After Dark
The air sits stagnant between the two of us during the day, as it has since I met him. Whenever I think a breeze might be stirring, just a whisper loose on my lips, the atmosphere goes dry. Living so close to the sea, one may expect a nice coastal wind to frequent our region, but the air is only moist and heavy and not so cool; at the very least, it is now.
But when night comes, and the sun sets and takes its warmth with it, the winds lift the water and create the crests on the waves. From his open window just a couple of feet away, we can hear the waves lapping against the rock walls. It is the only sound between us now, the constant reminder that the winds blow only after dark.
The nighttime breeze is gentle, a caress and a kiss, but the quiet daytime air is harsh. That may be why I have always preferred staying up at night and why he stays up with me, but it may also just be in my head. For now, though, I just lie next to him and listen to the sound of the waves, too aware that this will be over in a couple of hours. It always is.
"Mmm, May, listen… the Wingulls are awake," he finally notes, as if it is something new, once the sun peeks through the shades. He rolls over onto his side to look at me and smiles, a hand finding its way to one of mine. I have been awake all along, just listening, and I know that the Wingulls signal the end of our time together.
"I guess I'll see you, Steven," I say, same as I always do, and I release myself from him until the sun sets again.
When I hear my name spoken by strangers as I pass them on the street, I remember that I gave myself away once I claimed the title of Champion. It shocks me all the same, though, when little boys and girls run up to me when I'm at the supermarket and pull on the hem of my shirt to ask for an autograph.
I know that the word "autograph" derives from auto meaning "self" and graph meaning "to write", but the whole act is so robotic now that I wonder if any of my "self" is written in that signature at all.
After dark, I am wide awake and free, and no one shouts my name or calls for me through the darkness.
If I'm not with Steven, then I sometimes wander the streets by myself. My mom used to warn me about the strangers at night who might take advantage of a young aimless girl like myself, but it is the daytime strangers who I fear the most. So in the stillness and silence of the night, I walk along the cobblestone paths and revel in the dark.
Maybe it was all different once. When I first became Champion, I enjoyed the company of my fans and the bustle of people who shouted my name. Steven wasn't around to spend his evenings with me, anyway, as he had left—or perhaps fled—the region after I took the title from him. It was only when he returned that I realized I prefer the silence.
Tonight, I decide I will wander like always, too tired to be pulled to Steven's side again. Being with him reminds me that it is all temporary, that day will break, and that the wind will cease to cool the air once the sun meets the horizon. I like the breeze and crave the silence, so tonight I pick a road and start walking.
They say that beauty is only skin deep, but I say that it extends beyond the heavens. Everywhere you look, there is something beautiful to discover—a blade of grass poking up from a crack in the sidewalk, a seashell pushed into the sand by a wave, the first drop of rain falling from storm clouds. Beauty is meant to be observed, not punished.
After an especially long day, I like to lie down on the beach or the grass or the rocky mountaintop and count the stars. There is nothing more beautiful in the universe than the shimmering lights, too far away to light our planet but still bright enough to paint a picture. Like me, they only show themselves in the darkest places, invisible in the day and dim in the artificial light of night in big cities.
"One, two, three, four," I count aloud, in only a whisper no louder than the wind, and maneuver my gaze around the sky. I lose track a thousand times over, but that doesn't stop me from continuing, making up numbers along the way because I know there will always be at least that many stars. And when I can't count anymore, I connect the dots with my finger and pretend that I actually see the picture I draw.
The universe expands every day, they tell me, so there is no way that those stars stand still. I imagine that each one has a pair from creation, a soul mate, but the universe teases them by pulling the stars farther and farther apart. I like to think that someday the stars will meet again, but that sort of wishful thinking isn't realistic. The stars will only shimmer against the blanket of black until they self-destruct, alone for eternity and more.
Some may fight back and devour the light as a black hole, but not all of them can be that strong.
There is nothing we can do but wait. Maybe the universe keeps pulling us farther and farther away from our soul mates, even here on Earth, but there is always some hope that one day we'll be together.
The longest days of all are the ones that force me to cross paths with Steven in broad daylight. These are the driest days, the stifling hot days when the air is so thick that it becomes difficult to breathe, if only because the pressure increases so quickly that the temperature must, too, as per Gay-Lussac's Law.
Usually it happens by chance, though I suspect that sometimes he intentionally seeks me out if we haven't seen each other in a while.
Today, I think it's on purpose that we meet. I've been thinking more during my long walks and counting more stars, which may make him conclude that I have been avoiding him. This, I decide, is one way to look at it, but I see it as stretching time. If our time on this planet is limited, and nothing but numbers is infinite, then it almost makes dragging things out seem more reasonable.
Since I usually don't wake up until one in the afternoon, two o'clock is breakfast time. I have a habit, which I suppose isn't cheap nor healthy, of grabbing a bite to eat at shabby little diners. There is no place more welcoming and no people more carefree than at these restaurants. The waiters and waitresses, most of whom consistently look bored or just plain tired, don't ask questions; the guests at the booths read newspapers, finding company in the black and white print.
Lilycove has one of my favorite diners, with the greasiest food and the rudest waitress who always seems to be there. But when I walk in that morning, the bell signaling my entrance chiming above my head on the doorframe, I find my usual booth already occupied. I consider, briefly, turning around and leaving, but my stomach won't stop grumbling.
So, I saunter over to my booth and slide into it, facing the man on the other side. Steven looks up from his newspaper, which I wonder if he brought only to fit in with everyone else, and acts surprised to see me. But his raised eyebrows and loose jaw do not fool me for a moment. I see through him like I always have.
"May, what a pleasant surprise," he says so drily that this couldn't possibly be anything pleasant, though he was the one sitting at my table. "I was just getting some lunch."
On cue, the waitress slumps over and delivers a plate in front of him—a hamburger and fries, the most stereotypical diner dish of all—and looks at me expectantly. "Coffee?" she asks in her nasally voice.
"And two eggs over easy with hash browns and wheat toast," I respond, and the waitress sighs dramatically before making a one-eighty. When Steven and I are alone again, I lean forward and grab a couple of fries off his plate, biting them and eyeing him carefully. "Please, don't wait for me. Go ahead and eat while it's still hot."
"Or before you steal it all," he mutters under his breath, and when I go to whack his arm, he leans back against his side of the booth so I can't reach. The two of us laugh, but the sound, which is usually only familiar after dark, dies quickly when our eyes meet again. He clears his throat, a business man once more, and I fold my hands together.
The waitress comes back over to our awkward silence, placing a mug down on the table for me and filling it with coffee. "Your food will be out soon," she informs me, but I am aware that this is a placeholder comment to let me know that the kitchen is backed up and it may be awhile.
"You can have some more fries," Steven tells me after he swallows some hamburger, "while you wait."
I shake my head, humming a no and sipping at my black coffee instead.
It is silent between us for some time, and Steven chews his food cautiously, surely afraid that any vigor would be too loud. Finally, my food comes out, though only after Steven's whole burger is gone and his fries are cold. The waitress takes his plate, and he takes his turn watching me eat instead.
"You know, May," he begins eventually, leaning forward across the table so his hushed tones might carry to me. There has always been something so loud about a whisper to me, though. Maybe it is the fact that the hisses of the letter "s" are equally as loud as if spoken normally or even shouted, so they distract from the words themselves. "I'm glad I ran into you here. We haven't seen each other in some time. Do you… do you want to come over tonight?"
He gets even quieter with his question, sitting up straight again as though distancing himself from me and the question itself. I consider saying no to it, too, because I'm tired of this, but I don't. Instead, I nod. I want to see him and touch him and be with him, even if it can only be so at night, and I prefer night anyway. Who really cares if being together in broad daylight, even like this, is too much for him?
We are the stars, and fate is the universe. We can only be seen together in the total darkness, and even then, we're only being pushed further apart.
But, I decide, at least we've been lucky enough to be together at all.
It is a funny thing how something so trivial can be so important to the right people. A bottle cap, a haircut, anything. For me, age is trivial. I look at people, no matter their ages, and see equals. That little boy running down the road and ignoring his mother's calls to stop could be my boss one day. That old man with a walker may have been ran marathons in his youth. No matter what, we all live now, and we'll all die later.
To some, though, age defines many things: wisdom, maturity, experience, to name a few. But that little boy, though not knowledgeable of our world, is knowledgeable in his own. He experiences his own surroundings at his own pace, and he will grow up someday. For now, I say to let him enjoy the world he knows—it will never be the same even a day from now.
"You're too young to understand," Steven once told me, when I questioned why he didn't call his dad anymore. In actuality, we differ in age by only six years, but this is his excuse for everything to this day—that I am too young to understand, that I'll get it when I'm older, that I'll know the "real world" when I get there.
But I understand, and I've understood all along.
It's my birthday, and I spend it alone in a hotel room with a birthday cake and twenty candles. "Make a wish," I tell myself, and I lean closer and extinguish the flames with a quick gust of breath. Age is but a number, and tomorrow I'll just be another day older. We all will.
I go outside and lay under the stars again, hoping that wishes might come true if I make them more than once.
I stare at the ceiling for what may be hours, but is possibly only several minutes, and just lay awake. Steven snores beside me, the noise grinding if only because it means he is oblivious to the torture of indecision. His deep breaths in through his agape mouth make me want to smother him, while his growling exhales tempt me to plug his nose. Never, though, has it bothered me before now.
Finally, when I can't take it any longer, I slip my legs out from under the covers and rise from the squeaky mattress. His snoring breaks, and for a moment, I suspect I am caught. But he mumbles happily to himself and continues to snore, and I take the opportunity to throw on my clothes and shoes and tiptoe out of the room, which has never felt so stifling before. I hate to think it, but I wonder if this is my heart breaking.
I head out Steven's front door and move towards the beach. It is only when I collapse on the wet sand near the lapping water that I realize tears have been slipping down my cheeks like tiny shooting stars, falling, falling, falling with no real purpose—but with none so fake, either.
It's dark, but for the first time, I can't find comfort in the breeze or the stars.
I pull off the shoes that I so hastily tugged on in my escape and let the waves rush against my bare feet. My tears stop eventually, and exhaustion sets in, making my eyelids heavy and my body heavier. Still, I stay by the ocean, looking towards the horizon and pretending that the sun will rise at any minute but knowing that it is still hours away.
"May? What are you doing out here? It's late."
I jump at the sound of his sleepy voice, turning to watch Steven approach me. I don't say anything, which I think he suspected in the first place, and he plops himself on the sand beside me. After a moment of cacophonous silence, he leans forward and pulls off his shoes and rolls up his pajama pants. Then, jumping back to his feet, he holds a hand out to me. When I ignore it, he dips it into the coming wave and splashes me, and the frigid shock of it forces me to my feet.
He smiles at me, and I forget momentarily about everything, numb to it all just like my toes from the water.
I splash him back, and he retreats into the sea, which only gets me to follow him. I cry out, half in pain from the cold and half in joy, as I dive beneath the surface of the water; I couldn't remember the last time the water had been so cold. But when I stand back up and force a handful of water at Steven, I realize that I'm already used to it, accustomed by instant assimilation.
And then the anger takes hold. My brows knit together, my eyes narrow, and I feel a burning sensation on my skin that can't possibly be the cold. So I splash Steven again and again, furiously this time—one push of water after another, getting closer and closer and closer until he grabs me hands to stop me.
With this simple motion, I break down again. He pulls me against his chest, and I cry into it, squeezing his wet shirt in my fists.
"I love you!" I scream into him, my voice muffled by his body, so I sob more loudly. I can't tell if I said it by accident or not, but it feel like a star has burst within me and wants to consume the light. "Why has that never been good enough? Why can't we be together?"
His body stiffens, and I back away from him to get a glimpse of his abashed expression. "W-we are," he has the audacity to say, and I laugh.
"No," I counter, shaking my head sadly, and I can practically feel a star bursting somewhere in the universe. "The only times we're together are when no one can see us. In broad daylight, we're no more than strangers—business partners. That day in the diner—you sought me out, and you still leaned back like you couldn't get far enough away. If we pass each other on the streets, you don't even look at me."
His lips are pressed thin, and he forces himself to look away from me. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, turning and facing the sea instead. I can't even see the break between the water's edge and the horizon, and the way the water sparkles reminds me of the stars shimmering in the sky. I wonder what may happen if I swam out there and kept swimming. Would I meet the stars?
"I'm sorry. I'm… selfish," he finally says, but I keep looking at the scene before me. "I've loved you for a long time, May—before all of this. But I talked to my dad about it, and he said, 'Steven, you have a reputation to uphold. May is just a girl. Think about what people would say.'" His voice dropped an octave in his imitation of his father, but it returns to normal when he says, "And so I thought that I could still be with you if no one was looking. I never… I never meant to hurt you, but I can't say I thought of your feelings, either."
I turn to face him again, and seeing tears brimming in his eyes—and he tries so hard to keep them from falling—makes me well up again. "I'm twenty, not just a girl," I squeak, and when Steven smiles, the movement causes a single teardrop to stray from the corner of his right eye. "I don't care what people think. I'm an adult, you're an adult. We can make our own choices, and I don't want to just be something after dark anymore."
"Okay. Okay," he agrees, and I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms under his.
We return to his house for the rest of the night, and when the filtered light comes in through the windows in the morning, I can't help but be excited. And for the first time in a long time, I think I can hear the wind tapping against the window.
"May, listen," Steven says as always, his chest vibrating against my cheek, "the Wingulls are awake." But I don't have to say goodbye quite yet.
The stars only shine at night, a glimmer of hope that they may one day be together with their soul mates again. But, I wonder, maybe they find each other when no one is looking, and maybe they've arranged the sky perfectly by night so everyone can see that they're finally together.
Author's Note: Trying something a little different with this one, hopefully it's okay. This is the request for Gyarii. It's a bit shorter than my last one, so I hope that doesn't bother you, either?
Who else is pumped for the Hoenn remakes?