(copied from my AO3 account of the same name!)
A flash of starlight sparkling in wide brown eyes.
"...get this here over on t—"
Warm hands in the autumn chill, brushing fingers against fingers.
"...and another stop to Luluko—"
Lips parted in wonder—hers for the stars, his for the stars in her eyes.
"You got all that, Wayne?"
He flashed a smile Ethan's way. "One letter to Lisette, a stop in Tsuyukusa to drop this off at the teahouse, and pickup at the inn in Lulukoko to bring back here."
"Damn good memory, Wayne," Ethan said, crossing his arms in satisfaction. "Get on out there."
He left, springtime's morning air thick with mist, the smell of dust washed clean with dew settling on his tongue.
Lisette rubbed the corner of her eye with a thin finger when she came to answer the door, sleep hanging heavy on her even as she tried to give him a welcoming smile.
The opposite of—
"Howdy, Lisette."
"Howdy, Wayne," she said, yawning his name. "Oh, my. Pardon me, Wayne; seems I'm not quite as ready to start the day as you are."
He winked at her, reached into his bag. "Letter for ya."
"Oh, wonderful." She took it from him and inspected the sending address. She took a long time. He tipped his hat and turned away from the doorframe. "Wayne."
A familiar tone, one he didn't like when it came from another voice. "What can I do you for, Lisette?"
"Can you turn around for me, please? I want to see your face."
He turned on his heel, damp dust ground into the leather of his boots. "Beg your pardon. It was impolite of me to—"
"It's been seasons on seasons."
His tongue was too big for his mouth. He couldn't speak, only smile around it.
"Don't you smile at me," Lisette said, her green eyes sparkling in the dusty dew like stars but not quite. She pursed her mouth as she considered him. "Any other girl can fall for that look, but not me."
"Not just any other girl," he laughed without thinking better of it. As soon as the words escaped, he bit down on the tongue that hadn't stayed silent for long enough.
"No," she agreed. "But you can fool her, too. You're not fooling me. It's been far too long for you to be acting this lonesome."
"It ain't acting—" he started to protest, but she shook her head and cut him off.
"You're right. It ain't actin'."
"You worry that much, your hair'll turn grey," he admonished her. "I'd best be off, Lisette. Got other people to attend to, waitin' on their mail just as much as you." He brushed the brim of his hat and slipped away, out of her doorframe, out of her sight, out of her half-started offers of a coffee to go.
He saw her stop by the post office as he was on the bridge to Tsuyukusa, and for a moment, his heart crashed against his ribs so powerfully he was certain it detached from its strings. But as he stood frozen on the bridge, watching, she entered, and she left, stuffing two packages into her bag. Delivery work, part-time.
She was headed this way.
He moved fast, his boots stomping on the wood with quick paces, deeper on the road to the village. His chest felt warm even in this cool spring air, like the warmth accompanying a bruise, or worse. With each step, the throbbing eased. By the time he reached the teahouse and handed over the pile of letters and bills to Ginjiro, he could almost forget that she hadn't even looked around for him.
He didn't mind, he said to himself as he made his way through Tsuyukusa. That farmer had a life of her own, trying to make ends meet with a little part-time work. She was busy as a bee, just like him.
Except that this bee knew his schedule like clockwork. Knew when he'd be at the post office. Knew when he wouldn't.
Knew when he would, when he'd be staving off that midday slump, when his mouth and mind would be hankering for something bitter and electric like a mocha. Knew when he liked to grab a lunch break and was reaching the point in his meal when he was looking for company.
Oh no.
Knew when to rescue him from overzealous fans, when to step back and smile and let them do their own thing. Knew when to let him talk and talk about astrology or history, when to interrupt him with a disagreement or a question. Knew when and how to make him laugh, to make his heart race, and once, one awful once, how to rake her nails up his back to make him shiver so hard the goosebumps hadn't receded by the time she'd unbuttoned his shirt to see them.
He set his jaw and made his way to the Lulukoko bridge. Already, he could feel the warmer, humid air reaching its tendrils towards him. He stepped into its embrace eagerly, heat pulling at his clothes, distracting him.
"I hope this isn't too heavy for you, dear," Tototara said, packing another box into his bag.
"No, ma'am. I'm a big boy." He winked, and the old woman giggled.
"Not so big as you think," she corrected him. "You look like a twig, like no one's been feeding you properly."
Fresh, hot milk in cow-printed mugs every morning every week. An omelet made from fresh eggs as a main course, just the same. He swallowed. "I do my best, ma'am."
"Then stop in just for a bit. It's about lunchtime, isn't it? Let me give you a meal on the house, for carrying so much for an old woman."
"I reckon I gotta get these packages over to Westown 'fore we close if you want them delivered on time," he apologized. "Another time, ma'am."
"Oh, fine," Tototara chuckled, waving her hand at him. "E kala mai, I didn't mean to keep you. At least let me give you a snack to go." She bustled about in the back room, long enough to give him time to kick himself.
Today was bad. Today he couldn't seem to pull himself together. He didn't want to keep track like this. But Ethan was right. He had a damn good memory.
Today—no, exactly two seasons ago—she'd told him she couldn't.
In the morning, first thing when he'd woken up. She'd been awake for a while, judging by the shadows under her eyes. Her hair perfectly arranged in two braids, a nightgown on, like she had to hide behind the layers and arrangement when, not six hours before, her mouth had gasped words hot and wet against his bared neck, when, not six hours before, she had asked him so shyly if he liked the lacy bra he'd just removed, when, not six hours before, he had answered so shyly that he—
"Here, Wayne. I made too much for my grandson's lunch. Please, take it." Fish and avocado arranged in a bowl with a clear lid, seasoned lightly. He accepted it with words of gratitude. "Just bring the bowl back next time you're in town, all right?" The door clicked shut behind him, and he breathed in the outdoors, air sweet like the herbs in his packed lunch.
"Mahalo," a voice said from the jack-of-all-trades shop. "I've been waiting for this package for a while."
He didn't need to look, but he did, and just as she handed off the package, she happened to look up and back at him. He couldn't see her eyes from this distance but knew they were brown, that they had widened at the sight of him. He could see her glance away and back to Ludus, and rude though it may be, though his grandparents had raised him better than this, he clenched his fist and turned away himself.
How could she act this unfriendly when, not six hours after, she had said she'd wanted to remain friends?
It was raining by the time he reached the crossroads, a spring drizzle not enough of a downpour to cool his temper. He didn't want to be upset. He didn't want to be angry. Stopping by the spring, he dug the tip of his boot into the softening mud and gave the dirt a few good kicks. He didn't want to be this bothered.
He picked up a pebble and worked it in his hand. Fidgeting helped, gave him something to focus his energy on.
Maybe in another life, he would've done something about this. If he were someone else, he'd wait for her to come back down the muddy path to the crossroads. He'd say something, something that he couldn't even imagine, but it would be something that would make her cry, make those brown eyes sparkle with tears flooding down her cheeks. She'd reach for him, then pull back, and he would respond by pulling her close to him with such fierceness and heat that he'd burn out the sun. When they'd kiss, it would be through drying tears and falling rain, through a world of problems that they'd resolve one day with words but now their bodies. She was a star shooting through the sky and he could only hope to look at her as she passed, but in this fantasy he could touch, he could try—
If he were someone else, she'd love him. His throat got tight. But no, that wasn't right. That wasn't fair.
If he were someone else, he'd want to love her.
"Wayne?" Her uncertain voice behind him. He dropped the pebble and glanced over his shoulder, and of course she was there, her hands clasped tight in front of her, no reaching, no nothing. "Are you crying?"
That's the first time you've asked me how I'm doing.
I didn't know you'd care.
Don't start making like a friend with me.
He bit down on all these responses and winked. His lashes felt wet. "You act like you've never seen rain before."
Her eyebrows furrowed over her brown eyes, and for a moment he dared to imagine, to hope she'd pry further. "First rain of the season," she said with a laugh, with a shrug, and by the time she laughed it didn't hurt, because he'd managed to remind himself not to expect, not to blame her for being anything different, not to wonder why starfire burned when he came too close.