Title: Deleted Scenes
Summary: She was beautiful in a dangerous way. Have you ever stared at a flame? You want to touch, to get close, but you know can't, you'll be burned if you do. Maybe that's why she was so attracted to the storm, something too dangerous to keep. But in these deleted scenes, she would chance the injury to get as close as she could. Some Fem!Romano/Fem!Canada, genderbend, high school AU.
Warnings: some Romano/Canada, genderbending, some femmeslash/yuri, sexual things implied, language, implied Spamano, (semi-Anti)Spamano (SpaRo, or SpeRo, or whatever), tiny Estonia/Canada, and TIME JUMPS.
Disclaimer:
Prompt 4 of 64: Lost Scene
A/N:
When I do the prompts, whatever comes to my mind is what I do. So, when I read "Lost Scene" I immediately thought of the "Deleted Scenes" on a movie in the "Special Features" section.
:U
As with all my writings for the prompts, this is a one-shot. I do not plan to extend this, blahblahblah. Honestly, I do not expect this to make much sense.
—
Sweaty handed and chapped lipped with a stale outfit, Madeleine stayed out of view. She folded her hands against her pleated skirt while she waited, swaying ever so slightly. She wore music upon her lips as her eyes strayed to the sky, looking up at the freedom with longing. She felt comfortable here, this ever-changing limbo. The sky was a cruel beast with unimaginable heartache that roared and cried, and she'd cry along with it, because to cry by yourself makes you lonely. The sky was a grateful woman who took it upon herself to watch all of her children, tending them, punishing them, mourning them.
Today, the sky was caressing Madeleine with easy thoughts and gentle winds, but this was not able to last long, as a louder roaring voice with equal thunder and ferocity came storming by. This was a signal for Madeleine to hide, but she was much too enthralled by the clouds to mind anyone else at the moment.
Apparently, they felt like minding her. Madeleine knew the moment she had been spotted, the feet having stopped their stomping, and the voice having quieted. She looked uninterestedly over at the calming storm as it came near her with a determined quality, looking back over its shoulder every third step or so. Madeleine blinked, suddenly alarmed as the storm began to pick up energy and reach her. Cold hands tightened around slender wrists, eyes begged for her to follow, and she complied, though not knowing why.
She had seen the storm before, several times before. She had seen it kicking up a fuss at school more than once, she had seen it passing her spot in the park where she waited each day, she had seen it connected with every ounce of skin possible with the Spanish student in her chemistry class.
As Madeleine stumbled along behind the storm, a voice behind them called out, but the storm paid it no mind, so neither did Madeleine, following along lazily and sleepy-eyed. She wasn't sure how long the mini-chase went on, but when it stopped, the sun was resting in the trees, a few too many inches from where it had been. A bench sat lonely and quiet in a clearing and when they entered, the storm aimed them that way.
It sat down first, its hand still coddling Madeleine's, and Madeleine stayed standing, watching with worn eyes as the storm quieted its breathing and as their linked arms swayed daintily, like a kite adrift in a sea of dreams.
The sun sunk even lower into its nest in the trees before Madeleine finally sat. The storm was crying, raining furious tears that soaked Madeleine's blouse as it sought comfort from the girl too tired to fight anymore.
This was another place she had seen the storm, within these deleted scenes of a larger scale movie where she wasn't even a minor character.
—
"Madeleine," the storm whispered, hair the color of a cold season whipping around in the disorienting wind, reminding her faintly of warm maple syrup and sticky crêpes and feeling of home. "My hands are cold."
Madeleine complied to the unsaid request, fumbling awkwardly in too-thick mittens for the other's slender fingers with watermelon nails and rings on almost every digit. The storm hummed with pleasure.
They were walking without a destination, with no limits except for exhaustion, because it was the weekend and this was the inner city where everything was always open and lit. They walked with their scarves wrapped tight around themselves and their shy touches between them.
This was every Saturday, since the day he had left.
—
He came in a gust of girlish whispers and adolescent excitement. He came with an exotic voice and an even more exotic look. He was friendly and new, so popularity was quick.
But he was also oblivious, and this made it hard for the storm.
It liked him, it had tried to deny it, but every time another touched him, a burning sensation began in its gut and the storm fell into its native language, cursing the stupid whores and annoying bastards that swarmed themselves around him.
The storm did whatever it took to get his attention, but when he finally began swooning over the storm, it realized it was not for the reason it had wanted. It had wanted love and lust and everything to the left.
It did not want to be called "cute little tomato" in that stupid Spanish voice and the teasing touches were too much.
This was where Madeleine came in, with her obliviousness and ability to disappear on a stage underneath bright lights while naked with her name tattooed across her breasts (undeniably large as they were). They had been acquaintances with a mutual dislike for stupid people who asked too many stupid questions (though for slightly differing reasons).
The storm suddenly found itself with a growing attachment to the girl who would allow it to rant endlessly about the stupidity of him and…well, everything.
—
They sat, knees thumping and elbows clinking, eating amidst chatter of silly things and philosophy in a dingy Chinese restaurant. They giggled and sang to the tunes of teenagers lost in the trivial and the momentous.
The loud grew quiet and they settled into each other's silence as the food took importance.
Then the storm dared to ask what had been nagging her, "Have you ever been kissed?"
Madeleine chewed thoughtfully, not quite seeming to mind the question as much as the storm thought she might. "At what age does it count? I kissed Eduard when we were…seven or something." She giggled as the storm gaped.
"Eduard? As in Eduard von Bock?"
"The one."
"That doesn't count, definitely doesn't count. Age…eleven, then."
"Then never."
"We need to fix this. You are–what, seventeen?"
"Sixteen. How kind of you to remember my age," Madeleine joked, taking a soft hit to her shoulder. "And how do you plan to 'fix this'?"
"By doing this." The storm grabbed Madeleine's face, turned her head towards it, angled its own head, and closed the short distance. It was short, over before Madeleine could fully process that she was no longer watching the fish at the other end of the room.
"A-aru." Both girls turned their head, the storm's hands still on Madeleine's cheeks, and watched as the Chinese waiter promptly fainted, whimpering unintelligible nonsense and crumpling to the ground.
It'd be safe to say they got the hell out of there.
—
Red blurred the clouds as he brushed a gentle hand across its cheek. Whispers in a foreign sound. Sorries and apologies and things said too late.
He was going, and the storm was done. It was done pining after people who couldn't be bothered to pine back. It was done with love and with men and with rainy days.
The storm brushed the hand away and backed away slowly, unable to look away from his eyes, the color of everything it hated: four-leaf clovers, aliens, Granny Smith apples, lizards, spinach, greed, unripe tomatoes.
And it represented everything it loved: him.
But the storm turned away, gripped its phone tightly as its hands shook while it struggled to type in the number.
"May I–" the storm paused to struggle with the lump in its throat "–I need to come over. Please."
There was no hesitation. "Yes, of course."
"Thank you, Madeleine, thank you."
—
It took confusing directions and one near hysterical fit before the storm made it to Madeleine's. Two cups of hot chocolate and an episode of something unimportant, and it was ready to talk.
"He left."
"I know."
"H-he left."
"Back home."
"To Spain, to…to stupid goddamn Spanish ladies and…and…"
"His family and his friends."
The storm sobbed, looking at Madeleine with hurt etched into the bags beneath its eyes and in the red color around its irises.
"W-what? Why would you say that?"
"It's true." Madeleine kept her eyes straight ahead, staring blankly at nothing, her hands shaking while they stayed coiled around the mug. "He was bound to leave eventually. There was no use getting attached."
The storm was struck with the odd sensation of falling. It pressed its hand to its heart as it leapt. "M-Madeleine, please."
"You know, I'm glad." Madeleine sat her cup down and turned, revealing her hardened facial features to the broken girl beside her.
The storm stood, backed away and stared from a distance, unable to move anymore.
Madeleine didn't move either, she hung her head, her eyes closed tightly as she bit at her lip. They stayed liked that, until she too began to cry.
"I'm sorry," the storm understood, it finally clicked. "I'm so sorry." Madeleine dropped her head into her hands as the storm wrapped its arms around her.
—
Lovina…I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, forget it ever happened, just…just please talk to me. I promise to forget, please…please, forgive me.
—
The storm sat upon the broken bed, chewing on the inside of its cheek while the clouds began to churn. Heat lightning crackled in the distance as it caught sight of itself in the mirror.
The impossibly wavy hair with the single, impossible strand, the frilly yellow hand-me-down over the off-white tank top over the simple white skirt (too big for the storm, but a safety pin fixed that). The olive skin, brown eyes, brown hair, boring brown, brown, brown.
Then the scratch on its cheek, the dirt underneath its fingernails and on its chin.
Then the ring, reflecting the world in a distorted silver. Thunder echoed in the distance as the storm rubbed at the stone, rubbed and rubbed, but couldn't get the dirt off. Rubbed and rubbed as gentle drops landed amidst the calamity, watering sore fingers. Rubbed and rubbed and rubbed.
It rubbed and rain poured.
—
A/N:
No idea, men, no idea.
…I need to stop reading poetry.
TIME JUMPS—NOT COOL. Sorry if it confused you.
I'm all sickly and loopy, aghhh.
Okay, to the important part. This is meant to be kind of "assume what you want". I had so many ways I wanted to write this, but I also wanted to keep it kind of distant and mysterious and…blaghhh, I'm so sick I don't even care anymore. /dies