Howdy guys! So sometimes I write little one shots after being inspired by something random. I'll just post them all here in this collection for you to read and such because I hate leaving you for months on end, ahaha. :)
Inspiration: I Won't Give Up - Jason Mraz
Pairing: Roxas + Naminé
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts!
When she was four, he'd moved in next door. The head of blonde hair would roll past her house everyday on a miniature skateboard. She'd watch him from the window, wanting but scared, eager but nervous.
He was only five when he'd thrown the ball into her yard by accident. It'd nearly smashed a window, but it didn't matter. She'd smiled and handed it back to him before returning to sit alone, drawing under a tree.
The next day he'd found her in the same place, and again in the very same place on the next. And, mysteriously, his toys would somehow end up in her garden. And, without a care, she'd return them with that same smile.
She was six when she was finally asked to play. It had made her heart soar. He'd taken her hand innocently and dragged her through his house, shouting directions and names and things with excitement. They'd played hide and seek for hours, never bored and always giggling.
He was only seven when she'd tripped on one of their 'adventures'. Her blue eyes had welled up with tears and, for the first time, he'd seen her cry. Worried and distraught, he'd barely been able to carry her home, but did it anyway. He wasn't going to leave her alone.
When she was eight, they'd attended school together. They were inseparable at home, laughing and mucking around. They jumped in puddles when it rained and ate ice cream on the curb during summer. Her large straw hat would flop over her face and he'd get ice cream all over his, but they were happy. That summer they built the tree house in his backyard and they'd spend entire days in there.
At nine, he was lonely. She'd gotten the chicken pox and he hadn't been allowed to see her. So at school he made friends with the boys, would muck around with them and get muddy. But when he'd get home, he'd slip a flower through the post in her door. She'd always find a pile of petals because the stem never fit.
She was ten when they were sorted into different classes. It didn't make a difference. He'd muck around with his friends and she would sit hers on the playground, watching him laugh and smile. In her heart she was part of the game, running alongside him. But real life wasn't as kind, nor was the existence of cooties. It was okay though. They could play soccer and make forts at home.
He was eleven when she moved away. They'd spent the day together, like usual, and he hadn't known. He couldn't believe that he hadn't known. That afternoon, he was made to stand on the curb with his mother and watch her family pack the boxes into the truck. He didn't cry; he was too much of a man to cry. Then she'd gone running. She'd disappeared before they could leave. He'd gone running after her. He found her crying in the tree house, the one place filled with their happy memories and their drawings. She'd looked at him once, her eyes filled with those tears he hated, before his sadness broke through. They sat crying there together for what felt like ages. Their parents eventually found them together, asleep, with his arms around her. They never got a proper goodbye.
For the next four years, she was lonely. Across the other side of the country, they never saw each other. She made new friends and met new people. Soon her memories of their time together began to blotch. Specific details faded. But she remembered him. Sometimes he'd pass into her mind. When he did, she'd look over her photos of them together and feel sad.
He had his photos too. He kept them in a small box under his bed, right below where his pillow was. Soon they were lost amongst the mess of his life, books and sports equipment and clothes. Occasionally she would flit through his mind. One of his female friends was blonde, like her. Her eyes didn't match the deep blue, but he felt the need to have someone like her with him.
When she was seventeen, she moved back to the suburb where she'd grown up. She attended the high school that they'd laughed about and sometimes wondered whether he remembered her. Sometimes she thought she saw him and, on those days, she'd look through the photos again. The one of him and his cheesy grin, where she was smiling beside him, face scrunched up. She'd stopped by their old houses, but they weren't there anymore. Part of it made her heart hurt.
In his last year of high school, when he was eighteen, he could've sworn that he'd seen her. That was crazy, though – she was on the other side of the country. And then, it was as if he had gone crazy, as she walked into his chemistry class with a note for the teacher. She was there for approximately eleven seconds before leaving without a word. Her blue eyes and blonde hair hadn't changed, but she was prettier than he'd remembered. That lunchtime he'd looked for her, ducking in classrooms and circling the grounds several times. In the afternoon he'd returned to their old houses, just in case. And, during the night, he didn't sleep. It was 3am when he'd roamed the house, looking for the address book. It had taken him ten minutes to find the list of surnames that matched hers. The following day it had taken him two hours to ring each and every number with no avail. But he was certain she was back. He didn't give up.
She was nineteen, in college, and working on an art project when her mobile phone had rung. She'd answered it like usual before nearly dropping it into her paint set. That very night they'd spoken until all hours of the morning, her project still lying, dry and unfinished, where she'd left it. Once again they were across the country from each other but it didn't matter. Each night they spoke. They sent each other messages whenever they had time.
At twenty he found himself working at a coffee shop, still paying his own way through college. He met people, watched them come and go. He saw women of all shapes, sizes and colours. Many were very beautiful, but he couldn't bring himself to start anything. Not when he spent the hours that he wasn't talking to her, thinking about her.
A long distance relationship could work, she thought, aged twenty one. It had been done in films and books. Instead of letters they sent emails and texts and voice messages. And, everyday, she found herself happier and happier. Then another stumbled into her life. He didn't compare, couldn't compare – they were different, both unique, both lovely. The dates came quickly and, soon, a relationship.
Twenty two, twenty three and twenty four became increasingly lonelier for him. They spoke less, too busy with their lives. He'd found a girlfriend, a pretty brunette. He would fill the call-less nights, snuggling with her instead. He didn't know which one he preferred. Whenever he was lonely or sad, however, he'd write a letter to her and not his girlfriend. He didn't know what had possessed him to do it, but it didn't matter. He stored them, unsent, in the box below his bed that was still full of the pictures from their childhood. They'd broken up shortly after and he hadn't dated again.
When she was twenty five, she was proposed to. They'd been together nearly five years and he'd thought it was time. She had too. She wrote out her invitations over a span of four months, everyone within the first few weeks, with his months later than the rest. She hadn't forgotten, however. It had pained her to write it. She missed him. She felt for him. They hadn't seen each other for years. It had taken her even longer to send the invite. Instead, she sent him a plane ticket.
On his twenty sixth birthday, a letter came to him in the mail - A plane ticket to her and a letter which promised a long talk and an explanation. He'd jumped at the chance. His heart had soared. He'd packed the collection of letters that he'd written her, securing it safely in his suitcase instead of his hand luggage, so he wouldn't have any second thoughts halfway through the flight.
She met him at the airport, four weeks after sending the letter and only two days after her twenty sixth birthday. It wasn't awkward. She spotted him from a mile away and they embraced for a few seconds only because she had to pull away, feeling guilty about her engagement. Her heart played up but she ignored it as she drove him back to her apartment. She didn't know how to break the news to him, so they hung out like old friends. She took him on tours of the city and they spent hours together during the day. During the night, her fiancée would question her, protective. She'd reassure him that everything was fine. It was raining the night that he found out. Her fiancée had told him the news after a rather complicated, tense situation. Hurt, he'd left her apartment with his suitcases in hand and didn't stop when she'd called after him. This time, she went running after him. It was a messy argument and she returned home, drenched with rain and misery.
He was twenty seven and running a small coffee shop. He was never as happy as he used to be.
At twenty eight, after nearly two years of marriage, she found a pile of letters crammed in the drawer of the desk in the guest room. After three hours, her husband found her, a teary mess with the letters clutched in her hands. When she was asleep, he'd thrown them away without her knowing.
A week before he turned twenty nine, she walked right up to the counter of the coffee shop and straight back into his life. He'd forgiven her years ago. He'd realised it. He was in love with her.
When she was thirty, she had been living in her hometown again for nearly a year with her husband. He'd been promoted and was never home. It was an unhappy marriage. It wasn't like in the movies and books that she'd read when she was younger. It wasn't like anything she'd wished for, dreamed of. Everything had crumbled since the letter incident. It was dangerous territory to even bring up. She hated it.
Thirty one and living in an apartment by himself, he'd been shocked to open the door to her, tears running down her face. They were friends at best. Her husband had cheated on her. She felt used and miserable. He'd let her take his bed in his apartment and he took the couch. He brought her breakfast in bed and sat and listened, feeling hopeless. The night she turned up on his doorstep, he'd written another letter to her. It was pages long and he'd left it in his pantry under the gingersnap biscuits. She'd never look there – he knew she hated ginger snaps.
By the time she was thirty two, she'd found her own apartment several blocks away from him. He'd offered to let her stay, but she neglected, not wanting to impose. They saw each other frequently. She'd gotten a job as an art teacher and spent her time doing what she loved. She spent her birthday alone that year until he'd shown up on her doorstep, a present in his hands. They'd watched kid's movies together, reliving their childhood, as she wore her new scarf. When he left that night, she suddenly felt lonely. She missed him. It took her a while and she didn't sleep that night but eventually she realised it. She was in love with him.
When they were thirty three, she was over his so often that if felt as though she lived there. He asked her to move in with him again. She neglected it, once more, but he gave her the key anyway. If she ever needed a place to stay, his apartment would always be open to her.
She was thirty four and bringing over groceries for him when she found it. A letter, tucked under a box of biscuits – gingersnaps, she hated them. Halfway through putting the food away, she stopped and opened the letter addressed to her. She couldn't believe it.
Thirty five and still the owner of his café, he received the shock of his life when she walked straight in and pushed her way to the front of the counter, ignoring the criticism and complaints. She'd grabbed him by the front of the shirt as she very nearly climbed onto the counter, and kissed him. He couldn't believe it.
By thirty six, they were married. It was small yet elegant. She didn't care how many people came, as long as he was there. He wouldn't have cared if she had been wearing a sack, she had always been beautiful.
Thirty seven, thirty eight and thirty nine passed without a worry. They lived together happily, a small house in the suburbs. He still owned the café and she was still and art teacher. It was as though nothing had changed. They couldn't have been happier.
Even when they were forty, he would leave her letters on the counter that she'd take the time to read each day.
Forty one and teaching, she was asked by a young girl about her husband. In reply, she pulled out her purse and pointed to the picture of the two of them as children, him with his cheesy grin and her with her scrunched face. The girl had smiled and so had she. One of the boys made a comment about cooties. It reminded her of when she was younger.
On her forty second birthday, he shoved a flower under the bathroom door before leaving for work. When she'd opened it, a bouquet sat before her. He had obviously improved on his charm.
The mural in his coffee shop was painted by her when she was forty three. He would look at it and smile every time.
He'd come home smelling like coffee even when he was forty four. It was her favourite smell.
And when she was forty five and covered in paint, he'd smile and hug her, telling her how beautiful she was.
When they were both fifty, she'd wake up every morning, earlier than normal, and leave him breakfast on the counter before leaving for work. And when he'd come home from his work every day to see her asleep on the couch after waiting for him, he'd carry her to bed despite his sore back and tuck her in.
Throughout her fifties, she was always beautiful. She was one beautiful thing that he loved most. Even as her hair began to turn grey and her skin began to crease, she was beautiful.
In his sixties he retired and sold the coffee shop. With his spare time, he'd spend it writing. She would read everything he wrote and love it. He was her favourite book, reading his emotions and his movements and loving every moment of it.
When they were seventy and she was retired, they walked hand in hand down the sidewalk whenever they could. Despite everything that may have changed on the outside, his hand still felt the same to her. And she was still beautiful to him.
He was seventy nine when he fell on some stairs. Being fragile, he broke several bones and became bedridden for months. She cooked and fed him every day. She wouldn't leave him alone for more than an hour.
She was eighty when he managed to find some time alone. As she slept, he would read and write. Most of the time, she plagued his thoughts. Despite being weak and tired, he pulled himself out of bed. It took what felt a lifetime to make it to the pantry with a letter in his hand. She found him an hour later, sitting on the floor with his back to the cupboards, unable to get up. Tears in her eyes, she phoned for help and sat beside him, clinging to his empty hands.
At eighty one, he passed away. She was distraught. The nights were lonelier and she slept on the couch for months, the bed was too cold and empty. Every morning she made another breakfast only to find it untouched on the counter when the day came to an end. Regularly she folded and refolded his clothes. She would leave the television on his favourite station, just to listen to it. And every night before bed, she would run a tender hand along the frame of their pictures, always stopping on a pair of them. One, the one from their childhood, with his cheesy grin and her scrunched up face, the other of their wedding day. It made her heart hurt and her eyes sting.
When she was eighty two, she was still as lonely as ever. Sure, she could smile again for her friends but nothing was the same inside. The day she found a box of ginger snaps in the cupboard, she spent hours crying. Not because they were his favourite but because of the letter she found attached to the box. He'd written it only months before he'd left.
It told her that he loved her. He always had loved her. And, no matter what happened, he always would.
She knew, also, that she would always love him, more than anything.
Ahaha, one shots are difficult-ish.
I hope you liked it and such!
Oh and to anyone reading these, Little Lights is on its way, I promise! Radiant Blues, I guess its coming along, ahaha.
Stay sexy!