All The Right Words
His heart seemed to crumble as she turned away from him, reproach and disgust etched deeply into her face.
He wanted to go after her, but he didn't know what he would say. What could he say? Every word would be turned against him, and none would come out right.
But he knew what he would say. He didn't know if he should.
Words, he had discovered, were treacherous. There were so many things to say but all of them sounded so wrong. They could be twisted and manipulated, promiscuous, cheap things. And people, being the selfish race that we are, were always using them for their own benefit. It was a thing he hated about being human.
As he stared after her in the night, he silently cursed his speech. He hadn't meant for it to sound that way, but it seemed that intentions no longer mattered if you couldn't get the words right.
And the worse thing about it was that he had antagonized himself, night after night, on what he would say and how he would say it. He'd thought about it over and over again, with her always being in his mind's eye, pretending to say it to her. And it'd always sounded alright. Maybe not perfect, but it was alright. And his intentions were kind, and he'd thought she'd understand that. She was intelligent enough.
Apparently not.
But maybe it was the doubt that tripped him up so rudely. Maybe when you doubt something, or even plan the words out for so long, you shouldn't say it at all.
(If you don't have anything nice to say don't say it at all)
The annoying rhyme echoed through his mind as his hands froze in the snow where he crouched. Had fallen, rather. Over and over again it went on through his brain
(If you don't have anything nice to say don't say it at all)
taunting him with sickening laughter. He tried to tell it of his intentions, but it just replayed his words over to him, as if he hadn't been paining over it for long enough.
I just can't explain to you what I mean I mean what I mean is how can I say this you're just not exactly well no you're not my—
Over and over. Again and again. Regret and pain.
So maybe the doubt in his own words had screwed him. Even weeks of insomniatic nights couldn't prepare him for the actual words spilling out of his mouth, spewing out in a laughable mess. The words he'd so carefully prepared just for her.
Everything he meant to say was clacking around his thoughts, making a jumbled pile with the little rhyme, which was then joined by
(Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me)
creating such a terrible racket he wanted to scream. Instead, pure and clear as they hadn't been five minutes ago, he whispered the words he'd meant to say.
"I'm trying to tell you the truth. Please listen to me. What I want to tell you is that I love you. You're more than that, then what you think you are."
The words had been for Nana, but now she wouldn't hear them. He'd been trying to tell her the truth, because he couldn't seem to hide it from himself anymore. It was that little dig he felt when he looked at her, somewhere in the middle of his tummy. It was a little pinch that seemed to tell him what he already knew, somewhere in his mind.
It was that he loved her.
They weren't kids, and they both knew it. They weren't adults either, and barely qualified as teenagers. It was what adults identified as an "awkward" time in their lives, but he couldn't find anything particularly uncomfortable about it. Not compared to anything else he'd been through, anyway.
Some would say fourteen was too young to feel love, but he couldn't describe it in any other words. (Those betraying, lying words, hiding in wait to pounce and attack) he couldn't say it in any other words because there were no words for the way she made him feel.
And there was a long time where he concealed it, where he hid it away with various lies to himself. But when he'd come to terms with it, he couldn't lie that the jot he felt for her wasn't romantic.
And that's what he'd been trying to explain to Nana, that's what he'd been trying to say. But in his excitement his words had fallen flat to her, and the I love you had come before his best-keep secret. And that secret would have made the I love you seem joyous rather than immensely wrong.
He looked up at the night, his eyes stinging from the cool air he'd exposed them to for too long. He could follow the tracks her boots had made, winding off into the trees, and he wanted desperately to go after them. But he couldn't. She hated him now. She thought he was corrupt, an abomination, immoral and revolting.
He'd wrestled with the words, pounding the order of things into his mind, yet his mouth had put everything to flame then danced around it. And she'd stared at him in horrorstruck disbelief.
He would have to tell her. He couldn't do any more damage, could he?
He picked himself off and dashed into the white trees. It wasn't long till he found her, sitting beneath an aspen with her hands to her face, covering her sobs. He suddenly felt ashamed, but he heavied his footsteps toward her until she glanced up. Surprise registered on her tear-streaked face, then she dropped his gaze.
There were so many things he'd wanted to say for so long, but he didn't want to hurt her any further. His attentions had been in the best place possible, as I've told you, but the important thing was blank in his mind. He realized, his mouth open and his breath opaque, that doing more damage was exactly what he was afraid of. Now, she might be able to forgive him and continue on, pretending this hadn't happened, and he could pretend his heart didn't jump when she smiled. He could live his life in a make-believe world where they were just friends, and he could find somebo—
That's what he was afraid of, losing her friendship and her companionship and her smile and the way his heart raced. He didn't want to do any more damage. But he was also afraid of that make-believe world where he would never be quite content.
She didn't know. She had to know his best-kept secret.
She was looking at him curiously now, a bit of resent still in the back of her eyes. She drew a breath to speak but he cut her off, one thing clear in his thoughts now.
The only thing worse than saying the wrong thing is saying nothing at all.
"You're not my sister," he blurted, his words less elegant and gentle then he had hoped for, but they were the right words. They were the right words, and they spoke the truth.
He approached her slowly, a bit anxious at the look of honest shock on her face, then disbelief, then recognition, then bewilderment. They all crossed her face in the space of a heartbeat, in the soft thud of his boot on the snow.
He was about five feet from her now, and answered the unspoken question. "We were born together, yes. But our parents – our separate parents all lived in one tribe, the tribe that was wiped out in the snowstorm only we survived, and a few others that only stuck around to bury a few dead. It sounds far-fetched, I know, but look at me and you'll believe it."
Spreading his arms wide, he made a turn in the snow. "Different hair color. Different eye color and shape. Different faces. Even if we look a bit alike, no more so than anyone else in our tribe. Remember, they'd been up there for centuries."
He'd resumed his sloth like march to her, and he was only a few feet away now. How well the words had come out! Why was it they were now so easy, so clear? Why had they caused her such pain before they healed her?
(Stupid treacherous helpful words)
She was gazing at him in befuddlement, but that realization was growing stronger by the second. He saw her light blue eyes flutter over him, seeing what he said was true. Then she met his own dark gaze.
She far surpassed him in surprise when she jumped up and ran to him, barreling into his arms. A pleasant smile transformed his features from shock to gloriously happy, and he spun her around. She laughed, a beautiful sound, and when he set her down she kept her arms locked around his neck.
"One thing I want to know," she said, interested but happy, "is why didn't I find out before?"
He frowned for a second. The perfect question to ruin the mood. "Well…remember that day you found your (we thought it was our) mother's grave, with another name, a male's, buried next to her with a different last name? I went back, after you told me not to—" Here he was playfully smacked "—and discovered another set of people. You know how we all get our father or mother's first name, so it sticks in the line? Well, I found my first name, after we couldn't find it on who we thought was our father's grave. That's because it was your father, not mine. You see?"
She nodded thoughtfully, but overall looked relieved. Then she frowned at him. "Why are you still frowning then?"
He shifted his eyes, an exasperated set settling on his lips. "Turns out…Ness is my brother."
And Nana's gorgeous laugh rang through the trees, bringing Popo's mouth into a grin again. It seemed he had finally found all the right words.
(Helpful, loving words.)
A/n: I'm not going to lie, I really really like this piece. As you can see, I really didn't care for the incest thing, then halfway through realized it didn't look much like a Smash thing, so I stuck the Ness thing in there. Plus they do kinda look like brothers…Anyway, if you could tell, I was heavily inspired by Stephen King for the thought ideas, and yes the lack of punctuation marks was intended. (I just finished The Shining! Amazing book.) I'm travelling with my family right now so please forgive any other unintended mistakes. Review please, and I hope you enjoyed! (And oh yea, I totally made up everything about their past. I dunno if their characters even have a history, and if they do, I'm sorry for lying about it.)
~Araceli L