For dearest Whismur Publishing House, as it was her birthday some time last week. Thank you for all the good and slash or hilarious times; you always brighten up my day, and I love working and talking with you.
Her favorite ship is Conflicting; prepare for a barrage of Blue/Leaf fluff, among other things.
I wrote this in about six hours; I apologize for any nonsensical items located within, as well as for any portions that do not make sense. I will edit it more carefully in coming months.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pokemon.
snippets of life as they were going to be, as they are, as they were.
[she was seven, ten, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-two, twenty-four.]
[he was nine, twelve, sixteen, seventeen, twenty, twenty-four.]
Leaf was seven when she first laid eyes on him, when she was walking into some sort of room with her hand lifted into the crook between her mother's thumb and forefinger. She did not see him at first, as her focus was elsewhere, drawn to the sorrow filling the atmosphere of the room. She didn't know why she felt so heavy and cold when she wasn't wearing something that weighed her down and her arms were warm to the touch.
She did not really understand anything that was going on, really. She was the kind of girl who loved to play and dance, who wore bright, pastel colors with flowers, who always seemed to have something to do or people to have fun with. Here at this place – the 'funeral house' or whatever her mother had called it – everyone was somber and quiet, with dark fancy clothes that made her itch in her little dress. Some were even crying, and while she really wanted to cheer them right up, her mother kept her close and told her quietly to behave. She didn't like seeing her mom so angry, so she did.
She followed her mother towards two pedestals of sorts, covered in blank, white clothe with frills at the edges. Inside one rested a man, his hands folded neatly over his stomach; the other held a woman, her hands in the same position. They were strangers, perfectly dressed and groomed in such a way it seemed fake, and she didn't like it, shying away and casting her eyes elsewhere. She was all too relieved when her mother stopped looking and sighing and dabbing at her eyes and they began to walk again.
It was only when they passed that she was near the boy, and when she made eye contact with him she felt the air escape her lungs at the bottomless blue of his eyes, as deep and profound as outer space, and then, quite suddenly, the sadness in the room really hit home. He mumbled something under his breath, something akin to "thank you for coming," and he jumped when she grabbed his hands and looked even more carefully into his eyes, seeing nothing but veiled grief and regret and fear.
"My name is Leaf and I lost my daddy, too," she whispered, but that was all the time she had. Her mother tugged her away and she dropped his hands from her own, but she felt better now, remembering his eyes as he looked surprised, pained, then relieved, even while his face remained impassive, and she felt as though she had accomplished something of awesome proportions.
She began kneading her fingers together to remind herself of the warmth of his, and when she found him through the crowd she was looking at her, and something unspoken passed between them, though she didn't know what, through eye contact alone; and somehow she felt connected in a way she knew was impossible.
When she and her mother left and she was tucked into bed that night, she dreamed of blue eyes and unshed tears and awoke with endless questions and a wonder if she would ever see him again.
He was nine when he saw her again, after two years of depression and therapy and recovery. He hadn't realized he would recognize her on the spot, but he did, and so did she, for she abandoned the boy she was talking with the moment he walked into his new school's gates in favor of running over to him. "Leaf," he said when she was within earshot, and the grin that he got in returned radiated happiness and friendliness.
He unconsciously flinched, cowering away from her with fear clenching at his tomach. He felt his face shift from a small smile to a frown instantly, shielding his emotions from the rest of the world, and he immediately regretted doing so – it was how he always lost the opportunity to make friends – but then she had her arms around him and was squeezing him tightly and things were all right. Things were fine. He was fine.
"Are you okay?" is the first thing she asked him when she finally let go, her hands lingering on his arms, and something in his chest gave a little flip and warmth spread through his body. He savored the feeling, for friends were not things he was adept at keeping, and he would no doubt lose her soon enough. In response to her question, he nodded, marveling about how green her eyes were as he'd once done two years past.
"I never did get your name," she mused, stepping back and getting a good look at him. He was taller, but only by about an inch, though his uncooperative hair lent him even greater height and even power in some cases. She had grown out her brown hair so it twirled gently near her shoulders, and he wondered about how soft it was.
"It's Blue."
It slipped out unwarranted, and he winced inwardly at his mistake. He'd been teased so often for the name, so very often, but it was what his parents had named him, so he thought of it as a constant reminder of their presence. But even despite that, it was still a girl's name, and so whatever emotional merit it had was lost. He had even once asked his grandfather if he could change it.
But Leaf merely smiled at him. "Let me introduce you to some people!" And she grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the same boy she'd been talking to.
As he was pulled along, he let himself relax slightly, even with the heavy weight of trepidation and the ever-present emptiness of his parents' absence; with her back in his life, the list of things he had to fear was shrunken considerably.
She was ten when she got her first Pokemon. So was he.
But she didn't really care anymore about him, at least, not in a way that was visible. He had grown to be a pretentious asshole, to put it bluntly – but at the same time, she could see why. Putting on a façade of arrogance and ignorance gave him the ability to hide how he truly felt around things, and it was a habit he'd picked up during the time she hadn't seen him. It was something she wondered if he'd ever drop, but so far, things were not looking promising.
So she showed him that nope, she didn't care that he got Charmander, nope, she didn't care at the stricken look on his face when she beat him with her Bulbasaur, and nope, she didn't care that she overheard him talking to his grandfather later about whether she even liked him still. She refused to talk to him or even give him any reaction at all, not when he was acting more and more like a jerk and less and less like the shy boy she'd met the year before. What sort of transformation had taken place in the months of summer?
He ran ahead of her when they left their homes, and he was gone by the time she reached the beginning of Route 1. She told herself she didn't care, adjusted the strap of her bag, squared her shoulders, and walked confidently onto the grass, her Bulbasaur toddling besides her.
She didn't care, she told herself, almost as if it were her mantra. She didn't care at all.
He was twelve when his last Pokemon crumpled to the ground and she stood before him, her eyes emotionless and her demeanor cold.
He had only seen her five times in the span of two years, and his heart hurt at the way she looked at him, cool and shielded and empty. He missed her, even as he snarled curses and insults in her direction as she took the walk down the hall of fame and took the place he'd earned only a few minutes past. He missed her quick little smile she had when she made a joke, the way she looked at her friends, glowing with optimism and happiness, the way she always kept her promises, her lambent humor and wit.
He missed her friendship, even though he'd known he would lose it, as he predicted a few years before. He didn't want her to see him not someone she'd once liked but no longer. But when he walked out of the League's building, he was alone, and she was nowhere in sight.
When he took off on his Pidgeot, he failed to see her running out and looking up at his fading silhouette, something akin to misery twisting her lips into a grimace, and to see his grandfather step besides her, his eyes dark with regret. He saw none of it, lost in a misery he'd thought he'd shaken off after the death of his parents.
Humans were species he would never understand. They were cruel, judgmental, opinionated; they were always ready to jeer at his behavior, molded especially to shield himself from their vile words, or at his name, or at his hair, or at just him, really. Sure, he'd gained some peoples' respect with his fighting prowess and skill, but they were so few and far in between he didn't think of them as friends. More like… acquaintances. If that.
If he couldn't work with humans, so be it. He would work with Pokemon because they were better than humans. He'd be a researcher just like his gramps, and he'd be a damn good one, too.
He wondered privately if he just wanted to get away from it all, to do something different from Leaf because he could, and shook the thought from his mind. If he wanted this to work, he'd have to broach the topic with his grandfather, and he wasn't keen on seeing the old man's reaction.
She was sixteen when she saw he had finally changed.
She had gone to visit Professor Oak for no reason in particular, other than the fact she hadn't seen him in about four years. Since then, she had traveled both Johto and Hoenn, and she had figured it would be worthwhile to visit both him and home before she left for Sinnoh.
Her eyes mirrored his, both going wide when he answered the door to the Oak Laboratoryes, a lab coat draped over his body and an Umbreon sitting primly at his feet. Somehow the glasses he wore made him look more mature, even though they resembled something akin to coke bottles, but he hastily plucked them off of the bridge of his nose and slipped them into a pocket before speaking.
"Leaf," he greeted, and she tensed, mentally preparing for a barrage of unpleasant words. She'd seen him sporadically over the years, and while he'd let her know he knew she was there, even if he didn't speak to her, she had figured he was still upset. Now, she realized grimly, she was going to be proven right.
But to her eternal shock, she wasn't.
Instead, all he said was, "Come in. Gramps is busy right now, but I'll let him know you're here," and then she was left in the hall, sitting on an uncomfortable armcair, with him walking down the hallway and through a doorway. His Umbreon – when had he gotten his hands on an Eevee? – remained with her, and it regarded her slim fingers coolly without reaction when she held it out to it. After that she sat on her hands and kept her eyes on her knees, regretting her decision to come.
Blue returned while she was debating whether to leave or stay, having waited for a number of minutes. "Guess he's a little busier than I thought, sorry," he said, and she was surprised to hear he actually sounded apologetic. Sincerely apologetic. Her eyes narrowed; he must be up to something. "If you come back in maybe an hour or so, you'll probably get a hold of him."
She waited for the next part, to jab at her clothes or her behavior or for him to try and egg her into reacting. But there was nothing, and when the silence stretched on with no reaction, she realized how awkward she was behaving and got a hold of herself. She gracefully stood to her feet, arms locked behind her back, and when she looked up at his face she was surprised to see the hesitance written into his face. It was evident he wanted to say something, but had no idea how. She didn't feel like wasting her time waiting for him to do so.
So she looked him in the eye, nodded again, and then turned and began to walk.
She felt a strange, cold disappointment well in her chest when she left the lab without him saying a word.
He was seventeen when he finally broke through her shell.
She had changed so much from the little girl he'd been best friends with at age nine. Gone was the glowing smile, the bright joy in her forest eyes, the optimism that came with being high on life. All that remained was a steely iciness that came from naivety being lost, fears being faced, and dreams being crushed. All that remained of the girl he'd once known was her forest green eyes, and even then they were cold and showed no emotion; no matter what he tried, no matter how much he had changed, she remained coolly detached from him, and he wondered if that would always be.
He'd run into her completely by accident – he was running an errand for his grandfather in Vermilion, delivering a parcel to the manager of the PokeMart (it feels nostalgic, somehow), and had been sidetracked by the head of the Pokemon Club. He'd been chatting with the older man, walking with him towards the clubhouse and admiring the new paint job inside when she had entered silently, unresponsive to a cheery 'hello!' from one of the woman grooming her Clefairy. He hadn't noticed her presence at all, so engrossed was he in the older man's discussion about Unovian Pokemon.
He turned when she said, "Hello, Blue," and in the moment his eyes met hers, he forgot to breathe.
The feeling was gone in an instant, when her forest irises glinted with something unreadable, and he said neutrally, "Hi, Leaf. How are you?" The older man behind him echoed his greeting with far more cheerfulness, but she did not grace either male's words with a response, instead maintaining eye contact with him and – searching for something in his irises, perhaps, he wasn't sure. Seeing if he was trying to trick her into something, like he always did when he was younger and stupider.
It hurt, to know she didn't trust him enough to find sincerity in a simple question. But he ignored the dull ache, as he had for years past, even as his blood chilled and a familiar tenseness found its way into his body. It had been a while since she'd seen him last, and he hadn't expected her to change during that time.
"I was looking for you," she said, and without even thinking one of his eyebrows quirked upwards, while surprise, then a pleasure he repressed with the ease of long practice worked its way through his mind. Her face remained expressionless and she offered him no explanation; he knew better than to ask. "Professor Oak said you'd be here."
"He'd be right, then," he replied, feeling a little uneasy and annoyed at himself for the happiness he'd felt when she had merely mentioned she'd be looking for him. "What can I do for you?"
The head of the Pokemon Club excused himself, his expression knowing but sad in some way, and Leaf contemplated her words for a very long moment until she reached some sort of understanding with herself. "Nothing," she said, and he titled his head quizzically, until she told him, with the tone of someone uncertain but utterly confused as to why, "I wanted to talk to you, but now I don't know what to say."
There were so many things he wanted to tell her but knew better than to actually do so. He went with the response she expected, the one his fake persona from a few years back would've said: "I'm pretty sure you don't like me enough to say that honestly, Leaf." Then, at the slightest flicker in her eyes, he added, "I'm a jerk, remember. I have no friends because I earned it with my attitude. Why would you even care?"
He realized his words rang with repressed truth far too late, and something in her seemed to break when she heard them.
"You're an asshole," she said, but the words held no venom, and her tone was raw and miserable. He nodded, resigning himself to a fate he already knew, and then violent anger sparked into her green irises, her lips twisting into a deep scowl. "No! That's not what I meant. I mean." She paused, and from the way she stumbled over words, he knew she hadn't actually spoken to another person for far too long. "I mean that even though you're a jerk, I still – I don't dislike you."
"Just because you don't dislike me," he said warily, still tense, "Doesn't mean you like me. Say what you want to say and leave." He regretted his words immediately when she bit her lip, restraining something from escaping her mouth; evidently it was not his best move to have said what he did, but it was too late now.
He watched as she opened her mouth and then proceeded to close it, several times in a row.
Then she whispered, "I miss you," and he swallowed hard, because that's the topic they had been dancing around for the past seven years; how they had once known each other but they had broken apart with seemingly no hope to return to the way it had been. It must have been pure torture for Leaf to let her pride go and tell him so. He knew well enough it would have been.
"I miss you too," he said instead, and they did not smile, or speak, or look away from each other's eyes. Something unspoken passed between them, and he realized that things were coming back together, in one form or another, when her hand found his and neither of them argued with them.
She was eighteen when her mother died.
Being in the funeral home was nostalgic, in a way that drove ice into her heart and pulled her positive feelings into the hard ground. It was easy to pretend she was little again, with the same atmosphere of somber melancholy, until she realized the tall, reassuring presence of her mother wasn't at her side. When she saw the body in the coffin and instead of a stranger, her mother's face blared back at her, empty and perfect and eerily beautiful.
It wasn't as easy as it had been for her to forget her father, when he'd left and never returned when she was two. It had been hard when her mother had first told her, but it hadn't taken long, because she was young and hadn't known what mommy had meant. Even now, when she understood, she merely felt a neutral stiffness against the man whose genes made up half of her own. But her mother was the one who had raised her and cared for her and supported her; without her mother, she wouldn't be even half of what she was today.
She had been holding herself together by sheer force of will when he'd sidled up next to her, after passing the coffin containing her mother himself. He was dressed in a neat black suit, his tie done up impeccably, his brown hair as untamed as the day she's first met him, and a tiny sniff escaped her when she saw the raw emotion in his eyes.
He understood. Out of everyone mourning her mother's passing, he was the only one who understood.
He took both of her hands in hers, whispered words resembling the ones she'd said to him, "I know what it's like and I'm so, so sorry," and she finally allowed the first tear to slide gently down her cheek, leaving a trail of glittering sorrow behind.
He was twenty when she returned from her journey in Unova, and while she had left shattered, she returned with a lighter heart and a calmer mind. He was glad, and when he met her outside of the lab, he had wondered if she had perhaps recovered, ready to continue her life without her mother's death weighing her down.
He was wrong. He knew immediately when she called him up in the evening and he arrived to find her wandering aimlessly in her empty house, wiping her eyes constantly even though no tears fell. He didn't dare do much more than sit her down with a hot drink, ease himself into an armchair across from her, and ask her about what she had done in Unova; he feared that offering human contact, even something as simple as a touch on the shoulder, would remind her of the mother she no longer had.
He had to coax her into talking. It was hard when she didn't want to, but he'd relearned how to get her into doing things like eating and sleeping, after trial and error and practice, so much practice. More than once, he wondered if it was worth it bothering to do so; every single time, when he saw a feeling or emotion flash on her face or in her eyes, or when she wouldn't take care of herself and he'd come to find her only a fraction of her former self, he knew she was.
She started crying midway through explaining the one time she'd had to free a Munna, when it had gotten stuck in one of the oil drums in a place called the Dreamyard – when she said it had been joined by a Musharna once she had completed the task. She told him she didn't know whether it was its mother or father, in a voice choked and constricted with a deep misery she didn't know how to share, and he simply stood up, went over to her, settled himself besides her and hugged her to him.
He knew she wasn't comfortable given the way she stiffened, but she was full of surprises; after a few moments of silence she asked him in a tiny voice, "How do I make it stop?" He started by telling her it was different for everybody, but she scoffed and was quiet for a few moments. Then she asked him, her question rephrased, "How did you make it stop?"
He sighed.
Then he told her, haltingly, slowly, what he'd done to himself when his own parents had died. The way he'd yelled and screamed and thrown fits; the way he had hurt himself, slitting the skin at his wrists with a razor blade, and later getting a tetanus shot when his grandfather wondered about the blood on his sleeves. The way he had talked endlessly to therapists and tried to understand why he felt so alone, the way he'd taken antidepressants, the way where it hadn't been easy, where it hadn't been painless, where he'd almost killed himself with grief one time when he was eight.
He told her about the way he had recovered. The way he'd gotten better, despite the difficulties he faced, despite his age and loneliness and attitude and lack of the support he needed. It had taken years and money and talking, so much talking, and he didn't tell her that he had only made an effort to stop cutting when he met her that one time when he was nine.
She asked to see his scars, and he obligingly flipped his arms over, palm up on his thigh, to see pale straight lines crisscrossing the backs of his wrist. He looked at them often to remind himself of what he had gotten through; from the way her face changed, so slightly yet significantly, she viewed them as something she would never do. He was happy for her for that, for while they were important to him, they were something he had never and would ever take pride in.
Her fingers traced the lines and fire raced down his arm and jolted his chest, and when she finally relaxed and allowed herself to lean into him, sniffing and holding back tears, he knew that nothing would be the same between them.
She was twenty-two when three things occurred to her, when she woke up bundled in blankets on her bed and went downstairs to find him sleeping on her couch.
One: the little boy she'd met all those years ago had never truly left.
Two: he was more than she ever deserved.
Three: he was more important to her than anything else in the world.
The thoughts left her breathless and scared, and she could do nothing but stare as he stirred, yawned, stretched, and then sat up, blinking blearily as he took her in, a small, lithe form fattened to unrealistic proportions by a cocoon of garishly-colored blankets.
"Morning, Leaf," he said, and she was thrown off by his voice, suddenly foreign to her ears. When had it lost its boyish pitch, when had it gotten so deep and smooth?
She said nothing in response, and he didn't mind, for that was what she always did – she never responded to his queries, or any questions of that sort, due to not having done so for so many years. She once thought them frivolous and pointless, when no one truly cared how your day was going; now she saw how wrong she was, that even a world with cruel and jaded people, kind strangers would still help her without a single penny in return.
She felt bad for the first time in years. She felt even worse knowing she had treated Blue the same way as the people she'd once scorned, when he meant so very much to her.
"How did you sleep?"
She made a decision in that second, and a smile crept its way onto her face without her even thinking about it.
"Very well, thank you."
The shock made his eyes grow wide, but then a grin split upon his face and when she started to laugh, the sound hoarse from disuse, he did too, a sound of sheer happiness. Nothing was even remotely funny in that situation, but she felt a joy she hadn't had in years, and it was only amplified because he was there.
She didn't know what she was doing until she was on her toes, his arms were around his waist, and she was hugging him tightly around the neck while crying and laughing at the same time. She knew he was doing the same, given the shaking of his lean shoulders, and she realized that even though they had never been fixed where they had broken, they at least knew how to pick up the pieces and try to make things right.
It somehow felt completely perfect when her lips found his.
He was twenty-four when he took the biggest leap of faith in his life.
She was twenty-four when he knelt down on one knee in front of her.
They were twenty-four when their long, tumultuous struggle to discover the world and each other came to an end.