March 15, 2011.
A/N: Greetings, anyone from the TMM archive who's reading this. :)
I have a terrible habit of having these magnificent rushes of ideas for new stories, and getting so swept up in them that I let the old ones dwindle. Now, very obviously, this has happened again (lol), but I'm approaching this one a little differently.
So, I wrote the prologue in about twenty minutes, and I'm posting it up to see if anyone expresses interest in the idea. If so, I'll actually tackle the story and write it as quickly as possible, because I'm aiming to have it (possibly) completed before it gets posted. That way it can't not be finished, like all the others.
Make sense?
If you like the sound of this, feel free to leave a review - that would be super helpful. But I'll go by page hits, so don't feel obligated. :)
A sidenote! Bear in mind as you're reading, that it isn't supposed to be immediately obvious who Ichigo is with in the prologue. It's up to your interpretation at the moment; I'd love to see who you think it is - Ryou or Masaya. Let me know your thoughts? :)
Happy reading, and sorry to any of my other-story fans who are raging at me starting something new. I love you? :P
Disclaimer: Sadly, I can't claim ownership of Tokyo Mew Mew and re-write all the M/I scenes to be R/I. Otherwise, clearly, I would. XD
I Think of You
~ x prologue x ~
It's a quiet day in August; summery, pleasant.
Through the clear window I watch people meandering along the sidewalk. Cotton skirts flutter in the tropical breeze. Knives and forks chink against plates, mixing with the muted chatter of a successful restaurant in peak hour, and the magical sound of waves crashing against the shore. The ocean, a sparkling mass just across the road, burns with the reflection of the sky at sunset.
"Ichigo?"
He takes my hand across the table, and I turn to look at him watching me with quiet anxiety. His eyes, for once, are uncertain – unconfident – and his vulnerability is endearing. I resist the urge to reach over and brush the strands of hair from his forehead.
He stares at me in that solemn, intense way of his, studying my face – looking for clues. I smile helpfully. His lips twitch in a small frown and he observes, "You're distant tonight."
I laugh, trying to sound casual, but it comes out sounding nervous – an uneasy titter. "I was enjoying the sunset."
Something flickers in his eyes – a shadow? – and he looks down at his hand, still clasped around mine. He licks his lips – a rare display of nerves – and seems about to speak. But he doesn't. Instead, he focuses on stroking the back of my hand with his thumb, tracing slow, rhythmic circles against my skin.
I take an awkward sip of my champagne with my free hand, knowing I should be trying to help him, but unable to work up the courage to, because I know what he's about to say. Just like I know why I'm sitting at this white-clothed table, in this fancy five-star restaurant, overlooking that stunning strip of Hawaiian beach, in a ruffled red cocktail dress.
He looks up again, into my eyes, with an earnestness that has always been able to melt my heart. I can feel it now, turning to warm liquid in my chest. I squeeze his hand affectionately.
"Ichigo… I love you."
Those words have such a nice ring to them. There has never been a single moment where it seems he's said it too much; each time brings me as much happiness as the last. The smile stretching across my cheeks now is entirely natural. "I love you, too."
"No," he says, with significance, and I realise that this is it. The big moment I've been so nervously anticipating. My pulse kicks up a notch in my chest, thrumming against my ribcage. This is real, this is real, this is real, this is– "I really love you. I don't ever want to be without you. You're the centre of my world."
My mouth is dry. The restaurant blurs into invisibility, until all that exists is the little round table, and him, and me. I'm starting to feel lightheaded; no matter how I dreamed of this moment, I didn't expect it to actually happen – that he would really commit himself eternally to me.
And that I would have to – finally – give the answer that would seal our fate.
Forever.
He struggles to look at me, but for the few brief moments our gazes lock, his eyes are sincere. He licks his lips again, gives my hand a sharp, vice-like squeeze with clammy fingers, and reaches somewhat awkwardly into the pocket of his dinner jacket.
Again his eyes flick tentatively to mine.
"If you say yes to me," he says, nerves breaking his voice slightly, "right now, I promise to love and cherish you for the rest of my days. I… I can't imagine my life without you in it."
I stare giddily at the innocent little black velvet box in his fingers. This is real, this is real, this is REAL.
"Please," he says, looking pale and fervent, "Say you'll marry me."
He pops open the lid, and the diamond-studded gold band glints as it catches the light.
I think of you then, guiltily. I know I shouldn't, but I just can't help it. In my mind, I see your face, ever-present and vivid; haunting me like a ghost. I wonder where you are now. Where your life has led you. Whether you think of me still.
Whether I'm about to make the biggest mistake of my life.
The air is thick with excruciating tension as the heavy silence stretches between us – two seconds, three seconds, four. He's watching me intently, waiting. His lips are white at the edges; he's sucked in a sharp breath and is holding it anxiously. I'm suddenly aware of the hushed conversations around us and realise most of the restaurant has tuned in to watch the show.
With my heart thudding almost painfully in my chest, I open my mouth to speak.