To the student body, they are legends: fantastical figures from a story-book - invincible - untouchable. but to them, they're just two teenagers in love.
/
Everybody knows their names.
Natsume-and-Mikan, they're called - the living legends, the campus couple.
She, the girl with the smile like sunshine: she is sweetness personified, with her caramel-hair and toffee-eyes, her laugh that rings with an untainted innocence that is reminescent of candy-apples shared underneath clear summer night skies. He, the boy with the eyes like blood and fire: who has an unexplainable, unimaginable power emanating from every pore, every inch of his body - and yet he possesses a kindness, an almost aching gentleness and vulnerability that is difficult to understand.
Natsume-and-Mikan, they're called. They see them shine, and they cry out in delight, long live; they see them sparkle, and they gush of their perfection.
They don't know anything.
:.:
They don't know that he used to be a delinquent who spent his life like 100-yen-coins, slotting them into machines for five seconds of amusement, throwing them into wishing-wells for empty hope and hopeless redemption.
They don't know that she used to be a silly little girl who felt more than she thought, who said things she didn't mean, who never delved deeper into the darkness than she could help, never wanted to, never cared.
They don't know how they saved each other back then, and how they live, breathe for each other now.
They don't know the petty jealousy, the stupid arguments, the slams of the door as she storms out, the ache in his chest as he pretends not to care.
They don't know the endless nights spent waiting, waiting, waiting - her for his missions to end, him for her to come back. The prickle of anxiety, the heavy exhaustion, the metallic taste of dread and the fear that never really leaves.
They don't know the price they paid.
:.:
But they also don't know the small things: the box of Fluff Puffs slid under the door the night before an exam, the first-aid kit and case of painkillers that she keeps beside her bed even though he never goes for missions anymore - just in case.
They don't see his faint blush when she goes up on tiptoe to press a butterfly kiss upon his cheek, or the special smile she reserves for him when he takes her hand or offers to carry her books. They don't hear the lighthearted, easy banter - his affectionate insults, her endless chatter about everything under the sun. They don't feel the inexplicable warmth when she slips her hand in his, or that tiny flutter in her chest when he offers her a rare smile.
They don't see that really, despite the heartache and the drama and the romance, the magical fairy-tales and the legendary escapades, they're really just two stupid teenagers in love.
:.:
"Long live."
Just a little piece I did in like fifteen minutes. Raw, unedited, and pure, pointless sentiment.
I'll update mixed feelings and maid cafés as soon as my A-Levels are over, I swear. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this, and if you did, please tell me so in a review (: