Hiyaa, ChiiRyeeBiee here. OMG did I seriously just DIODE? But yes, yatta, yahoo! Cue in the celebrations because it's Diodeshipping day!
Now that I've done this piece, I'm off to write another one, but it's a drabble this time (besides, I have tomorrow too. Oh the joy of timezones)! And yes, after today, I have a few other fics (SALWY, that Diode multichapter I promised and a Hetalia one, huhaha!) I've been working on, so December's gonna be my pay-off month, yo!
I don't know what happened with this. I had the intentions of writing a drabble, but it turned into a retarded one-shot instead. My prompt: a coma AU. Unfortunately stupid stally me somewhat went away with it and...
This was born. I am so sorry. ;A;
I've done what I could to keep it, err, as realistic as possible, maybe? With the whole research and AU thing anyway. I can't even right now because I have this habit of writing angst stories for ship days. I warn you, AHAHA.
What else, what else? Diodeshipping = Ash x Clemont = shounen-ai. I do not own Pokemon or the many song quotes I've included. There's a really short scene about animal cruelty near the end (sorry) and quite a lot of cursing. Apologies for the somewhat distracting text format (I intended for this since it works with conveying emotions).
I love these two, but I'm still holding on to my Pallet, unyaa! I hope you like it, fellow Diodeshippers (however much this wtf-prose fic can be liked anyway)!
They Used To Be...
Summary: ...happy once... Once. The day they fell in love? He remembers. Clemont has always been so attached to the past and the essence of time that he's begun to forget what really matters in this short life. What of the stranger on the bed, and the people who mean most to him?
Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could save Ash. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could turn the dial, move forward, and save himself too. Diodeshipping day one-shot, angst
When I wake up, the
dream isn't done/ /
I want to see your face and
know I made it HOME—
Days.
Measuring in minutes makes the months feel too long.
Measuring in years makes it feel too short.
Seconds: even longer. Weeks? Not long enough.
...so days, it shall be.
There is no noise, no sunlight, save from the cranking of the dial and green glow of the screen. Whether it's midnight, or early dawn, or in between, he isn't so sure. Six hundred and eighty something now; surely this is the day. He cranks the dial one more time and, placing a flower inside the contraption, he begins his analysis.
Tick.
Tock.
Not much is happening, save for the emission of ultraviolet light. Dangerous, doubtful. Hard footsteps from above rouse him to take his eyes off of the spectacle for one second, inwardly annoyed at who could be disturbing him at this hour.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
What the fuck are you thinking, walking in on me like that? And what is that?
I'm... I'm... I'm s-s-sorry! Today's the day and I was just— I c-couldn't wait till morning. It's been years and I wanted to give you—
...get the fuck out of here now.
Tock.
One second is too long when you are trying to mess with time.
He walks inside the room, just as he's done so for the past who knows how long. Nine am sharp, he checks, looking at both his wristwatch and the analogue clock somewhere on the furthest wall of the room. The sunshine is out today. He draws the curtains back to let the light in: clean, cream, flowy drapes following suit, ends billowing at the action. Crack the window open, bin the flower stalks. His chores aren't fun, but he tries.
"Good morning." He says out loud. The day is wonderful as sunlight illuminates traces of the room that desperately need to escape the darkness. He seems to be losing track of the days as he watches the first few leaves from the nearest deciduous tree fluttering down to ground. Another autumn, huh. He's brought cherry blossoms today, for hope. God knows how much this room needs it right now.
~o~
What day is it? And in what month? This clock never seemed so alive.
~o~
"Clemont, hello!" Susan ambles in, a tray in her hands. He nods back. The smell of egg soup fogs the space around him and he plops the pink flowers into the empty vase. There's a ladybug crawling upwards on perimeter of the window which no one seems to notice — it reaches the top left corner before it spreads out its brittle wings and finally flies away. It's been inside for a while. Susan clears the bedside table and rests the tray atop it before doing her morning chores.
"How's the fam? I hear Bonnie's got into her desired high school. It's been quite some time now, hasn't it?" She starts as she carefully strips the bed and swaps out yesterday's blankets for new ones. Shhhhhh... Little beep-beeps reassure the two that everything's fine as of the moment, so they can carry on chatting without interruption.
.
.
/ /...don't leave me ALONE
.
.
"She's great. I can't even talk to her most of the time — she's always holed up in her room studying." The disorganized bookshelf in the corner adjacent to the clock catches his eye and he shuffles towards it to order the height of the books. Hmm. He's usually the only one here, so it probably slipped his mind to keep this part of the room tidy. Clemont knows he's been trying hard to keep himself occupied most days. "You could say she'd taken after me, huh?"
"Indeed. You know, someday, she'll do great things. Just like her brother." The woman's finished with her duties. A last minute check on the monitors and she nods her farewell. "Eat up, I asked for plenty. Call me when you need me, alright? Oh, and say hi to your sister for me."
"Okay."
Once she's gone, the guy settles on the lime green couch beside the bed — a hand through dishevelled blond strands after a sigh or two. He remembers his glasses need changing when they shy off the bridge of his nose as he bends over to tie one shoe. A glance at the clock again. Maybe he could make an appointment with the optometrist later on in the day, since he's got nothing better to do anyway. Then he could come back and read a book. Clemont likes this idea because he takes out his phone, calls the nearest branch and records it on his reminders app.
Nine am visit, the latest note reads on the screen. The blonde's usually forgetting everything, be it to buy himself new groceries or to feed the cat, so he's reliant on the reminders app. It's funny, because of all the things he can't remember...
Of all the things he always forgets...
...why the essentials and never the past...
...Right? He thinks about this occasionally. Too bad he hasn't a formula for memory retention or the semantic percentage of memories. Hn. Psychology was never Clemont's forte.
I can't keep up. I can't back down...
I've been losing... so much...
Time.
He feasts on hospital food.
Clemont doesn't care about the loud slurping or the condensation on his spectacles. He just eats. Warm rice, beef steak on gravy; he dines like this everyday, so no one has to worry that he's not keeping himself in optimal health. Once he's done, he stacks the plates neatly for Susan and cleans the frames on his face on the rim of his sweater. Okay then.
.
.
Time to talk.
.
.
.
Time to actually do the visiting.
Nobody dares to clear or move Clemont's favourite stool next to the bed. It's nothing special. Red circular cushion. Long legs. There are nail marks on its circumference, barely revealing the beige-coloured foam within. The stranger on the bed is unmoving as he makes himself comfortable on the seat, taking his phone out so he doesn't have to deal with the weight on his right leg.
"I, umm. I checked it out this morning." He mutters slowly. Were his hands always so calloused? He's forming blisters on his right hand, and his left is rough as scorias. "It's... err, still not done, you know. But I'm working on it. Maybe. A little. "
Beep. Beep. Steady. Beep. An idea hits him but he's not sure he'll remember it for later. Neurologic communication. Do you think telepathy is possible? Ridiculous feat, that.
"There's this theory I have, yeah?" Clemont says. "Something along the lines of expansion. Maybe if I just— if I... c-configured the amount of charge I need, then... the limit... could be stretched out further. That combined with molecular de- and recomposition, based on the subjects, at least."
He likes to tell Him of his progress, because it's the only topic he seems to prosper at. The probability that He's also listening is closer to one than none. So much for progress, though. He can't recall when he'd last visited his laboratory to work on something, not to mention after something years later, his life's work's not finished yet. "What do you think?"
.
.
/*Walk with me... to the edge of all
We've
Ever
KNOWN—/*
.
.
Clemont leans forward, blue eyes trained on the hand that's not hooked up to any of the machines encircling the right side of the bed. It's bandaged and he's almost afraid for the day it would have to come off, a visible scar underneath. The blonde takes it carefully into his and slowly unravels through the gaps of His fingers. "Plausible or nah? I'll take your word for it, Ash."
Cause there's you.
...and me.
And all... of the people.
With nothing to do, nothing to lose.
And it's you... and me—
They used to be happy, once.
Once.
...once.
The day they fell in love? He remembers.
Still so young and naïve, the two against the world. Against the past and present and future.
There was this park next to where he used to live. Lively. A small lake in the middle, where the ducks loved to swim in. Freshly cut grass and little hills perfect for summer sledding or rolling down to the bottom. Rock formations; laser cut. They loved to feel its smooth surface everytime they went to pass.
What do you want to do in the future?
A nest at the top of the tree they slept at. Babies, barely minutes old, pointing to new life — an endless cycle. He had a knife back then, and he used it to mark their initials on stubborn wood. Leaves, swaying in the wind.
I'm going to make the future, a better place. He recalls the weight on his shoulder as the boy laid his head to rest. Hands joined together. A dream riding the breeze.
...
What are you going to do?
...
Because what good is the future if you can play god and control the hands of a clock?
—Genius. Exceptional. He'll go far in life. Don't let anything get in the way. You can do it. We believe in you.
Easy. I'll help people. Those who need motivation, those who need a hero to look up to.
.
.
/ /save meSAVE ME SAVEMESAVEME don'tletmefall I need YOU NOW—
/ /...But you're gone.
.
.
Standing up to their feet, they danced, footprints marring the grass below.
No movements.
It isn't like he expected much; after all, how long has Clemont been coming over? Instead, he gets up on his feet and fingers the short strands of black hair from under the bandage on the boy's head.
He smells like antiseptic medicine instead of the cinnamon scent He loves. The sun outside isn't waning anytime soon, so bright is the room until sunset comes again. It's peaking on a day devoid of clouds. The blue-eyed blonde has planned on bailing early, but he sits back down as he remembers something to discuss. "I haven't told you about Bonnie, have I? She's decided to follow her dream. She's just applied in a school with a flourishing floriculture and botany unit so... you called it." He glances at the vase next to the window.
"She really loves them, Ash. I blame myself for being an influence, ha ha. She's growing up so fast, and all I can hope now is that she doesn't become exactly like me." Clemont mentions this apathetically.
Beep, beep. Steady. Beep.
.
.
.
The freshly picked cherry blossoms on the windowsill have more sign of life.
Combing a hand through his hair, he steps away and mindlessly paces to the bookshelf and back. Maybe he should go. Susan checks in on him again on the way to the next room and takes the empty tray with her.
"I'll be taking my leave now then. Be right back." He mumbles, pocketing his phone. Keeping the window open like he does so every sunny day reassures him some what: Clemont prays that the first thing He sees will be brightness all around Him, and not the ultramarine darkness and flashes He last saw.
...tried to open up my eyes, I'm hoping for a chance to make it
—alright/ /
Clemont doesn't return immediately — he makes a stop over at home, check on his sister and all that. It's just the two of them but, they make it work. Rather than living under a technology-dominated roof, their house is cozy and average, its location conveniently-placed next to a small shopping center. The train station was also just five minutes away. It's barely five o'clock when he catches the girl slinking out of her room to make herself an early dinner: arms in front of her like a rabbit ready to hop, one tippy toe before another. The older blonde merely shakes his head.
"Dang it, you caught me." Bonnie tarries towards him and greets him with a hug. "I was hoping you'd get home a little later but, I was cautious just in case."
"And why, pray tell, are you sneaking around again? It's not like—"
"Shh!" She interrupts him, flinching in a defensive position. "You'll wake the calendulas! You know how much they like to sleep in during the day. And if you wake them up, they'll pick fights with the daisies! Don't make me force you to break that up!"
"...Seriously?"
At least his sister keeps his mundane days worth waking up to.
He's messing with the reminders app again when she serves him omelette rice and mushrooms some time later.
"How's... err, h-h-how is he?" There isn't any other way to address the topic but directly. Hard blue eyes are trained on the spoonful of food before he replies.
"No chances yet, like always. I want to drop by and say goodnight, so I really might be home late. You'll be fine here, right?"
Bonnie sips herself some apple juice. "Yeah, yeah, I will. It's just..." she sighs, unable to finish her statement as she grips the glass tight.
.
.
.
"...It's been too long, big brother."
/ /—secondsminuteshoursDAYS weeksmonthsyears I can't REMEMBER ANYMOREcomeback BACK BACKBACK don't leave me here—
...It has. Clemont doesn't know when exactly and he's thankful it's one of the memories his brain has forgotten for him. They finish the rest of their dinner in silence. Clearing the plates away, he tells Bonnie he'll do the dishes so she's free to keep studying, kissing her on the forehead before running off downstairs.
Unlike the rest of the house, the basement is blinding with knick knacks and technological devices around the walls and at the center of the room. It's also a hefty mess. Protective plastic coats everywhere, screws, tools, tables not properly edged to the sides. There's a poster stuck on the dusty blackboard — Clemont's many instructions and drafted formulas, irrelevant numbers serving as a motivation to keep working on this project. Nothing else was important. No one else. After all, not only would the reward of accomplishment be granted to him, or the recognition for being the founder of a spectacle that has been greatly desired in their industrialized world.
If he mastered time, he could do anything.
If he mastered time... this world would be... a better place.
And all of the people and
I... don't know WHY/ /
I can't— keep my eyes off OFYOU
...here. At least... at least take it for me. Please? You can... you can do just that, right?
I have no time for this bullshit. Get out.
/ /Change and take back what I said
Tomorrow then! Promise me you'll take a break. ...Why do you always have to prioritize this over me...
Well, you don't like it? It's kind of WHAT I DO, okay? There is no us or whatever the hell you believe in. You're living in the past.
...and so are you.
/ /rePLAY—
Nonono no NO! Ash, ASH WAKE UP, holy fucking shit! Oh my god, someone, Bonnie, call an ambulance, Ashy... God, no, please don't— ASH...
.
.
.
ASH!
/ /
Dust has gathered around the tops of his prototype devices. He's walking around the room with his fingers tracing the rim of each amateur invention, trying to recall what had gone wrong with them and what he did to overcome the situation. He was a top inventor, and even at such a young age, Clemont was privileged to work with the best of the country. When their parents died, it was the only thing he could think of doing to keep Bonnie and himself in suitable living conditions.
They were great. The blonde was well-educated, and being the genius he was, coming up with creative ideas for newer forms of technology wasn't a problem. His parents always expected a lot from him, and so did society. So much to the point that Clemont could do nothing else but invent, invent, invent. Clemont's ability to feel slowly died down with the workload, and so did his ability to prioritize. If you let that pressure take over your entire life, you'll think of nothing else, and be good at nothing else.
Then you begin to forget and question what really means to you in this short life.
Clemont doesn't know what he's doing anymore. His situation isn't an invention: there is no perfect algorithm to solve all of life's problems. But if only — nearsighted eyes landing on the covered, cubicle-sized, cynlindrical tube in front of him — he could fix this...
(He can't, he can't do it)
(He has to)
(He MUST—)
Time. Time controls life. He's had his project rights revoked from him since the accident, even though he'd been working on it for almost a decade. It isn't until today in four years that Clemont's checked it out again: the device that he was the proudest of. The hardest invention he's ever had to configure. It's what started his situation in the first place: oh the troubles poor Ash had to go through.
He'll never forgive himself if the boy's body loses the battle and gives up.
/ /always wanted one of these, always needed it, never had enough time, couldn't see it in the dark, you knew, didn't you?
When his phone vibrates, Clemont frowns at the words on the screen — DAMN IT. Already he's forgotten to visit the optometrist for that six pm appointment. "Sorry we missed you. Would you like to reschedule?"
.
.
.
Hopeless. He's absolutely hopeless.
Beep, beep, steady, beep. Ash's heart rate is the same as ever, many days later. Not that the passing of days matters anymore. Once the doctor's check up is done and the same results pop up — a three on the consciousness scale, vitals still in their vegetative state — the blue-eyed blonde sits himself back down.
The ladybug is back for some reason and it's resting on one of the petals of the wilting cherry blossom bouquet; clear wings retracting within its protective shell. It's brought a friend, this time around. Clemont notes the presence of the origami flower next to the vase — May and Drew have been here last. A few of Ash's close friends still bring gifts often and keep the ravenette company. Some have just forgotten and lost hope, never to see him again.
On his trusty stool, Clemont is reading a book on Psychology. About selected and divided attention, about the phonological loop and visuospatial sketchpad. About cortisol levels and the chemicals responsible for emotions — something the bespectacled guy was never good at handling. It's been forever since he last found his vibe with science, and Clemont's trying; at least. The many days the black-haired boy has stayed in this facility is less than the days Clemont has spent hating the decisions he made back then. If only he'd given him more time—
—More of his love... Where in this book can he read about love, what is it, where does it come from, why does it exist, who made it happen/ /
Cilan told him when the man had last visited that the only way to go in life is forward. There is so little time for regrets and grudges: only opportunities, second chances: try, try again. If the only thing he can do for the hospitalized boy is to be strong and complete his life's work, then Clemont knows he should at least try. Ash's chest slowly rises and falls, from a short glimpse at him atop the book. Find a working program for molecular decomposition. Synthesize materials that best project radioactive waves and keep the subject unharmed. Expand the continuum limit stretch. He was a genius, he can do this. And when he does—
He'll save him. So the ravenette doesn't have to be here anymore.
One of the nights, Clemont finds himself writing a letter by hand after a whole day's work of failed blueprints and analyzations. Experiment by experiment: Attempt six hundred and ninety three, attempt seven hundred and four, attempt seven hundred and eight. Backup plan after backup plan, no practical dates set yet.
Hope is hard to find in the room of supposed creativity.
"Ash." Crumpled up slowly and tossed to the trash.
"There is something I have to..." Careful crossing out of letters with a pen.
"Please hear me out." Flipped over to start again on the other side.
Clemont hates being a genius of a failure.
"Ash,
I don't know how long it's been, but it has been a while. Bonnie came with me to come see you today. She says your hair has gotten long again and she'd be glad to trim it for you like last time, if you want. The fact that it is growing means that there's still a chance, right?
Of course there is still a chance.
I also met up with your friend Dawn today. She seems to be doing fine on her own as we exchanged stories. Unfortunately I had none to tell her.
I am slowly getting tired of waiting. I have applied for a teaching position at the closest university, so maybe something will come out of that. Then there's my project progress like I mentioned. I can't care less that I'm not allowed to work on it. The money from my last profit will not last us forever and I have to be able to do something for Bonnie and myself. The rewards of the achievement itself doesn't matter to me anymore. I just want to finish it for you.
The autumn-philic flowers my sister grows are getting lovelier as the cold days go on. Maybe you will see them before spring. Maybe you will see them next year's season.
I hope you are well.
Clemont"
.
.
.
Tick, tock, tick.
He sighs as he pushes his chair back. The present that sits on the blonde's wrist ticks loudly and he takes it out, inspecting its details. It was a glow in the dark wristwatch. Nothing special about it technologically; it was the same as any old digital prototype. But the fact that it came from Ash, from his heart and soul, and on that supposedly special day too...
One circumstance after the other led to the unfortunate chain of events. It had reacted with his machine — something about tripping, something about an argument, radioactivity and a blinding light... Ash hit his head hard on the ground and Clemont didn't know what to do.
Bonnie was left to look after him as he recovered from the initial shock of his doings—
"I'm sorry, sir. The patient has fallen into a comatose state after trauma to the brain around the right parietal lobe. It's unsure how long he'll be unconscious, but chances of a completely normal recovery are slim as the damage dealt could affect his spatial awareness and sensory ability. If he does wake up, he'll—"
"DON'T YOU DARE FINISH THAT SENTENCE, AND DON'T YOU GODDAMN IF ME, YOU'RE THE DOCTOR, YOU'RE GOING TO FIX THIS—"
"Big brother—"
"Apologies sir, you know we can't—"
"CAN! YOU FUCKING CAN! YOU FUCKING CAN CAN CAN CAN! IF I CAN do what I do for a living, you can do your JOB PROPERLY, YOU FUCKING ASSHOL—"
"Security!"
"Clemont, no, CLEMONT, PLEASE calm down!"
"HANDS OFF OF MY SISTER you, don't you DARE TOUCH ME—"
Tock. Tick. Tock.
/* if only it were me instead of him
It should have been me instead of him in the DARK */
Clemont is twisting something into place.
He's more dedicated to completing his project as of then, taking full initiative as he's surrounded by several plans and equipment safe enough to bring inside hospitals. The staff know about his reputation, so they don't question the cart he wheels into Room 506 at the sixth floor lest they want to be given hell. Susan even sidesteps one of the rolled-up prints and hands him yet another hot dish for lunch. If it were Clemont's choice, Ash would be recuperating back at his home. Unfortunately, he has no skills in the medical area either.
"How many attempts now?" She comments gladly as she jots down the figures on the monitor. He's told her and only a few others who care enough about his machine. She wholeheartedly believes in him despite his withstanding lack of success, and the blue-eyed blonde is glad for that. She won't understand the concepts anyway.
Nobody else can do this but him.
"Over seven hundred plans and nothing. Next week I'm thinking of initiating the practical assets. I hope one of them works. Not to mention, modifying the internal program itself so it responds to these external features." Clemont says as he screws the front pad of a tiny yet important piece of the puzzle: a separate remote with the same functions as his original dial. That way it can be controlled from afar. There is also the inner motherboard modification for the tube itself, but he couldn't bring that in. Beep. Beep. Steady. Beep.
Susan nods. "Sounds great! You'll do fine, Clemont."
Sometime later, there's a knock on the side of the door and they both look up. The bespectacled inventor's face turns sour at the new arrival, even though he tries not to show it.
"Hello there, uhh, Susan, right? And hello Ash." It's Misty, one of Ash's supposed best friends. She never did approve of Ash falling in love with a stuckup science douche like him, and it's evident by the way she completely ignores his presence that she still hates him with every fiber of her being. Misty's brought chocolates for who, exactly? and boredly sits herself at the couch while she converses with the nurse.
"Hello Misty. How is Tracey doing?"
"Oh, he's doing amazingly. He's overseas right now for an art reconnaisance trip. Says he'll bring me presents when he returns." Clemont doesn't catch the scrutinizing turquoise gaze as he inspects the finished, yet prototype model of the remote. His devices cannot be just good enough. He needs them to be perfectly functional if he wants to—
"That's nice." Susan beams, finalizing her cleaning duties. The orange-haired girl doesn't approach Ash at all but instead asks her of his condition, fake "oh"s and shows of concern not enough to outweigh her sin of deserting him.
Clemont works quietly on his stool and throws the next blueprint for him to look at over the body on the bed — doing so causes the rest of it to roll down to the opposite side. All his plans are detailed and must leave no room for error. He looks at Ash's sleeping face just to check: eyes still closed, unmoving. Holding the ravenette's bandaged hand in his own reminds him that heck, even in his slumber, Ash is still warm like he always was.
"What are you doing?" The female screech from his left makes him twitch an eye, and Misty stands and walks towards the bed, picking up the blueprint hastily and looking over it like she's interested.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" He drones. The blonde doesn't have the time or patience to deal with her nonsense.
"You think you can just drape your crummy shit papers over Ash? What is he to you? A corpse? Have some respect, won't you? What the fuck are you even doing here anyway, you heartless bastard? You're working on your stupid crap even here?" She shakes the blueprint roll in one hand, clearly offended. Poor Susan behind her tries to say something to calm her down — conflict, even around unconscious coma patients, can cause severe problems to their health.
Misty continues to rant, and Clemont takes all her accusations head on. "You shithead, you have no idea, don't you? Four years ago was your fault, asshole. If it weren't for you, he wouldn't be here. How does that make you feel? You're a robot, just like all your stupid machines. He loved you so much and all you cared about was your useless metal shit materials! His gift to you on that anniversary day? Something so expensive yet precious that he'd saved it up and limited himself to one meal a day to get it for you when you could easily just buy it for yourself, but no, he wanted it to be from him and his own hardwork. To make you happy. To get you to appreciate him, to love him back! And how did you repay him? Sending him to this goddamn hellhole of a place! Get the fuck out, Clemont."
"I have every right to be here." He spits, icy blue eyes challenging her. And where were you when he needed you? He wants to retort. Where were you, his best friend, as he spent days here? I have been here longer than you have, constantly watching over him and waiting. It's true that Clemont isn't the most affectionate of people, and that it was his fault but—
"Please Misty. I'd like you to leave." Susan finds her words. "Causing conflict in the hospital is a boundary rule of visitation rights. You just broke it."
The orange-haired girl grits her teeth, and with a last glance at Clemont, huffs as she throws the roll on the ground and stomps on it on her way out. "When he dies, it's on your head. I hope you live with that for the rest of your worthless life."
The boy just goes back to his project and completely ignores the situation. "Thank you Susan. I'm okay. I don't need tea. He and I will be fine now." He mutters before the nurse could even comfort him. Misty was harsh, and she was right, but those words have no effect on his heart.
"O-Okay then. I'm v-very sorry, Clemont. I should have stopped her before she said those—"
"It's fine." Beep, beep, beep, beep. All he really needs to focus on is what's in front of him, and none of this will matter anymore, not when he can manipulate time.
Sing for me.
On the plain ceiling of his bedroom can Clemont see the illustrated scenes of his youth: when they used to be happy, when everything went wrong. When he used to be able to feel. When he used to be able to love. Every night, even when he closes his nearsighted eyes. He can see the little things, the significant details he missed when they existed.
"What should I sing, Ash? You know I'm not good at it."
"Don't care. I love hearing your voice." Hands entwined together.
"Sing whatever comes to your mind. Like, even if it's freestyle like, err, I dunno. "The chemical formula for sugar is C6H12O6, ohhh woooh, sugar!" Yeah."
"What the actual fuck?"
"Seriously, try it."
"Uuuh... Well then, "Ash Ketchum is an idiot, wooooh, Ash!" Like that?"
"Heeeey!"
The black-haired boy, so lost, so clueless. Why couldn't He see how important this was to him? All he wanted was to prove that one's past and future can be present, and now—
/ /living in the past
/ /where is your future
/ /cannot. don't know the
Time—
.
.
What is important to him anymore?
Clemont is trapped in a tube of taunts, just as the boy he once loved is surrounded by confining white-washed walls. Where is the off switch of this nightmare he's living in? Don't bring Ash into his crimes: the ravenette doesn't deserve to live this isolation. Only way out is forward, forward; turn the dial forward, FORWARD—
"Won't you always sing for me? Sing me to sleep, Clem. I'll listen to every single word..."
This is no one's fault but his, and no one can fix this but him. He doesn't have forever—
...
If there's a lock, then I'm your key. Use me to
Open the door/
...
He was the lost one, the blonde realized when hazel eyes looked at him last as He fell to the ground. He was the clueless one when he found just how much he meant to Him.
Clemont turns to the side and welcomes the darkness behind closed lids. Tomorrow is a non-stop working day. Bonnie will be taking her examination, and he will go through his own tests under pressure: the machine has to work. Has to.
But what's he going to do differently on the off-chance that it does?
~o~
"Sing for me."
~o~
You won't be alone anymore, wrapped in the melody of my love.
"Commencing New Modifications: Analysis Number — searching... Analysis Number Input found. Analysis Number Seven-One-One. External Dial, Configured. Internal Motherboard, Configured. Airtight Tube Pressure Normal. Control Sensitivity Normal. Molecular De- and Recomposition Rays Set. Welcome to the Clematic Time Master. Velocity Needed for Warphole Launch — calculating..."
It's switched on.
Clemont has heard the same repetitive artificial intelligence speech before, the difference being that extra molecular science talk he'd added in. His current vision: time travel depends on a subject's body changing form throughout the journey, hence the rearrangement of molecules and atoms. This allows for a more fluid transportation mode to save the amount of power needed, ethically anyway. However, there is big risk that the subject may end up permanently demolecularized, and if he wants to utilize the machine itself, there should be no room for error. It's farfetched, and Clemont's done several tests on non-living things before moving on to plants, but he's still unable to perfect it. The objects end up disappearing, turned into dust, or rearranged wrongly.
If his theory on warpholes and time-space continuum is correct, then the right amount of radioactivity can be used to power the machine and transport any animate or inanimate object to a separate dimension. What he really wants is to pass the molecularization phase. Once that's done, recalibrating the time he can transport something to won't be a problem.
Maybe it will work this time, because Clemont has someone to desperately save.
Switching his digital wristwatch to the timer setting, the blonde breathes out loudly as he adjusts his safety glasses and lab coat. The machine isn't entirely portable, but it's smaller than a room. Appearance wise, it consists of a vertical circular tube made of the highest caliber radiation-repellent durable material, almost like a stronger type of see-through coloured acrylic. Attached externally is a green-screened control board with a dial that triggers the charge setting, and on the inside is a number pad and data screen to set the time desired. Atop the tube is what's in charge of the molecularization, and it causes an almost visible thin sheet of UV light to scan the whole area.
"Velocity calculated. Scanning Subject... Subject found. One flowerpot and timer. Switch on power now."
He'd set the time to a day into the past, so if the process succeeds, he'll be seeing at least twenty four hours on the timer attached to guarantee the flowers have disappeared and travelled the theoretical time-space continuum. Years of working on a precise molecularization theory and initiating it...
He could always try again if this fails, but really, he hopes it doesn't. He'd spent the entire week tinkering with the little details. Spending more time on it will surely crush his shrewd optimism.
"Power on." Clemont tells himself as he turns the dial and takes several steps back. Now he waits. And watches. Only one thing in his mind as he glances at his wristwatch again. There's a door with similar material as the one on the machine he could hide behind if the spectacle gets too dangerous. As he mentally takes notes about the analysis, the machine is vibrating and making so many beeping noises. Beep beep beep beeep...
A gust of wind that's never happened before reverbrates towards the door and Clemont shuts his eyes momentarily. It wasn't an explosion, but it was strong enough to send the closest papers and tools flying around.
When he deems it safe enough and everything has stopped, the blonde tiptoes to the tube, a hand shielding his face. Then the voice begins to speak. "Analysis Seven-One-One completed. Scanning Subject... Subject found. One intact timer."
The sinking feeling doesn't hit Clemont immediately, since he's so used to it already. "Thanks Clematic. Power off." A slightly unhealthy amount of fumes greets him when he opens the tube door and he waves it away with a hand as he picks up the object inside. Bad fumes. Yet another factor of failure. Sinking to the ground with his back to the machine, the blue-eyed inventor curses loudly and chucks it somewhere across the room.
Damn it.
What is he doing wrong? What is he doing wrong? What is he doing wrong?
"Not good?"
"Nah. It'll settle itself somehow. I just need to work on a few more details."
"Take a break! I know this curry place that just opened in town."
On the timer still counting forward across the room, reads 24.10.53. Wherever the flowers went is a mystery, but it doesn't matter now, does it? It won't come back, and it never will.
Just when he thinks things couldn't get any worse.
Halfway through picking up Bonnie, his cell rings about urgent news. Ash's brain functions according to the latest MRIs are nulled. The heartrate monitor is showing very irregular readings, and he along with his friends are needed at the hospital to discuss the... plans.
It was like four years ago when he'd stomped into the hospital, enraged at the staff's incapabilities.
"You can't do this. I've been paying for medical bills since he was admitted, and now you're telling me THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO? DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME THAT I'VE WAITED ALL THIS TIME FOR ANOTHER FAILURE—"
"It isn't a failure, Mr Chandler. It simply is—"
He seethes. "Shut up." If there is one feeling Clemont cannot suppress, it's anger. Cilan and Iris are clutching each other's hands tightly, both silent. Even May and Drew have nothing to say. Ash has no family left, but time and time again he'd stay with Clemont and Bonnie, so the decision of switching off life support lies on their hands. Barry takes Dawn outside as she couldn't stop crying. All of them. They'd hoped for a miracle, and kept praying...
Susan, the ever so loyal nurse of Ash's, is standing beside the doctor. She makes her way to Clemont and gets him to calm down as he shakes on the spot with built-up rage. "Please..."
Bonnie runs towards Iris for comfort at the sight of Clemont getting on his knees. "Please, I'll do anything. I'll keep up the bills, I'll work another job, you can't, please, all of us... we haven't given up, we're not ready—"
The doctor, having dealt with such tragedies for almost half his life, knows exactly how desperate they are feeling. It's always hard for them to break it to the casualty's families, and the severity of his guilt never changes no matter how many more times he has to go through it.
"Say there is a chance, say you can save him, I don't care if he's disabled for the rest of his life, we just want him back—"
/ /come home. Please come home.
/ /if only I could turn back time~
The professional kneels down and lays a hand on the bespectacled blonde's shoulder. "We'll do what we can, but I advise you to be prepared for whatever happens."
He may as well have said I'm sorry in the first place, since it's kinder than the echoes of the irregular beeping monitor.
Beep.
.
.
.
Beep.
That evening, he'd immediately stopped over at the pet store to find himself a white-furred mouse or two. The shop owner looked at him funny because he hadn't bought anything else, not food or a mouse cage or even the few toys they liked to play with.
"You are a first time pet owner, aren't you?" She asked him again as she scanned his card and handed it back.
"I am. I'll take good care of them, don't worry." Clemont mentioned as he held them both up and looked into playful crimson orbs.
Three shades lighter and they'd be almost like Ash's hazel ones. The blonde's already spent the day regretting his whole life, so when he sees the splash of blood along the side of the tube, the inventor doesn't even flinch. He simply places the other pet next to its brother and readies the Clematic Time Master for Analysis Seven-One-Three.
Beep.
.
.
.
Beep.
.
.
.
Beep.
Clemont's hardened heart mellows when he comes by the hospital for... what may be the last—
He and Bonnie had discussed it. Would Ash have wanted him to torture himself? It's like ever since the accident, Clemont's world has been focused on beforeAsh and afterAsh, forgetting the essentials, abandoning all else, nothing to keep on going for. He deluded himself about being able to right his mistakes, about controlling time, and it got even worse when the ravenette fell into slumber, there was no one he could save: not his parents, not his love, not—
...even himself.
The only way is forward, forward. There are just things he cannot do, but he won't give up, no, not yet—
His sister made sure to give him her best bunch of flowers for today. The black-haired boy would have loved them — the truest, bluest forget-me-nots, all arranged in violet ribbons and gentle bouquet paper. Clemont's stool's been moved some centimeters to the left, but he doesn't care as he sits on it and takes the boy's limp hand. He wouldn't have made it anyway. Miracles don't come just by wishing, so he'd tried the other way and attempted to defy time. Damn him, huh?
Life is so unfair.
Not once in four years had Clemont even tried to just see what's in front of him — he was way too distracted. Ash's beautiful long eyelashes, the adorable marks on his cheeks. Pouty pink lips he'd fallen for once upon a time, his button nose and his soft black hair. He was always this tanned, but it made him glow, now that he thinks about it. God, why did Clemont give him up? Why, why, how couldn't he—
Two shaking hands grasp a slowly cooling one and the blonde draws it close to his face and kisses around the bandages. His glasses almost slide off when he does so. "I'm so sorry, Ash." There isn't anything left he could say to counter his love's cruel fate. It'll be difficult to finally move on, but he still had Bonnie. It won't, it's not like—
/ /he'll be gone forever.
Susan sees him from the door, but she doesn't come inside. Instead, she listens at the door as the blonde starts to sing and tries not to cry for them both. If this is the only thing Clemont could do for him, then he'll be glad to do it. Even if Ash doesn't listen to every word like he promised...
"I often close my eyes, and I could see you smile... you reach out for my hand, and I'm woken from a dream... Although your heart is mine, it's hollow inside, I never had your love, and I never will..."
"I've never felt this way, to be so in love... To have someone there yet feel so alone,
Aren't you supposed to be the one to wipe my tears? The one to say that you would never leave..."
He doesn't know what he's saying, nor does he know where this melody is coming from. Clemont isn't good at music. All he's keeping in mind is how regretful he is, and almost like a programming formula, these feelings and meaningful words come to him as he holds the hand of the one he refuses to let go of.
"And every night, I lie awake, thinking maybe you love me, like I've always loved you...
But how can you love me like I loved you when you can't even look me straight in my eyes...?
The waters calm and still, my reflection is there. I see you holding me, but then you disappear. All that is left of you is a memory... One that only, exists in my dreams."
He always loved kisses, Ash. Clemont plants three more on the bandaged hand before lying close to him and kissing around Ash's hair. For the first time in a long time, he feels tears springing from his eyes, and they're probably there because he's not ready to say goodbye. The blonde hardly shows his feelings to anyone. God, he misses him so much, so much, so much.
"And every night, I lie awake, thinking maybe you love me, like I've always loved you...
But how can you love me like I loved you when you can't even look me straight in my eyes...?
I don't know what hurts you, but I can feel it too. And it just hurts so much... to know that I can't do a thing... And deep down in my heart, somehow I just know, that no matter what...I'll always love you.
So why am I still here in the rain..."
Waiting for nothing, like a heavy rain that'll never subside. The sudden onslaught of his breakdown as his grief floods his senses and he cries; Clemont cries, and Susan still hiding behind the door emerges to help him recover. He will have to live with this pain, to live with this loss, all over again, and he could, because Ash would have wanted him to stop clinging to the past like he always had. It hurts, hurts so much...
Time is a sadistic master of life.
When the beeps change in pace — the crying blue-eyed blonde gradually looks up from his hunched position on the floor. Ash.
He's—
Clemont reaches for his love's hand one last time and feels the ravenette squeeze back before it goes limp.
wish we could start all over./ /
end
Chii's They Used To Be... Afterthoughts (for those who care)
1. / / and /* */ = Clemont thinks in programming code. He's that detached from reality. Nerdy baby, why?
2. I really tried to make his character as apathetic as possible, whilst adding that inner torment of white walls and flashback memories. I REVEL IN CRASHING DAMS OF FEELS. How'd I do? :O
3. Repetition! Time, Time, Time, Time. All the song excerpts (Painting Flowers, You and Me, Kiss the Rain, Like We Used To) relate to the prompt about singing to the coma patient, plus it reflects le feels.
4. I've made the time travel concept as ridiculous as possible, ahahaha. I was half thinking the Vanishing Closet in HP and also Project Almanac, with the timer thing. To go with the prompt, I never wanted him to fully succeed, but said machine works. If he'd tinkered a bit more with molecularization and configured the dates he wanted to go to, he could go and save his parents and Ash and right his past mistakes, but... he never got to that. Time travel is a complicated concept, ufu. Poor desperate impatient baby.
5. Le ambiguous ending! It's up to you to decide what happened. Is it "over", or will they start all over? Hmm...
.
.
I am so sorry.