Rhealicet: Howdy! This is Rhealicet with another oneshot! This is romance, concerning my fav. Pairing from HM:AnWL. HughxPlayer. O.o Now you may be thinking, 'what the heck!' Or you may not. Whatever. ) I like this pairing. Rated T, for mild language and…I guess possible suggestive themes o.O One-shot!
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"Hugh! Wake up, sweety."
A soft whisper tickles my ear, sending thrills down the length of my spine. A smile creeps onto my face, but I keep my eyes shut as she breathes softly on the nape of my neck.
"Hugh?"
Her voice is so beautiful and is just as expressive as her face. I could tell she was wearing a soft smile behind my back. Slender hands, chaffed by years of work, slide over my back and onto my chest. Even though they're rougher than you'd expect any lady's hands to be, they still retain the gentleness of the woman I fell in love. As she embraces me, I feel her emit a contented sigh, her breath warming my back.
"I know you're awake. Stop pretending."
Her tone is so light and playful. I open my eyes and turn to face her. As I stare into the face of a woman nearly a decade older than me, I smile. I don't see an older woman, but that beautiful girl I fell in love with.
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Gossip spreads like a wildfire in a small town. Whether it was small tidbits of gossip about Muffy dyeing her hair that positively unnatural blonde color or the rumored 'adoption' of Rock, anything that affected anyone reached the ears of everyone. So, naturally the rumors of someone new taking up the farm practically dominated the news of Forget-Me-Not Valley. I, being only eight at the time, had only one thought on my mind. Would it be someone to play with?
I was disappointed. What I, and the rest of the village, had expected was a rough country man, with a firm grip. What we got was a gentle city girl, who was shy and, most of the time, silent. Needless to say, I was not pleased. And so I ignored her.
Jill. Jill was hard to ignore. It seemed that out of all the townsfolk, she had targeted me to be her best friend. I relented of course, but at eight years of age, a grinning teenager presenting you with fresh milk was hard to disregard.
She was only eighteen. Exactly ten years my senior. And yet, she took on the enormous responsibility of caring for her deceased father's farm. We soon became friends in an older sister, younger brother sort of way. She always gave me first dibs on the milk from her farm. It mystified me why she would even pay attention to a child like me, when it was obvious that the town player, Rock, had his eyes on her. But whenever he made advances on her, she'd brush him away. And for some reason, this delighted me.
When you're eight years old, the weight of words can sometimes elude you. So, I didn't realize that proposing meant so much more than 'being friends forever and ever'. And when I ran up to the perpetually grinning girl, I was shocked when I was turned down for a proposal. She was gentle, but frank and to the point, with a lie at the end of the sentence to soften the blow.
"No, Hugh. I'm sorry. Maybe, when you're older."
I ran away tears in my eyes, from a farmer whose perpetual grin faded.
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Grinning may seem inappropriate, but that's the reaction the memory always causes me to do. I grin as she leaves the bed, barely clothed, but somehow radiating innocence you wouldn't expect to come from a thirty year old woman. She sighs and stretches, the cloth of her nightie lifting, giving me a view of her soft pale thighs. She cocks her head and looks over her shoulder at me and smiles at me, for I'm staring rather shamelessly at her.
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To put it bluntly, my early teens sucked. From twelve to fifteen years of age, I was a lit stick of dynamite. Say something in a tone that may suggest that you might be questioning me? BA-boom. I was a ticking time bomb of raging hormones, and as far as I was concerned, I could have lived without the rest of the human race. No, I wasn't that pleasant to be around.
I had matured a bit and realized that proposing to people wasn't saying 'wanna be best friends?', but actually a statement of commitment and supposedly undying love. And although, it was a while ago, and she had forgotten the incident, my teenage brain decided to torture me with it. 'Ha ha, you proposed to that farmer who's, like, a decade older than you. Ha, you're such a nerd.' Naturally I rebelled against the thought of being a nerd and threw myself into training. Because, being a jock with a bad attitude, was much better than being a pissy nerd, in my books.
When I was fourteen, she was twenty-four. It was only then when I saw the gap between us, age-wise. She was young and pretty, way past puberty and all the joys it brings, while I was plagued by acne and no longer had a high voice, but some strange mutant mix between a feminine, high pitched squeal and a pleasant baritone. She'd wave and smile at me everyday, and I'd either glare and run off or blush and run off. Either way, I wasn't exactly brimming with maturity.
She'd frequently visit our house, for she was becoming fast friends with my dad. This friendship was abhorred by my mother and taunted by the rest of the town. The older half though it pleasant that a young thing would want to talk to her elders, while the younger half of the town snickered and whispered of scandal. My mother, being a journalist, was drawn to the scandalous side of the story, and was therefore wracked by doubt and took up drinking.
I hated Jill for doing this to my family. Slowly shredding it apart. But, the thing was she was completely unaware of what she was doing. She was like a child absent-mindedly shredding pieces of paper and accidentally tearing up an important report. You know she didn't mean to, but you can't help but hate her for it.
Normally hate came naturally to me in my teen years. I hated my parents for being idiots. I hated Rock for being good-looking. I hated Kate for being a tomboy. But somehow I couldn't hate Jill as fervently as I hated everything else. Try as I might, my hate always felt wrong. And so, when I confronted her about my parents it was not with the ferocity I had hoped for.
It was an overcast day, chill and damp, though it was in midsummer. I had charged at her near the spring, but found to my shock, that on the run to her I forgot my speech I had prepared. I just remembered one thing: it was supposed to be angry. And so I started to shout at her, what I believed to be a recreation of my monologue. However, the words that spilled from my mouth were not concerning my parents, but me. Her. The whole world. The whole stupid world, for being so goddamn stupid. My thoughts. My feelings. The things I wrote in the journal under my bed were now all in Jill's stunned head. And as I panted from my moment of rage I did the one thing I promised myself I'd never ever do. I cried.
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"Hungry? I'll make breakfast."
I watch her leave the room and walk into the kitchen, sliding into a robe as she walked. I sigh and lie back, not willing to leave the warmth of the down bed. But, I find to my chagrin that the woman who just left, took most of the warmth with her. I groan and slowly lift myself from the bed. I stretch and look around the room like I do every morning. My eyes wander over the bookshelf, the tv and fall onto the picture frame above the door leading into the kitchen. They rest there for a bit, and a smile replaces my sleepy frown.
There is no picture in the frame, just a singular blue feather.
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It was last year. Last year when I finally realized what the word proposal really meant. I had spent all my award money from the marathon on a blue feather from a strange merchant from out of town.
I was nineteen, the girl who I was planning to propose to was eighteen. She lived out of town, and we'd only been going out for two months. Mom, had told me to propose. She was from a family that was well off, and so if I got married to her, I'd be able to support my aging parents. I didn't really care. I figured that this was what life was. Find someone, get married, have kids, die.
Jill, and I were very good friends. I had gotten over my teenage angst, and she began treating me with a gentleness that was unparalleled by any other kindness I had ever been shown. I decided that the blushes that seemed to pop up around her were flushes of happiness. A friend. That's all she was. An older friend. Who was so beautiful and talented and wonderful, that I sometimes wondered why she would speak to a loser like me. I told her of my philosophy of life and she frowned, but said nothing. I thought I saw a strain of sadness, but I didn't ask. And lately, that had been what our relationship was. Don't ask. She asked me when I was going to propose to the girl. I told her the day after tomorrow. She sighed. I thought she looked like she was going to cry. I didn't ask. If I did I'd probably start crying myself.
I asked her if she ever planned on settling down.
She sighed yet again. "No. He doesn't love me, and it would probably scare him."
My interest was raised. "Scare him? What would? Who is he?"
She remained silent. She gave me a tired look, told me she had to go, and left for her farm. I didn't ask.
The next day, she seemed considerably more cheerful. She wished me good luck. I thanked her and left the town, walking up towards the town the girl lived in. It was a long hike. And therefore, I had a lot of time to think. Think about my life. And about her. Jill. I was pretty sure I was in love with her, but I couldn't do anything about it. Because I was nineteen. She was twenty-nine. I was hopelessly in love and she…
Loved me too.
It took a moment for the thought to sink in. And by the time I had fully understood it, I was racing back to Forget-Me-Not. Blue feather in hand.
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AN: Yay! For middle of the night writing. Forgive me if it's hard to understand, as I just said. MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. –cough- Anywho…please, please, please, please, pleaaaaaaase, read and review. Review, review, review!! Pllllllleeeeeeeease. –stops begging- I have…bread? –tempts with bread-