Title: This Lonely Road
Summary: Might not be so lonely after all...
Pairing: Joey/Mai
Rating: K+
Author's Note: Ohai! I was originally hoping to post something a little less intense as my first story for this fandom, but inspiration struck me around three hours ago and I changed this into what it is now from the fluffy little thing it had been beforehand. A few notes for this story: It takes place a few years after Battle City, and I'm pretending that Waking The Dragons never happens, (Don't get me wrong, there's great potential in the Orichalcos thing that was going on, but I'll explore that in future uploads). I love Polarshipping, have done since I was about six, (holy moly, that was nearly eleven years ago), but I don't like the idea that Mai is so much older than Joey. In the vast majority of my stories, Mai will only be about four years older than the loveable goofball. Introductions aside, I'd just like to say hello to any new readers, and to anybody who's reading who's also reading my ST:VOY stories. I'd love to know what you all think, so any reviews would be much appreciated.
Song Lyrics: Taken from 'Time After Time' by Cyndi Lauper.
'Lying in my bed I hear the clock ticking.
Think of you.
Caught up in circles, confusion is nothing new.'
The bright, unrelenting sun shone down heavily through the wispy remains of the clouds it had nearly chased away. Grey, soulless buildings towered above wilting, twisted trees. The cracked slabs of concrete that formed the pathway were littered with cigarette ends, chewing gum, and various other bits of litter. Seemingly oblivious to the destruction of the environment around them, frilly-skirted little girls played on a haphazardly-drawn hopscotch grid, ignoring the jesting jeers of the camouflage-pattern wearing boys that stood over twenty feet away. A lone hotdog vendor, complete with beer-belly and greasy apron, scratched his head ape-style, unaware, or just accustomed to, the smell of rancid meat and out-of-date mustard that wafted from his way whenever the wind picked up. Pigeons, silver in colour, waited agitatedly by the door of the Baker's shop, hoping for a crumb of croissant or some other such confectionary. Leo, the owner of Leonardo's Pizzeria, shouted vengefully at a pair of love-struck teenagers as they fled speedily from the swivel doors at the front of his building; it could be assumed that they'd either skipped out on paying the bill, or hadn't tipped enough. Maybe they'd just been caught in an act of public affection by the wrong person, who knows?
The fountain that stood proudly in the city centre sparkled with the movement of flowing water. Silver coins aplenty rested serenely at the bottom, representing the hopes, dreams, and wishes of the citizens of Domino who'd wanted something badly enough to toss a few metal disks into the large, stone structure. People sat on the side of it, enamoured by the reflections of the butterflies and bumblebees that flew lazily around the surface, just hoping for a few more hours of sunshine. A young child toddled cautiously by the edge of the fountain, hoping that her mother would take her down from her precarious position soon; she'd not been walking for very long, and was still unaccustomed to places where she could not run around freely. The parent in question was deep in conversation with a friend, oblivious to her daughter's predicament. Taking pity on the poor child, a passing teenager lifted her gently down from the ledge before handing her back to her mother, who smiled gratefully in a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude.
Amateur duellists of all ages played Duel Monsters on benches, picnic tables, even on the floor in attempts to improve their strategies. They all dreamed of seeing their own, individual name engraved on a trophy, medal, whatever it was that the champion duellists won these days. An out-of-work opera singer stood with a microphone in her hand, entrancing the passers-by with lyrics of lost love, new love, and love in general. But then, what else was there to sing about? Nobody wanted to listen to tales of war, death, suffering, and pain on a day out; unrequited adoration was the topic of the latest song, and light, choral melodies flooded the ears of pedestrians.
A man walked down the streets he'd been walking down his entire life. Joseph Wheeler, 'The Godfather of Games', took little notice of the sights, smells, and sounds of the bustling city centre as he made his way home. That is, if his tiny, one-bedroom apartment could be called a home. In truth, he hardly took notice of anything anymore. His delicate, gentle, hazel eyes focused on the filthy floor beneath his feet, as though they were not worthy of the glorious view the sunshine gave the city. His hands, stuffed firmly into the stuffy pockets of his worn, green jacket were cold, despite the obvious heat of the day. He'd lost weight since his duelling days, and his baggy clothes hung, though not like a tent, from his slender frame. His old school friends had all ventured out into the big, wide world; he was the only one that stayed in the city that had raised him. They all kept in touch, mostly through email, and that was enough. Except that it wasn't; he wanted people to share his life, however pitiful he thought it, with. He wanted someone to call his 'best buddy', to call 'annoying', to go through life's little dramas with.
He wanted her...
Mai Valentine, the woman who was every bit as sinful as her name suggested. He yearned to touch her, to love her, to envelop her body in his arms and hold her until the dark stirrings of dawn turned into pale daylight. It wasn't even entirely sexual; he'd rather have her in his life as a friend and keep her there forever, than have an affair with her and then never see her again. What was a bit of bed-sharing between friends? The smell of her perfume, a mix of vanilla, jasmine and rose, was as clear in his mind as it had been when she'd pulled him down on that hospital bed beside her to tease him about his affection. The feel of her skin, satiny and smooth, was all he could think about. Sure, she was older than him, by a good four years, but did it really matter? Age was just a number, just a little more experience. To him, she was it. Last he'd heard she was living in Paris, with an abundance of all the comforts she 'craved'. She had cars, clothes, diamonds, mansions; she even had her own stable of thoroughbred Arabian Horses. Everything she'd ever wanted...
Everything he couldn't give her.
He opened the door to his apartment, noticing that he was almost blind because of the darkness in his windowless hallway. A tiny kitchenette stood behind a thin door, the remains of last week's takeaway pizza curling with age on the work surface. The cupboards were bare, the refrigerator near empty, save for a carton of, by now curdled, milk. The bathroom, a small, cramped, but clean space boasted all of the essentials; the toilet was three foot away from the bathtub, and the built-in shower wasn't the best in the world, but hey, it was better than a poke in the eye. But who, in their right mind, would put a mirror above the toilet cistern? The lounge/ bedroom was the biggest room in the apartment, about twenty-five square foot, but it was so cluttered with stuff that it may as well have been as large as a prison cell. Newspaper cuttings, old photographs, discarded beer cans, pizza boxes; you name it, it was there, festering in the muggy stench of that one room. It wasn't a lack of money that had left him living this half-assed existence; it was a lack of will. Counted up in the bank, he had about a million dollars to play with. Without her, though, it was worthless.
Lounging back into his musty recliner, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper out from underneath him. Normally he'd have just tossed it aside, but he recognised the scent on the paper, or at least the faint fragrance that remained.
Joey,
I said I'd see you around, kid, so where are you? You're out of school now, and you've more than enough money to come and see me. I'll send the jet, if you want; Paris is beautiful this time of year, and, hey, I miss you.
I guess what I'm trying to say here is: Get your butt out here dork!
-X-
That was Mai, alright. Commanding, and yet gentle with it; he could almost hear her voice in the words she'd written. It was just another reminder of how well she was doing: 'Jet', 'Paris', like he didn't already know how much of a success she was. He knew that she wasn't trying to rub it in, but it was just so painful to hear that she was happy without the gang by her side. He wanted her to be happy, but not without him. Selfish? Yes, but that was the way he felt, and it couldn't be helped. Throwing the, now crumpled again, letter into the maze of clutter that was his general living area, he rummaged around down the cushions for the television remote. On the box that evening were hospital closures, money matters gone wrong, and a few game-shows.
There was even one of those 'bad soap operas that everybody loves'.
Why, why, couldn't he stop thinking about her? Thoughts of her voice, harsh yet gentle echoed in his mind; images of her hip-length blonde hair appeared in front of every single Hollywood starlet on TV. Every little thing reminded him of her. Fair? No, but that was the way it was, and his mind could find no release. Tears prickled in the edges of his tired eyes, made even more obvious by the pink tinge of his cheeks. Swallowing thickly, he rapidly blinked in a futile attempt to hold the droplets of salty water back. After about thirty seconds, he gave up, sobbing a crying mess into his handkerchief, the same one she'd given him in Duelist Kingdom all those years ago. He even blew his nose in the soft, silky lace, a blatant defiance of her instructions.
I need you back, Mai, was his last thought before he passed out, exhausted, in his chair.
'Sometimes you picture me; I'm walking too far ahead
You're calling to me; I can't hear what you've said
Then you say go slow; I fall behind
The second hand unwinds.'
Five months later...
The pale Parisian sky was a mixture of violet, turquoise and orange; sunset had truly sunk in. The clouds were a deep azure, and a calm mist had descended over the garden. Though it was a frosty evening in mid December the weather was surprisingly warm. Tall hedgerows stood side-by-side, framing the square in the middle of the maze. Canaries, mockingbirds, and budgies tweeted happily in a large, silver aviary. They flew through the beaded hoops before perching on tiny swings. The aroma of violets, roses, and freshly cut grass lightly fragranced the evening air, giving the small space a lighter atmosphere than if a stronger smelling flower had been grown there. A small water feature, in the shape of a cherub, hummed melodically in the twilight breeze. Fairy lights shone in shades of pink and red around the area, twinkling like fairies against their leafy-green backdrop. A pair of light orange sandals adorned her delicate feet, their two-inch heel accentuating her long, shapely legs. She wore a strapless, knee-length white gown with a soft peach lace pattern. A soft pink-hued shawl was wrapped around her slender shoulders, keeping the slightly cool air from chilling her. Her hair, now cut to just above waist-length, curled naturally in soft waves, framing her violet eyes perfectly. Her face, neutral in expression, was just as youthful as it had been as she stepped off of the ferry at Duelist Kingdom. Sighing, she made her way through the maze of greenery that was her back garden, taking little notice of the multicoloured paper lanterns lighting her way and the frosted mint-tinge of the leaves.
Joey,
Have you ever realised how beautiful the winter sunset is?
-X-
Images of the boy, with his fluffy blonde hair, green jacket, and ever-present smile plagued her thoughts whenever she closed her eyes. She'd tried, with various deities as her witness, to blank his face from her mind, but the memories were ever-present; unrelenting, almost savage in their quest to remind her of all she could have had, and what she now never would. Her footsteps clicked along the marble of the outside steps, and the light shining from inside the French patio doors was a warm, welcoming glow. As she walked into the room, she was enveloped in a soft, snug heat that was gently perfumed with the aroma of Christmas; a mix of Mulled Wine, Cinnamon Snaps, and Apple Pies. After informing her maid that she could leave for the night, Mai made her way to her bedroom. The oak-effect four-poster bed, covered by purple satin drapes, took pride of place in the large room. Matching bedside cabinets stood at both sides of the bed, each holding a silver tray with purposefully arranged ruby-red, cherry-scented candles.
Joey,
I dream of you.
-X-
A wooden writing desk was placed opposite to the bed, just under the window. A stack of butterfly writing paper was waiting in the drawer for her, along with an inkwell and feather quill. Being a well-known public figure, she could've afforded numerous pens and other writing equipment, but she appreciated the sentimentality of writing with something that hadn't been manufactured along with a hundred million replicas. Besides, it reminded her of the 'good old days', and her Harpy's Feather Duster card. The same card that taught her that she could be loyal. She'd always been able to rely on it in a tight spot, and so it seemed only fitting that she kept even that one part of her past with her. Duel Monsters had proven to be not as popular in Europe as in other parts of the world. The occasional enthusiast made himself, or herself, known, but it hadn't sent the continent into quite so much of a frenzy as it had the rest of the world. This bothered Mai little; she had more than enough money saved up in her various accounts to live comfortably.
Joey,
You always used to be there whenever I needed you to be. Where are you now?
-X-
A box sat atop the polished wood of her writing desk. It was an antique, solid oak with gold fixings and handles. It wasn't very big, about 20 inches all around, but it was filled to the bursting with letters. Letters to him. She wrote about three a day, not very long letters; the longest was about three lines. They were mostly about silly things, things she would never say aloud. Things like 'I miss you', 'Why don't I see you on the television anymore?', and 'How are you?' Ever since he hadn't replied to her first letter about coming to visit, she saw little point in trying to make contact; he'll decide when he needs me, had always been her reasoning. But still, the desire to speak to him remained; and so she wrote. She'd never looked back through her letters, had never felt the need; she knew that within those letters was signs of the weak, needy little girl she had once been. The girl that asked silly questions, who never thought before opening her mouth. The same little girl she'd spent the majority of her life trying to repress.
Joey,
Why do we call it the Sun? It's our own little star; it should be called the Star.
-X-
She sat down on the plush, comfortable chair that tucked into the alcove of the desk before picking up her quill and dipping it into the violet ink. Normally, she didn't need time to think about what to write; but the words just couldn't find their way onto the paper. Her head was a mishmash of unanswered questions, and worse, the self-answered ones. What if he'd forgotten all about her? What if he'd found someone better? Another tortured soul to coax into the bright, glimmering existence of a warm smile and a smartass comment. No! He couldn't have...
After that thought, the words she'd been looking for had no trouble in falling from her mind onto the delicate butterfly pattern. Her emotions, a mixture of sadness, anger, and something else she couldn't identify, tainted the thin, white paper with feeling.
Joey,
Where are you? Why aren't you here? Why, why, why did you have to leave? I know I left first, but it's not like you to give up!
If this had been Duelist Kingdom you'd have annoyed me until I gave up trying to ignore you, and I miss that. I miss you!
Damn it Wheeler, I'm lonely without you!
Come back...
Please?
With tears in her eyes and determination in her heart she stood abruptly. Not even pausing to put away her writing equipment, she ran to her bedroom door, down the stairs, through the foyer and to her front door. Clutching the note angrily, wistfully, in her fist she slumped down with her back to the stone column behind her. Anguished sobs wracked her entire body; she was sick and tired of feeling so helpless. Once upon a time she hadn't needed anybody and here she was, getting all worked up about some juvenile, childish punk who clearly more interested in pursuing the good life than checking in on his friends. After composing herself she ran like a mad woman to the post box. He needed to know, she rationalized, how she felt about him.
If there was even the slightest chance of him coming back to her...
She'd forgotten that she needed an envelope, stamps, and all that jazz to actually send a letter. I suppose it's just not to be, she thought, sighing regretfully, he really doesn't care. She couldn't help but notice that there was a distinct chill in the air as she walked back to the mansion, somewhat more subdued than before. Owls cooed from their treetop houses, alerting the other species of nightlife that it was time to come out and play. Shrugging her shawl even more cosily around her shoulders, she broke out into a run; even she couldn't stand being alone in this dark.
Instead of taking the easy route and going in through the front entrance, Mai ran through the back gardens to get to the kitchen door; she was in the mood for food. A slice of dark, creamy, chocolate cake sounded so appealing to her right now, and she wasn't sure if it was just because she was emotional or because she was hungry.
She opened the door and stepped into the kitchen; it was considerably warmer in there in comparison to the chill outside. Looking around, she could see something was amiss; she just wasn't sure what. The cabinets were all fine, the granite worktops still polished, and the doors all shut. Her stove had not been left on, there was no water in the sink, and everything seemed to be in place.
And then she saw him...
Somewhat thinner than he used to be, with that same impossible hair, same goofy smile, and same aloof air that surrounded him; Joey Wheeler was sitting at her kitchen table. Eating her cake...
Ignoring the fact that he'd probably picked the lock to get in her house, she sat down on the chair opposite to him, not trusting herself to speak; a faux pas in verbal terms would be fatal now, and she just wasn't sure what she should say to the man who'd been plaguing her thoughts since she left Battle City.
He shoved another mouthful of the cake into his mouth, before chewing thoughtfully. He looked into her confused, violet eyes and wished he had the answers she needed. He could see that she was hurting, but didn't know how to fix it. Was it a good idea to come here? He thought, knowing that she was probably mad at him for eating her cake. His brow crinkled in confusion as he looked at her clothes; why on Earth was she wearing such flimsy clothes in this weather?
"Don't ya ever get cold?"
'If you're lost, you can look and you will find me; time after time.
If you fall I will catch you, I'll be waiting; time after time.'