Author's Note: Idk what this format is. I'm trying something different. Have my Harvest Moon otp.
I don't own Harvest Moon.
the smell of rain
(it lingers.)
i.
There is a light drizzle when she first comes to the island.
The rain makes the day colder than it should be.
Though the hotel is new, her room is smoky and rickety. It seems old and cheap, like one you'd see in a horror movie.
Chelsea likes to sit on that bed - the one that's sheets are dusty but clean, and the one that sort of groans and creaks - and watch the rain fall down from the sky.
She likes the rain.
She says the sound of it calms her.
Mark doesn't give a damn if it rains or not, but when she came to the island, he did for the first time in his whole entire life. It was the first time the rain brought a smile to his face, because it usually brought a frown.
He decides - perhaps knows - that Chelsea brought the rain with her when she came into his life.
And the first time he saw her, his heart started pounding like thunder. She brought thunder and lightning to life in his heart.
ii.
Chelsea is energetic. She is a farmer, too, or so she says.
Her words, ironically, slip out of her beautiful, red lips like rain. They fall delicately on his ears, like the soft pitter-patter of rain drops, and he is left pondering if everything she says has to sound like she's telling a saccharine sweet lie.
She laughs a laugh that sounds like a soft drizzle of rain and Mark quirks an eyebrow.
"What's so funny?"
"You're putting too much thought into me, darling."
Chelsea smiles at him once more, her words still sounding like long drops of rain hitting a windowsill.
Mark gulps, a blush beginning to dust his cheeks.
"Try not to do that. It gives me the impression that you're in love me,"
And she inches closer.
iii.
She smells like the rain too.
Or rather, she smells like the scent of a light drizzle, right after it hits the pavement. Like petrichor, almost.
Mark has always been rather fond of that scent.
Now he loves it.
He had only discovered her scent when she inched closer, his cheeks reddening and his heart beating wildly.
And all she did was chuckle and walk away.
iv.
And, not surprisingly, she tastes like rain too.
Mark kisses her, unable to suppress the urge to anymore. She isn't surprised in the slightest when he does.
She tastes like melted snow that has turned into rain on the tip of your tongue, like those little drops of rain that fall off the collected, big puddles of it on rooftops.
She tastes like rain from a storm. Just rain altogether.
"I love you," Mark stupidly blurts out. That impression he gave off? It was most certainly true.
Chelsea smirks, "I love you too,"
For once, her words don't sound like sugar and rain. They sound real.
But while her words sound real, Mark could almost swear he's dreaming. He pinches himself to make sure, and she laughs when he yelps in pain.
And then it starts to rain.
v.
Mark stands outside of her white wooded door, the creaky hotel room Mark finds old and weird but Chelsea finds fascinating.
He fingers the soft edges of the feather - blue and beautiful - in his pocket awkwardly.
Then he opens the door, the hinges in need of probably a million gallons of oil, and nobody is there, her stuff is gone and all that remains is a note and a familiar scent.
'I love you, Mark.
I'm sorry.
- Chelsea'
It's in the print that reminds him of rain falling sideways on a windy, stormy night. Her red bandanna is underneath it.
And now all that lingers behind is the note written on a discarded piece of scrap paper, the bandanna - the scent of rain and shampoo left on it -, Mark, the taste of rain and snow on his tongue, and that god awful familiar scent of rain. He can hear her laughter in his memories. He can't say he didn't see this coming.
vi.
And then a brown haired girl with the bluest eyes walks through his open door, into his house full of boxes thrown about as he prepares to leave the island that he once owned the heart of under lock and key.
She brings her familiar scent of rain with her, and Mark's eyes meet hers. He is in shock but he can only manage one silly question.
"What are you doing back here?"
The next five words are so very Chelsea:
"I want my bandanna back,"
.
.
(and her laugh jumps out of his memories and into the present, the lingering scent of rain no longer lingering as they join hands and board the ferry.)
the end