Author's Note: I really don't know how this one came about. But I'm immensely proud of this on so many levels that it's almost depressing. Though it's not the longest thing on the planet, I think it says a lot in its own way, and quite frankly I'm surprised I let myself put this online. But indeed here it is, because I promised myself I would submit something not only for Akuroku Day this year but my love's birthday as well. So happy late birthday (xoxo) and happy early Akuroku Day!
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the game series, however everything else is strictly mine.
Dedication: To Sierra, for being my lifelong inspiration. My life would be incomplete without you.
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He isn't one for dressing to impress, so it's a good thing he got a job in a not-so-impressive bookstore that doesn't care much for looks and barely makes a profit anyway. Half the time he can't remember that the name is Barley's Books and forgets that it's the twenty-first century they live in, because the place is so drab and boring that he gets lost in his thoughts easily or even has extra time to skim through an old novel. Not that he's ever actually opened up any of the books in his time working there.
The front of said store is dingy and not very attractive, decked in dark grays and browns that make you want to walk on the other side of the street to avoid letting it put down your mood. The inside isn't much better, besides the fact that the floor brings a dark blue to the colour scheme and the books always have an array of spine colours and ages. He only ever realized the building was there in the first place because of the bright red Help Wanted sign on the front window. In the end, all it took to get the job was simply going inside and asking for it.
Most of the time he just sits at the front desk in place of the manager making sure nothing is stolen or stays near the back shelving new books, but he's been working there for so long now that he knows all the regulars and can name them off if he really wanted to. There's the old couple that come in every other day to buy romance novels, and a male in his thirties that goes to the travel section every month or so. There's also a mother of three-seven year old twins and an eleven year old-which brings her family in once every two weeks. One of the twins is livelier than the other, and they remind him of when he was little and always had his brother hanging over his shoulder.
It's also a good thing he doesn't need a high school diploma to pronounce the alphabet and give change for a twenty, because he's been a drop out since the middle of his twelfth year of education and didn't feel like working for the assholes down the block at the local pet store. The manager there has issues with little kids running around and scaring the animals, poking at the rabbits and pressing their dirty faces up to the glass of the bird cage. Apparently in order to work there you have to discipline the kids for having fun, and that was something he didn't feel like doing on a daily basis. The coworkers would've sucked anyway.
One day, while sorting the horror section, a new customer made their way towards him, shuffling through the shelves one row away and sneaking glances through a gap between a few dark novels. Being the good employee that he was, and still is, he'd reached through said gap and held out a small book for the stranger, offering it as a good read and highly recommended. The space on the bookshelf is still open, and he's still not really read the tiny novel, but they've been inseparable ever since.
The blonde visits the store every Friday since that day, staring at him through the corners of slit eyes, never failing to buy a book one week and then turn around and sell it back the next. He doesn't know how it's possible to read something so fast and then get rid of it in the blink of an eye, but then again when he was younger he'd do exactly that with his toys, and even now it's rare to see him wear the same t-shirt twice.
The rest of the week they meet each other outside when he's on break, sitting at a tall bar-like table that's too old to be used anymore but never going to be replaced until the nostalgia dissipates, and he lights a cigarette while the teenager sips at a soda and does offhand school work that needed to be done the day before. He wonders why Fridays are the days being skipped but never really cares to ask, because he likes having early weekends as well, and when the hour breaks are over he gets a sly smile and wave goodbye before he has to work again.
He remembers hearing somewhere that it's the little things that count, and tries to keep that in mind as he lounges behind the front desk counting dust bunnies on the ceiling.
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Sunday morning and it's sunny outside, bright with clear skies and colourful flowers everywhere he looks, so he shoves his wallet in his back pocket but not his car keys, because he wants to walk around in the good weather for once, thinking that it'll put him in a better mood. He keeps his pack of cigarettes at the house and hopes he won't need them, makes his way to the less popular side of town and enters an old ice cream parlor. He's always liked ice cream, hoarding his lunch money to spend after school back in the day. He likes the chocolate chips and Oreos, likes the relief it gives from the heat of mid-summer.
It's like stepping into his past, because the place hasn't changed a bit besides the slightly chipping green paint on the walls that clashes horribly with his hair. The old lady at the register smiles, having gained a few wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, and he grins back like he used to in the seventh grade and pays for a regular waffle cone before sitting near a window.
He licks up strawberry and thinks nostalgia is something he could get used to.
There are only a few cars driving on the streets, light shining off the plastic bumpers and into his squinted eyes, young kids in backseats staring with wide eyes and open mouths at the faded sign above his head promising them homemade ice cream for cheap if they can convince their parents to make the stop. He almost smiles as the fourth car chugs by with the library twins making a fuss in the back window.
On the other side of a red light nearby is a group of teens skateboarding their way towards the ice cream parlor, lead by a spiky haired brunette waving his arms about-nearly toppling himself over in the process-and an effeminate silver haired boy trying to keep him balanced. At the back of the five person group rolls the little blonde he met at the bookstore two days ago, hands in pockets and not really paying attention to the other four teens, claiming his place as the loner of the pack. When they cross the street and enter the parlor their gazes catch, and he's almost tempted to say something but keeps his mouth shut, watches the blonde's friend order him a tall cherry popsicle on autopilot, the boy relentlessly biting the top off as they leave not even five minutes later.
Emerald eyes stare after the tanned body as it glides out the door, mounts the skateboard, and rolls off down the street, popsicle in hand. He looks down at the pieces of strawberry in his waffle cone, wishing it were a mirror so he could scowl at himself instead of his poor ice cream.
He can't help but feel like he's digging himself into a horribly deep hole.
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If he had to name off a list of things he'd like to do in the future, his first would be visiting another country. He's quite fond of England and their double-decker busses, and wishes he'd been born with an accent. He also likes the way the old architecture accents the buildings. It would take him years to save up enough cash for the plane trips, though, so that's out of the question.
He was in primary school when he went on his first, and last, trip outside of the state. His mum took him to the mountains to visit far away family members three states over, people he didn't know and no-one his age he could play with, though he learned to like it that way out in the snow. He would pile on the scarves and shove on a wool hat before ditching the relative's house and making forts in the cold. By the time they left the wintry state he'd made two bunkers on opposite sides of a large oak tree, and a couple snowmen guarding the front of it.
The second would be to get married, though he's not sure he can explain this. He just has a thing for families, wants to be a dad, but not sure how good of one he'd be. He likes to think he'd be good at raising children, though, because he didn't end up working at the pet shop.
The third has something to do with becoming a writer. Spending so much time in a bookstore will do that to you, he figures, but at least they can get good money. Better than the income he gets shelving the ever-increasing horror section, though it is his favourite section of the whole workplace. Maybe he could be shelving his own works in the store someday.
He can't think of anything else he'd like to do, and it's a little perplexing to him that he can count his life's dreams on one hand. This doesn't bother him for too long, though, because he doesn't let himself delve too deep in thoughts of his future.
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He likes to go out into the field behind his house and lay in the grass, hands behind his head and eyes closed, listening to the crickets chirp, because it's always more peaceful at night when the moon is out and no-one's around to tell him to go home and do something more productive. He likes to take off his shoes and move his toes in the green blades, run his fingers through as well, and sigh up to the sky and all the little stars that he wishes he could count but there's never enough time to.
The thing he likes most about the field, though, is that at midnight, when the moon is high and the lights of the town are finally shut off, a pair of footsteps other than his own comes through the grass to meet him in the silence.
His heart rate quickens and he sits up at the sight of the guest, and he smiles genuinely when the spot beside him is taken, and a hand caresses his jaw so lightly that it sends a shiver down his spine. The anticipation is killing him, so he leans over toward the blonde, but the same hand that just touched him so gently holds him back from moving any further. Nails painted to match his hair barely scratch at the dips of his high cheekbones, glittering azure irises meet emerald.
Every three nights he goes through this, each touch scraping at his conscious along with every unspoken word. It keeps him daydreaming when he's alone and hungry for more, makes him act like a different person, but he can't get enough of it.
Around three in the morning they're laying one on top of the other, lazily playing with locks of hair or tracing nonsense patterns on the other's bare skin, both the touch and the cold now seeping through and eliciting more shivers and wishes for blankets.
This is when his partner gets up and re-clothes, skin shining with remnant beads of sweat and glowing under the moonlight. He's given one last kiss, light against his sore lips from the tender mouth that he'd never trade for anything in the world, and the lingering touch of a palm on his chest before his lover disappears and he's alone yet again.
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One thing he doesn't deal well with is jealousy. His anger spikes quickly and he tends to spit venomous words at whoever even so much as looks at him the wrong way. Usually only one thing can tide him over when he's about to set fire to the world, and usually they don't even know at first that something is wrong.
The short little blonde down the street is just leaving a small café, arm linked together with a girl of lesser importance, smiling and laughing and seemingly having the time of their lives. He doesn't like it when they get stopped by a nearby town resident fawning over the two and how cute they are, and he fumes at the peck on the cheek the girl gives as she leaves down the sidewalk.
But he doesn't want the love of his life to see how it affects him, so he turns and stalks off back into his workplace fifteen minutes too early, grabbing a stack of books from the front counter to shelve. And he doesn't want the love of his life to learn the hard way how he feels, so he ignores the text on his cell phone asking where he is if he's supposed to be on break. He doesn't want the love of his life to leave him, so he hides himself in the far back corner of the bookstore, sulking in his own pity, relaying the previous nights in his head like a movie strip.
He goes through the rest of the day scaring off customers with his scowl, walking home in the heat and not even waiting for sunset before trailing his feet into the field. The wind pulls lightly at his tied back ponytail, his t-shirt that he violently tugs off and reveals such pale skin like he'd never seen sun in his life, the blades of grass that he lays his lanky body on and lets out a groan against when the light burns his eyes.
It's supposed to be a quiet night, he's supposed to be alone this time, free to glare at the stars and fall asleep with only the cool breeze to keep him company, but just as the moon starts to raise into the sky a hand touches his shoulder. He looks up into the bright blue eyes of his heartache and can't control it when his breath gets caught in his throat. A deep frown is about all he can manage before the weight of that silken body is pressed against his own, and then he can't remember why he was being so moody in the first place.
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He doesn't like the prospect of responsibility.
He can blame it on the way he was raised and how his parents had split up when he was younger, or that not finishing his education could have lowered his care for such a thing, or even complain that he's still too young to have to worry about anything but himself and his constantly changing twenty year old wants. But he knows it's just him being lazy and trying to keep the thought of growing up to an adult as far from his mind as possible.
There's always this thought that if his parents see him now, they either won't care or expect it of him, because he's their son and walking in their footsteps is a subconscious thing. But they can't, because his mum had passed away not even a year ago and his father had moved to another town when he'd started junior high.
So the only things he's really responsible about happen to be his low-down job and taking care of his house, as he needs both to keep himself fed and alive. It also helps that the two things are connected in one way or the other to the little blonde.
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He hates waking up to find it storming, rain guzzling down outside his window and lightning brightening up his room like a camera flash, because when it storms it thunders, and he's afraid of thunder. It keeps him up no matter how many hours of sleep he'd gotten, lying in bed and just staring outside until it calms down along with his racing heart.
It doesn't storm very often in their little town, but when it does he turns off all the lights and waits it out in his bedroom or on the couch. When the thunder and lightning disappears and all that's left is the lingering sprinkles of rain, he gathers himself to the back door of the house and stares out through the glass.
In the middle of the field, still as a statue and drenched in water, stands the short blonde. He can't tell from inside that shivers wrack the small body and the streaks falling from closed azure eyes are not only rain droplets but emotional tears as well, but that's something he'll never find out, because by the time he ducks out of the dry house to wrap long arms around a soaked waist his partner has already calmed down and stopped whimpering.
He leads the way back into the house, dries his lover off with a towel, and makes a motion to curl up on the couch with a thick blanket and shared body warmth. Cold hands grab at his t-shirt and keep him close throughout the rest of the night, desperate for comfort.
The skies stay clear for a month after that, in which his company spends the nights curled up on the couch, occasionally invading his bed and hiding underneath the covers beside him. He doesn't mind the extra cash it takes to feed another person.
ooo
He takes the last few hours off work on a whim one Tuesday, and ditches his car to make his way to the only resident high school in town at around four in the afternoon, just before kids start pouring out of the front doors. His ears ring from so many voices at once and grimaces to bear it, searching the crowd for a mop of blonde curls. When he finds what he's looking for he nimbly makes his way through the groups of teens, barely noticing that he's taller by at least a foot than all of them, and walks straight up to big confused blue eyes, interrupting someone else who'd been talking animatedly, but he doesn't care about the conversation he just stopped because his blood is flowing through his veins like mad and his fingertips are twitching at his sides.
The blonde's barely open mouth and wide eyes are replaced with a light frown, delicate eyebrows furrowing, and he can't take it anymore, so he gives in to the sudden ache in his chest and kisses the blonde right then and there full on the mouth. He can feel his partner stiffen with surprise but he doesn't stop to think about what he's doing, just slides his hands onto the little waist in front of him and pulls the body close to his own, barely even registers that a section of teenagers around them have gasped or gone silent.
Weak hands clutch at his jacket for a moment before he's roughly pushed at, but he won't let go of the blonde, his blonde, and keeps kissing like his life depends on it. In only a moment the object of his desire gives in, linking those hands behind his neck instead, pulling him closer, kissing back deeper.
This is when he finally admits to himself that he's fallen in love.
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There will always be one thing about the blonde that he'll never understand. Out of the two years that they've known each other, not a word has been spoken to him.
At first he'd thought of it as the blonde being curiously shy, but after a few months he changed his guess to either antisocial or mute. He'd only ever brought up the subject once, and gotten a slow peck on the cheek as a response, a bit unusual for being out in the open as he normally never gets affection in public, but he just assumes that's from the way they were raised and the strict school rules. After that he keeps quiet, content to just watch in silence and thankful at the few texts per month he's given.
If he had to guess, now he might say his partner is afraid of being found out, doesn't want friends or family to know what happens all those nights, and he knows it should offend him in some way but he can't get himself to be anything other than head over heels when he's against that body, ghosting spindly fingers across tanned skin like there's nothing else he'd rather be doing at that moment.
And there is nothing else, as he's so delicately reminded himself over and over, mind racing at just how many laws, real or not, that he'd broken since meeting the blonde.
ooo
You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.