauty does rise from ash.
Finis.
A/N
I have always wanted to do a this pairing and honestly have no idea why I never did before. My previous hiatus really took it out of me, but alas. She's back. Hopefully you enjoyed this little one-shot, and as always, comments and constructive criticism's are always welcome here.
Thanks for reading, come back soon!
~WerdHerder