Title: "The Seduction of the Heavy-Footed Mouth-Breather, or How I Learned to Love the Color Green"
Author: The DayDreaming
Warnings: Implied mentions of physical abuse. Not bad, but it's rated T for a reason, you wuss.
Summary: In which we learn the value of house fire prevention, blue really brings out Touya's eyes, doors are solid masses, and that N is kind of a stalker. / Isshushipping
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You are the epitome of awkward in every way. It's like being some heavy-footed mouth-breather in a room full of cool kids and you're there trying to talk but you gulp down all your words, and the only thing they hear is gurgle gurgle H-hi gluh.
It's not as if you couldn't be not-awkward; it's just that being not-awkward involves several months of repeated assurance: Yes we're friends I don't mind that you talk weird it's okay to come up to me in the hallways it isn't a crime to look me in the eyes yes you're invited to my birthday.
Admittedly, this is a bit much for anyone to handle. You're fourteen and still have the urge to hide behind your mother's legs. When your sister-the-freaking-social-butterfly sits with you, her omnipotent wings practically sprouting out of her face, it's a situation that essentially boils down to you slinking further and further into your seat while her friends come up and talk until wow you didn't know there was so much gum under the table.
That aside, you're average in every way, with grades to make a mother proud and hair to make a stylist cringe, and the fashion-sense of a person under the constant impression that a blizzard is just around the corner.
You get by, is basically what it all means.
Standing next-to -last-to-be-picked in line for gym and sometimes getting spitballs in your hair is okay; and taking shelter in your room when a guest is over, as though the nuclear fallout from social interaction can only be combatted by the safe barrier of your door, is absolutely okay, too.
Really.
Yes.
It's unexpected when someone walks up to you. If you remember the character of the heavy-footed mouth-breather correctly, this is the point where you look up, carefully observe the situation and try to make as smooth a transition from sitting duck to roadrunner as possible. Of course, it's not smooth.
You release an eloquent "uh" in greeting.
"I like your hat," the stranger replies, like 'uh' is an adequate way to start a conversation thanks for making the effort.
You stare, then look around behind you. Tall people like to converse over your head, and you've made the mistake before of assuming they could ever want to possibly speak with you.
"I like it. It has a nice red color. And a nice brim. It goes very well with your face."
"Uh." Yes uh, please uh, get a uh dictionary.
"…I like your jacket," he says, as though it's the exact shade of everything perfect.
You attempt to inch away and nod at the same time, but end up having one of those heavy-footed mouth-breather moments when you decide that gravity is amazing and desks are solids masses meant to be tripped and flipped over. You are incredibly acrobatic and aerodynamic when gravity calls for it.
The opportune moment! Quick as lightning you roll again and lift yourself to your feet and create an entirely new way of walking—something between a crabwalk and skitter—that vaults you neatly through the classroom door.
You are smooth, so smooth; you're like a comically placed banana peel on slick linoleum.
You hide behind the water fountain.
You think it's a perfectly fine structure, full of corroded metal and probably infested by the bacteria of every person's face that's bothered to drink from it. It could be better if it actually had a lower portion, but it's the kind of water fountain that is nice and compact and sticks out like a bar from the wall a foot above your bowed head.
Of course you have forgotten that people drink from water fountains. The stylish green sneakers that patter in front of you make a case for this argument. Time to resume your crabskitter before you get water in your hair, okay ready set go—
"…you have very nice shoes, too. Really."
You try to stand up but really forgetting the height of that damnable fountain makes the task hard when you've just given yourself a concussion. You consider going for round two with the fountain, but the floor has never been more comfortable, it's really nice to have something cold on that hideous bump swelling at your crown.
You can see the other kid clearly now, the stranger from before, and boy do his shoes match the curtains, that is some green hair.
The boy bends his knees a little, to lean down and stretch his hand towards you. You know social customs. You are all about it.
You grasp his hand and shake it firmly in greeting from Planet Floor.
"Hi. My name is Touya. It is lovely to make your acquaintance. I would stay and chat longer, but my…my—" you scramble for an excuse. You spot a girl with masses of curls in her hair. "I…left my curling iron on. And. I need to…turn it off. Before my house catches…on fire."
You slide away, swimming across the floor, and damn you could put floor-mermaids to shame if any existed. The stranger stays back and clutches his hand like it's been grievously injured.
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Things return to normal.
Or as normal as they can get, considering Touko is following you like a shadow and you keep seeing glimpses of that other boy everywhere you go, even beyond the school grounds. It's not like you don't enjoy spending time with Touko (the two of you don't stick together like glue in your later years like you had believed you would before, when you were five and thought that siblings never had to be farther than three steps apart). It's just difficult to deal with all the baggage she brings along.
Like girl friends. Girls. Girl time.
Somehow, you find yourself in a nail salon, wedged into an uncomfortable chair with your hands practically being raped by a middle-aged woman with a scowl and an intense hatred for unruly cuticles. You don't know half the things this woman is doing to your fingers, but you get the impression that it is supposed to make you have beautiful, refined nails like any sensible girl.
You are a boy.
Heaven help you.
Touko is to your left, chatting away with Bianca, who is on your right, as though you're not a solid mass sitting between them. You wonder if this is how a purse feels; like an overly large accessory banging against your sister's hip, set to the side and forgotten until it's time to move on to the next traumatizing event in a Congo line of girly whimsicality.
Suddenly, two bottles of blue polish are being shoved next to your face by the angry nail technician, hovering by your eyes. You swallow and pray she doesn't try to stab you.
"Oh, Touya," Bianca pipes up, smiling languidly as her toenails are painted by a man with an incredibly fashionable haircut. You really want to ask him what stylist he sees, because you could use some help—"I think the lighter blue will work wonders to bring out his eyes, Gina. Or maybe a nice charcoal gray to match his clothes! It's not a bad idea to think ahead to matching wardrobes!"
Gina, the woman with the perpetual scowl, sneers at him and uncaps the lighter of the two bottles before seizing your poor, shaking hands once more to slather on the paint in surprisingly smooth, firm strokes.
Why me, you ask yourself. Oh yeah. Because Touko, besides being a social butterfly, is also a terrifying tarantula in the dark, scary cabinet of your personal life. Oh oh oh jeez.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot the green-haired boy. He's staring through the large window of the salon, eyes trained on you. You tilt your head, smile tentatively, and wave with the hand not being desecrated in robin egg blue. He catches the motion and wiggles his long, spindly fingers back.
Despite your initial display to him when you had first met, the boy seemed even more persistent to speak with you. The second time he came up to you, he was holding what looked like a curling iron still in its original packaging. He had smiled and given it to you, with a chirpy, "It's supposed to shut itself off after a couple hours! I made sure to ask when I was purchasing it from the clerk, because the occurrence of house fires is devastating, and I would feel incredibly bad if you were to become homeless. I hope your house didn't catch on fire."
Touko, whom you had been walking to your locker with, had given the boy a dirty glare and hustled you along. As embarrassed as you were, you also felt a little bad for leaving him after doing something so ridiculous (but also nice). Later that day, you found the curling iron stuffed into your locker. Nice in the fact that the boy managed to give you what he wanted to. Creepy McCreepertons because how the hell did he get into your locker?
But he's waving at you now, and it's a little cute how he uses his other hand to tilt his cap down. But the thing with waving is that other people notice, and boy does Touko ever notice. She pulls her feet away from being painted and wobbles over to the window, and the skill and anger with which she pulls the tacky red curtains across the glass and the kid's downturned face can rival even the greatest of demons.
She smears her pink-lacquered toes on the floor during her walk back.
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You stare at the tiny, perfect brown polka dots the manicurist has managed to apply in little seething fits of anger (you think so, anyway) across your nails, and wonder if the clear coat will make it difficult to peel the paint off. Maybe you can chip it off before the terrible romcom playing in your living room is over and Touko and Bianca's attention once more turns to carrying you around like a trembling dog.
But Touko is looking bored while Bianca sighs dreamily to herself, so you grasp the opportunity with the vigor of a boy sneaking notes in math class.
"So…why do you keep getting so angry at the boy?"
She kind of twitches—a little quirk of her lips that is her way of telling you to shut up please—but leans over and whispers in your ear, "He's bad news."
"…and?"
"Look—just don't go near him, 'kay? He hangs out with a bunch of creeps, and he's always looking at you and me like—like, I don't even know," Touko huffs, breath fanning against your ear and smelling of chocolate.
"Maybe he just wants to be friends?"
She rolls her eyes and leans away again, the space between you and her now cold and foreign. "Stay away from him. Or I'll give you so many noogies you'll go bald. I mean it!"
You don't doubt her.
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So it is that the next day you still haven't picked the polish off and instead ghost the pads of your fingers over the nails to marvel at the texture. Touko has decided that today, she'll have lunch with you, meaning that half the class is having lunch with you.
You busy yourself with heart palpitations, and learn the subtle art of escaping under tables.
It's not even learning by now, you're just a freaking master and man you've pulled your way silently through the sea of legs and out into freedom in just under two minutes; a new record.
In the bathroom, you splash water on your face, and then maybe spend a bit of time trying to make the water splatter across your face in slow motion like those face-cleansing lotion commercials. Maybe. You admit nothing.
You try and pat out the wet stains on your jacket and make to leave, but just as you're opening the door, a hand pushes from the other side and smacks it into your nose with enough force that you go flying and some part of you wishes that it were in slow motion. Because you honestly do love that stuff and ow damn shit.
Your eyes white out at the pain and you almost can't hear the little gasps you emit as you blink unseeingly, but the hands jostling your head around make everything worse and in focus.
"I'm so sorry please forgive me I didn't realize you were here I'm so sorry I c-can help if it's broken I'll set your nose back I swear oh please don't hate me—"
And it's only when you feel the green-haired perpetrator's fingers on your nose that you start screaming to high heaven and struggling oh someone anyone and he decides that hugging you is the best course of action to settle you down.
Touko kicks the boy's restroom door open with a war cry a second later.
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It's not as bad as you thought, is what everything boils down to. Your jacket has a stain that is quickly drying as a stiff, brown, more-likely-than-not permanent fixture on your front, and your nose is purpling into a lovely bloom across your face.
"I still think that kicking his head was a bit much," you mumble, words nasally and whistling as you try not to breathe (but you inevitably do and oh heaven).
"Look what he did to you!" Touko shouts back. The nurse gives her a withering glare and continues speaking with your mother on the phone.
You try to poke it to see if it hurts, and ow, yes it does, just like every other time you've done it. You want to ask Touko how she knew you'd be in the bathroom, but honestly, it must be her creepy ability to find you anywhere, everywhere.
Playing hide-and-seek with her was always a real bummer.
"It's not broken."
"He made you bleed."
"…yes," because the twitch in her lips indicates that she wants you to shut up please.
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Because a quarter of your face is purple, suddenly everyone is taking notice of you. Teachers ask if things are alright (the unsaid words 'at home' linger in their breath), and students ask who you pissed off with your mousy attitude, and Touko and her friends kinda huddle around like dogs guarding a sheep.
These are things that the heavy-footed mouth-breather is not used to, and in so experiencing, also gains the title of heavy-footed quick-running mouth-breather. Not that you really run, but fast-walking is an art, and the moment you're out of sight you take off. But efforts are futile in your life, and just as your blue nails remain (though too heavily-chipped to be very recognizable), so too does Touko and her squadron of Good Samaritans. Because no matter how fast you run, Touko can run just as fast, casually sprinting and holding a conversation beside you (and you silently curse her in your mind).
There was once a time where you believed, like a child clinging to gleaming, polished dreams, that you had some sort of dignity. The notion was thrown out with the revelation that Cheren has no shame, and takes the momentous task of waking you in the morning a bit too seriously; who invades his friend's room, pulls clothes off his friend's semi-unconscious form, and then dresses aforementioned friend? But really, Cheren is the best at brushing your hair, so maybe you don't really mind. And sometimes you find notes in your lunchbox telling you to smile or have a good day and study hard, with a scratch-and-sniff sticker if he's been to the craft store recently.
It's really nice, and you wonder if your mom will let you keep him in your closet; like a power-obsessed troll with incredible housekeeping skills.
That aside, you once believed in dignity and you once owned the deed to this concept. But the seasons of arguing with your sister have worn you away to a shell barely capable of making your own decisions for yourself. It's tedious to have a differing opinion from your sister's.
This in mind, you huddle in the bushes like a cowering toad, having just shaken her off again, and watch the progress of a caterpillar up a twig. You've named it Caterpie, though you're thinking maybe Walter would be better.
The green shoes appearing in front of you catch you by surprise, but they're a nice shade of green so you don't mind tracing the seams with your eyes as they stand there.
Eventually, the shoes shuffle a bit and say, "I'm sorry," before leaving behind a pile of badly mangled hyacinths. The note taped to the side of the bundle says "I'm sorry these look so bad I stole them from my neighbor and her dog got them while I was trying to run."
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Touko eyes them with a bit of disdain, but you stuff the ugly things in your backpack and carry on.
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But your life as the heavy-footed quick-running mouth-breather hasn't gone away, and the moment Touko is gone and you're on your own, you run into the chest of a kid looking for trouble. His red hair is almost concealed by his grey hood, but not enough, and it gives him this interesting contrast while he's kicking you into the lockers.
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"Maybe I should go with homeschooling," you mutter, feeling the stretch of your split lip.
"Ah," the boy beside you shakes his head, and his unruly green ponytail slaps your face a bit.
"My sister really seems to hate you," you reply, and he only nods mutely.
Well, not mutely. The wind knocked out of him hasn't come back, and he's gasping like a fish out of water, leaning hard against you. The floor is cold and dirty beneath you, and you start wishing for the sting of a cold shower to kill the fire heating among your bruises.
"I'm sorry," you say, and mean it.
You take the hand not clutching his gut, shuddering and pale in your palms, and say, "My name is Touya. It's nice to meet you."
He cracks a smile and wipes his mouth. "I'm called N, but it's not my real name." He laughs, "Your house isn't going to catch on fire now, is it?"
"No, but you won't believe the number of curling-iron related fires there are each year."
"Oh?"
"Well…one that I know of. Touko lit her hair on fire once." And even if you've sworn to never speak of it again, you still keep some of the singed hair in a box behind your socks, just to remind you that she isn't better at everything.
N, that-boy-with-the-green-hair or Mr. Nice Shoes, stays quiet for a while, and it's not until later that you realize you're still holding his hand.
"I guess I know why she hates me so much," he begins after a while. The words come out like dry leaves, scattering out and clicking onto the floor. "Many…many people don't like my brother and his friends. I think that boy was one of his acquaintances…either way, I hear Touko punched Ghetsis at the beginning of the year for saying some bad things about that blonde girl that follows her around. Maybe she's done more, I don't know. But I don't want to think that…mm."
He stops, like he wants to say more. You can tell that his maybes and his mores are definitely more fact than myth, and the way he seals his mouth like an envelope with the same bad-taste scrunch of his lips that comes with licking letters tells you he wishes he hadn't said so much.
You remember how Touko received detention on the fourth day of school and came home missing an entire fingernail. She wouldn't talk about it, and it's almost the first time you've kept secrets from each other. Detention has happened two more times, but if she was hurt, it didn't show anywhere beyond underneath her shirt.
"My sister…she isn't very good at forgiving."
"I know," N says.
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It's not until later that you realize that speaking with N is easy, like talking to a person you've known forever.
Though you both parted quickly after N's admission, the thought lingers in your mind: how nice it felt to speak your mind; how nice it felt to hold someone's hand; how nice it felt to tell someone something and not be that cursed heavy-footed mouth-breather.
How nice it felt…
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Touko isn't happy. She dabs the scabbed-over cut on your forehead with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball, gentle, but you can see her other hand's knuckles whitening in their quest to crush the metal tin the plaster supply is kept in.
"I didn't mean to," you explain, and she sneers.
"Yeah. Just tell me who. I'll—I'll destroy them."
"I didn't mean to," you say again, and her eyes soften from ice to something a bit deeper, like water in a pool.
"I know," she whispers. She drops the cotton ball and just lets the stinging alcohol on her finger trace around the purple rim of your eye. "I remember when you told me mom said that kisses make everything feel better. You'd kiss my stupid cuts and bumps no matter how gross they looked. I liked it when you did that. Then one day you stopped."
She wants to ask why, but you shrug in response. Because you grew up. Because she grew up. Because things began to hurt for a lot longer than a kiss could mend.
The first time you didn't kiss it better is the first time Cheren says that hugs and kisses are stupid and don't solve anything. Touko cried and cried, but eventually she stopped after Cheren told her that crying was stupid, too. It showed weakness, and Touko was not weak.
"I didn't mean to," you say. The words come out soft, like regrets, though maybe not so bitter. It's like finally realizing your favorite shoes are too small to really fit right anymore. "N was the one—"
"N again? I swear I'll—"
"No, Touko. Please listen." Touko shuts up, and Touko listens, because you don't speak back, not unless it's something worth fighting for. And maybe N really is worth fighting for. "He helped me out. Knocked the guy over and everything. N was punched before he could dodge, but it was kinda like…the moment that guy saw who he hit, he just turned tail and ran."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh."
You shift around and grab the bandages from her loosened grip, trying to find plain ones, but coming to the realization that you only have a choice between little cartoon dogs and glittery flowers. You choose the flowers—only because they have a light blue background to match your barely-there nail polish, thanks!—and start pasting them over the cut, though really it's more feeling around with your fingers to find where the scab ends and skin begins.
Touko is off in her own world, thinking, and you try not to interrupt. You let your mind wander to things other than N, like the homework you still haven't done, or when Cheren is coming over this evening to alphabetize your underwear drawer or whatever it is he does.
Finally it becomes too hard to avoid thoughts that you don't want to think and you let it spill out, ink on a page, "Why do you hate N?"
"Because—"
"Isn't good enough."
She puffs her cheeks out and makes to hit you, but thinks better of it and lets her fingers fall onto your crooked patchwork of glitter-fabulous band-aids.
"I just think that…look…just look at me," she tilts your head and holds it steady. "Not everyone is a good person. We make it a habit of giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, but…but when they turn out to be not-so-good…I don't want you getting hurt."
"But N isn't bad," you say quietly. He's not. You don't know him, but you can tell. Anything he's ever tried has only been his best. As the heavy-footed mouth-breather, it's only natural that those little gestures would end up fruitless.
"…I know," your sister admits just as quietly. She's scrunching her brow tight, like it's physically painful to say, and maybe it is. "But I don't want you getting hurt. I can't bear it. I can't kiss it better, Touya, and knowing that…"
And maybe it's more serious than you thought, because that scrunched brow suddenly turns into a scrunched lip and bright red cheeks and a tremble that sends shivers down your spine. You think that there are many things your sister doesn't tell you; the two of you don't stick together like glue in your later years like you had believed you would before, when you were five and thought that siblings never had to be farther than three steps apart. It's enough to make you understand the river between you and her and normalcy, and it's something you cannot reach across, no matter how hard you try.
She gives a little sob and tugs you close, closer than you've been in forever, pressed tightly like two hands fitting together.
"Touya," she murmurs, tears hot on your neck. "Touya. If anyone ever talks badly to you…if anyone ever tells you that you're useless or stupid or weird, don't ever listen to them. Got it? You're not. You're my little brother, and no one's allowed to be mean to you but me, okay?"
"Okay," you nod. Okay. Okay.
"Sometimes, people are cruel. Even people like N. So I can't…okay? O-okay? Don't…don't let what anyone says mean anything. I won't let them get near you."
And maybe you understand what's going on, just a little bit. "Even if I'm a heavy-footed mouth-breather, right?"
She chokes on a laugh and sobs harder, and you know it's the last time you can belittle yourself in front of her.
Because the world is not just the things you see, you realize. Touko is Touko and is separate from you, and, from the moment she stepped into high school, has been completely different from you. You don't understand that well what there is to be afraid of, but she does, and you wish…
That you were better?
That you're not so…so…you?
But you think of N and his silly flowers, the way he talks too fast, his nice shoes.
"Touko," you finally say. "It's okay. You don't have to be strong all the time. I can…I can be strong, too." Touko nods against his shoulder. "And I think…I have a friend who can help me."
And the way Touko holds you tighter, almost squeezes the breath out of you, it says okay, but I will still always be there. So you squeeze back just as tightly.
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Touko doesn't smother you quite as much anymore; or maybe you've just gotten used to the noise. All of her friends still clot around your table, but your head doesn't ring and drown out your senses.
Elesa tuts in a bit of disappointment one day, when everyone has finished eating and are just languishing until the bell rings for next period. "Oh, Touya. Your nail polish is almost gone."
You glance down at your fingers and hey, what do you know it's something you've already noticed happening, so maybe you shouldn't have checked. What a goof.
Bianca leans over far too much into your personal space to examine your gritty nails as well, taking one and thrusting it in front of everyone else. "Ooooh, she's right!"
"Ah, that's a disappointment. They really brought out his eyes," Burgh says, and most everyone at the table agrees with him, much to your horror. Even Clay, which makes you shudder.
The bell rings and everyone shifts away, separating apart seamlessly like they never knew each other at all. But being the heavy-footed not-very-quick-running-anymore mouth-breather that you are, you kinda just fumble at the table with your books until the cafeteria is mostly empty.
You try not to think about the flash of green that had long since left through the doors.
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"Gina says she'd love for you to come in some time," Bianca tells him the next day. "I think she likes you! I've never seen her look so happy."
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The next time you see N, he's working at the animal shelter, surrounded by a bunch of dogs.
You haven't come there to adopt anything, but the way your sister is unconsciously inching toward the kitten room, you might just not make it out of the place without an extra burden to carry and fifty bucks poorer.
It's a flash in your eyes, but the green is unmistakable, and though you think about going up to him, your legs wobble with the memory of his leaning against you. The bird with the broken wing you found in your backyard chirps a warning within the confines of its box, so you hurry on and pass it along to the secretary behind the desk.
The room you see N in is the puppy room, a place surround by large glass windows so that people can peek in and make decisions about their future pets the wrong way. You have to pass it on the way to the kittens, and already you've lost sight of Touko. So maybe it's okay to stop, and you do, waving at him through the glass with a smile.
He doesn't notice you for a minute, but when he does, he waggles his fingers back, using his other hand to try and keep a terrier from chewing the tail of his polo apart.
And you can't help but think about how nice it feels, to not be so afraid.
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While Touko and mom sign adoption forms, you sit on a bench outside and try not to think about the three other cats in your house. They're cute and your house is big enough, but it's creepy how they gather outside your door at night and just—just stare, for no reason!
"Hi," N says, sidling up beside you as easy as breathing, and the fact that you're so comfortable with it makes you uncomfortable.
"Hi," you reply, ever the heavy-footed mouth-breather. Introductions out of the way what do people talk about? The weather? It's actually hailing outside. The tingtingting on the metal patio roof almost drowns out your thoughts.
"So…you're adopting."
"Yes."
"Do you…want a puppy? Or maybe…an older dog…that's good with cats?"
"If you were a door-to-door salesmen," you start, lifting your cap and fanning yourself because even if it's hailing you're wearing a jacket and you always have the uncomfortable sensation of being too warm (not that you'll ever let that jacket go, even with the bloodstain hidden artfully by an iron-on patch of mismatched fabric). "Selling me puppies and kittens for cheap, you'd have my wallet and heart."
"What?" he asks, the hint of a laugh in his voice, and really it's kinda nice because it's the first time he's laughed around you.
"I read it in a book somewhere, a long time ago. I buried the line in my head with a shovel, but rain makes the dirt soft and it fell out on its own."
"When did you become poetic?"
And you don't really know, just that it's easy to capture the thoughts swarming in your head right now, like the tingtingting on the roof rattles loose that self-confidence to raise your voice that you never knew you had.
"Maybe I'm writer," you say, and N nods with that funny, tight-lipped smile he gets when he wants to say something. You've seen it once, but have a name for it and you wonder why but stop; because Touko once told you that people can come as easily together as puzzle pieces fitting in, or as difficult as a triangle through a circle.
You glance at N again, and when he raises his arm to move a piece of verdant hair from his eyes, you catch site of the ugly, mottled ring stark against the other's wrist. It is jarring, the way it wraps around like a bracelet dipped in plum purple.
N catches you staring, his tight-lipped smile tightening even more until there's nothing but a line, a barrier between words he wants to say and the knowledge that he can't.
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"Some people are cruel," you tell him.
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"I know," N says.
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And maybe you can see why Touko hates Ghetsis so much.
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You end up adopting an old husky without much vigor but a few good years left. She hobbles around, looking about her with the apathy only the old seem to have, where everything and nothing is interesting. The way she leans on you is a comfort, and N's hand on your shoulder is a strength.
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For some weeks after that, you don't see N. It's disappointing, but you realize that while N may have an intense interest in being friends with you, he's actually a junior while you're a freshman, and there are probably times where he can't be hovering indecisively outside your classroom door.
(And that's another thing to think about: how the hell does he know your schedule?)
There are some days that you just wake up and know that from the moment you open your eyes to the very second you've lost consciousness at night once more, things are going to be boring. It's a grey Tuesday that isn't quite as cold as you want it to be, but you still don a scarf anyway, because Lucas and Dawn got the neatest scarves for Christmas, and you are maybe a bit jealous when they wear them around, no matter how insufferably warm it is.
Cheren, finished with pulling socks onto your feet, reaches up to fix your messy knot and make it something a bit more stylish. "I swear," he mutters.
You get to school, and yes, everything is normal and boring, so you take to drawing doodles of Zekrom the husky and old Walter Caterpie, probably long-since dead in the winter. It starts raining some time around ten, and it casts the rooms into a too-bright gleam that makes you think of evening and curling up for a nap to the dull lullaby of earth science and why the sky is blue.
At lunch, people seem to be sitting closer together, and some have flowers or balloons with big hearts and fancy I-Love-Yous plastering every surface. It's a bit confusing, and you feel like asking Touko or Bianca since you can't be bothered to find a calendar, but they're busy talking to Alder and cooing as he tells them about his cat with cancer. It's sad, you think, and you wish N were here to give advice, because he seems to know everything about animals.
You finish lunch early and decide to head to your locker on a whim, because if you sit there and listen anymore, you're sure you're going to burst into tears; just like Alder, whom has taken to using Cheren as his personal tissue.
The halls are empty, pretty much, except for a few stragglers walking into classrooms and chatting with teachers. As such, you're alone when you open your locker and a brown paper bag comes tumbling out, the note taped to its side fluttering in front of you. You accidentally step on it as you reach to pick up the spilled contents, and it's only when you hear the scrape of sand on paper that you lift your foot and pull the letter off the sole of your shoe.
It's a cut-out heart, you think, though the paper is so misshapen it's hard to tell. Maybe a triangle? There's some sort of blue glitter encrusting the rim. Written across the front in messy smears of robin egg blue paint (maybe? It almost looks like nail polish…) are the words, "Blue brings out your eyes but I prefer green."
Something wet sticks to your fingers as they brush the back of the paper, but you ignore it to pick up the bag that came with the baffling message. There are tiny green smears on the front, and inside are two bottles of nail polish, one green and one blue.
With a sigh, you flip the heart-thing over and read, in smudged mint green:
"Maybe I like you."
.
.
.
You are the epitome of awkward in every way. People don't pay attention to you, and when they do, it's your job as the model heavy-footed mouth-breather to screw it up. You've gotten by on not taking chances, and waiting for others to come to you, and so far it's been okay.
You get by, and that's what matters.
But now…
Now it just doesn't seem like enough, and something a little like hope curdles in the pit of your stomach as you walk around and find N sitting outside on a bench covered in rain. The storm is over, but he's still got his umbrella out, reading a book on oh god is that advanced calculus? It's freezing, turning the groundsnow into hard-shelled ice that crisps and crackles underneath your feet as the temperature drops.
As you sit yourself beside him, the seat of your pants dampening from the wet, you contemplate the long-lived life of the heavy-footed mouth-breather, its moods defined and thoughts characteristically small and insignificant.
It is slick and controlled and slips into people's minds as shadows do, there but not really noticed until someone points it out, and then it's all over the floor in a mess. You have been this way your entire life, and you wonder when you accepted the idea that being alone is your place in the world. Everything feels okay and yet not.
Perhaps now is the time for the death of the heavy-footed mouth-breather, the sword and shield you held to your heart to protect you against your own failings.
"Hi," N says quietly, closing his book.
"Hi," you reply.
Maybe there won't be much difference, now that you're just plain old you and not the tired persona of a failure. But it gives you the strength to reach out and brush aside N's ponytail to expose the nape of his neck.
You pop the marker in your hand open and write across the clean planes of skin, wrinkling your nose at the smell and blowing softly to make sure it dries.
N is tense and fumbles his math book around, running his fingers along the page edges so blackened from use. "Touya…?"
"You're not allowed to look at this until you get home, okay?" you say, snapping the lid to your marker back on. You ruffle N's hair back into place.
"O-okay?" comes the unsure reply, but you have to grip the other's hand as it goes to feel around the dryness of the letters tightening against skin.
"I mean it."
N drops his hand.
He nibbles his lip, and after a while takes the marker from your loose hold, quickly pulling down your looped scarf and scribbling something at a slant. "It hardly seems fair that you get to do that and I have to wait. It's so poetic, how can I compete?"
You snort, but it catches in your throat when he puts the marker back in your hand and clasps it closed, warmth tickling along dirty calluses and graphite stains.
"Maybe I'm just a writer," you say, and that is the death of the heavy-footed mouth-breather so long farewell goodnight.
"Mm," he lets the sound roll in his throat. It distracts you, the way his fingers trace the map paved by the lines of your hand. It is solemn and quiet, and you feel as though this should have been done when you were younger and didn't know that palm lines can't tell the future.
"Are you trying to seduce me?" you finally ask as N takes to feeling the barely-dry nail polish, finger prints marring the lacquered shine and chipping at the excess green paint covering your cuticles.
"Maybe?"
"I'll have you know, I am not swayed by your boyish charm, or your affinity for breaking into my locker. You're so creepy."
N smiles, tight-lipped as always. "I am a master of the covert metaphor, and I have broken everything down into equations as simple and finite as words on a page. They call me a scientist and a genius, and I'll gladly take the names, but first and foremost I am a wordsmith of physical phraseology."
"What?" you laugh. It feels so nice to laugh, even if you're cold and kinda hungry and maybe feeling a little sick in your heart, but you don't know why.
"Maybe I'm just amazing, is what it all comes down to," N says, so matter-of-factly that you believe him.
"I know."
You lace your fingers around his; they squeeze yours and say I am here. So you squeeze back just as tightly.
The death of the heavy-footed mouth-breather is a bit strange, and you feel lost without its faithful shroud. But the ease with which you and he slide together, puzzle pieces side by side, is like a promise you can keep against cruelty and pain and all those things you haven't faced before.
You are young and quiet and breathe deeply the air so cool it burns your lungs to the roots. The hands wrapped together, coiled and at peace between you and he, feel heavy and content and so wonderfully, wonderfully nice.
This is the world, you know, full of lines and seams and greens and blues mixing together, with secret words and things so doggedly pursued that at last they crumble and fold to show pearls for the effort. At last, everything feels alright.
.
.
end
.
Ah, glad this is finished. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! This was a fun little one-shot to write, that's for sure.
It all started with the phrase 'heavy-footed mouth-breather,' and kinda tumbled out from there. Originally, this was supposed to be a 500-word vignette for "Moments Like These." As you can see, this thing is over 7000 words. So. I may have overshot my goal by a bit. ;-;
Couple of things I'd like to mention, though. The underlying theme to this story, besides gay boys, is the immense danger of house fires cause by curling-irons. No. Kidding. When I was in high-school, I was kinda like Touya. Not as deathly afraid of social contact, but I was very oblivious to my surroundings. A friend told me, when I was in my junior year, that she had actually stood up for me when some people were apparently making fun of me behind my back. I hadn't known, so it didn't hurt me, but it really got me to thinking about what some people go through to defend the ones they love. Thus, the sub-plot of Touko and Ghetsis. Ghetsis is obviously a big hunk of ass-cheese and made fun of Bianca first, prompting her to punch him. Then he decided to make fun of her brother, she caught wind of it, and they've been feuding ever since. THERE IS SO MUCH PLOT YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW.
By the way, if you think 3 cats is too much…well, you're probably right. But it makes me laugh to think that Touko is starting her own Pokemon/cat team. I myself have 5 cats living with me, along with 2 old, crusty dogs barely clinging to life somehow. So yeah, it's manageable. But Touya probably has cat hair everywhere. I can't lay down in my bed without ruining my black shirts.
So yeah, this story was supposed to have its climax be the bathroom scene, with Touya being knocked out by a door and held lovingly in the arms of his King Charming, N. But uh. Yeah. I am long-winded and that is that.
Who else thinks that N working for an animal shelter is adorable? ;-; Just me? 'Kay.
Okay, well, happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Have fun bumping uglies, or whatever it is you kids do these days. Crazy whippersnappers… Please review, and don't forget to check out my other updates! Savor them, because I'll be disappearing from here until sometime in March. Thanks for reading!