Hopeless Chapter 1: the hopeless stutterer, a harvest moon fanfic

Chapter 1

The Hopeless Stutterer

He stood on tiptoes clumsily, desperately trying to get a good view of the island opposite to the one where he stood—or rather, to get a good view of the person on the island opposite to the one where he stood. Not that he'd admit that anytime soon.

He held his breath, clamping his calloused hands firmly on the splintery wooden rails that surrounded Link Island, hurting his palms in the process but shrugging it off anyway. He could have sworn he saw a flash of red and brown—but it was hard to tell, as the waves were constantly breaking into the sides of the island and showering him with cold, salty sea water.

He sighed: a long, sorrowful sound. He knew he looked pathetic. He was pathetic—standing unhidden on a separate island at least fifty meters away trying to catch a glimpse of the female rancher who was painfully oblivious to him and his feelings.

He thought about how awkward it would be if she just happened to walk in on him right then and there. He knew it was very possible, but he also knew Chelsea wasn't the type of person who would jump to conclusions. He could get away with a good lie.

What, am I not allowed to hang around on Link Island and admire the beauty of nature?

He laughed silently, seeing as the beauty of nature was constantly assaulting him with sea water and beating him up with painful pecks from feathery abominations called seagulls.

He quietly slipped into Ranch Island (he had no qualms doing so, as Chelsea had explicitly announced to the villagers that they were welcome to step into her ranch anytime they wished), hurriedly sprinted across Verdure Island and quickly retreated back to the inn. He wasn't hypocritical enough to deny that it hurt to love someone who barely even acknowledged his existence, but he wasn't brave enough to admit that it did. And he certainly wasn't stupid enough to walk around the town bandying about his unsuccessful spying missions on Chelsea whilst situated on a place where she could easily walk in on him. He chuckled ruefully, muttering incomprehensible things that sounded suspiciously like "love" and "stupid."

He pushed the inn's front door open, none too gently, expecting to see Carol on the front desk, grinning at him warmly and asking him how his day went. What he saw instead was red and brown and bright, bright blue—in a split second, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open, and it was very fortunate for him to have realized it on time to remedy it.

Chelsea looked up at him, smiling cheerfully, blissfully unmindful of their close proximity. Good heavens, she had nice teeth… and beautiful eyes the shade of—of—of—remember-me blue, was it? No, he was sure it had "forget" in its name… don't-forget-me blue? He wasn't sure at all; naming colors wasn't his forte. And her lips looked so soft and delicate; her dark brown hair gracefully tumbled around her shoulders, gently framing her face. Mark managed to recollect his senses and immediately forbade his traitorous eyes from staring. Staring at someone—especially at Chelsea—was plain rude, and he'd never forgive himself if she caught him in the act. At least he didn't stare at the parts of her body that were considered private.

"Hello, Mark," she chirped, fiddling with the edge of her bandanna, perfectly unaware of the blond rancher's recent staring escapade. "Done for the day?"

Mark's head was throbbing painfully, as if it had been pecked by a battalion of angry, hungry silkie chickens. Chelsea knew his name. She knew him, heavens, she knew him. He could have danced and celebrated right then and there, but thankfully, his mind hadn't left him yet, although he did have a difficult time trying to look at her directly. So he settled for the next best thing—he stared at the floor.

Except… there was no stopping the big, goofy grin that slowly lifted his cheeks lopsidedly. He mentally slapped himself, trying to change the grin into a suave, cocky smirk, but his efforts were in vain. The lopsided, goofy grin refused to be dislodged from its place, and he knew how stupid he must have looked like.

He found out that she knew his name, and here he was acting all happy and giddy as if she'd just confessed her undying love for him.

Then he realized that Chelsea had just greeted him, and he was standing in front of her like an idiot, blushing and smiling at the carpeted floor while having an internal warfare with himself about goofy grins and cocky smirks and undying love.

"H-hi, Chelsea," he stammered, earning himself another mental slap from his unforgiving self—why, O merciful heavens, why on earth did he have to stutter? She was probably thinking how incredibly idiotic he was and why she'd bothered to talk to him in the first place.

But when he dared to glance at her, she didn't look angry or annoyed. Mark breathed a sigh of relief, discreetly wiping his sweaty palms behind his overalls. Chelsea wasn't mad at him. She just looked… amused?

"Are you tired? Hungry?" she asked, her head tilted to one side, a hand resting on her hip. "Wanna head to the café and grab something to eat?"

Would he? Holy Volcano Island, would he?

He almost opened his mouth to cry a resounding "YES!" but thought better of it. Doing that would only make him seem desperate. Well, in many ways, he was, but he wasn't about to let her know that.

He was sure he'd stutter again if he tried to talk, and he decided firmly that he'd done enough stuttering for the day, so he played it safe and settled for a simple nod. Hey, at least he managed to do something in front of her that he wasn't nervous of, be it as simple as a nod.

"Perfect!" She beamed and clapped her hands once. "Come on!"

She grabbed his hand and, after bidding goodbye to Carol, dragged him out of the inn and into the café; all the while Mark had been blushing like crazy at the feel of her roughened hands against his—he'd expected her hands to be rough, what with all the hard work she does on the farm, and he wasn't disappointed. He knew he'd be a bit sad if he found out that her hands are baby-smooth.

She let go of his hand, greeted the café's occupants, and skipped merrily to one of the empty tables, waving at him to hurry up. He looked around and saw the usual customers—Vaughn, the anti-social cowboy who was brooding in a corner, and Denny, the friendly fisherman who was his best friend. Denny waved at him and Mark gave him a nod and a smile before clumsily making his way to where Chelsea sat.

"What would you like?" she asked lightly, resting her chin on her hands, her lips curved into a wide smile that slightly showed the even white teeth underneath.

Mark almost didn't hear the question; he was too busy trying not to stare. He knew he'd probably never get another chance to look at her this close, but she was Chelsea and he couldn't bring himself to openly stare at her because he felt he was violating her or something whenever he did.

So he forced himself to ogle at the counter and think of what to order. He was a regular at the café, too; it was actually where he and Denny got closer, both being patrons and all. He always ordered a sandwich and a cup of hot milk if he could afford it—which, thankfully, he could at the moment—but he was worried she'd think he's unsophisticated to order something as… simple as a sandwich. He knew most women would call it sexist or something, but he decided to just go with it.

"Um, I think I'd like a—a—a sandwich," he mumbled, feeling the heat rise up to his cheeks. Oddly, it didn't seem to surprise him at all, so he supposed he must be getting used to blushing whenever he tried to talk to Chelsea—or to any unmarried female for that matter. He was aware, though, of the immediate need to hide his face from her, so he looked down at the table and hoped she wouldn't notice anything.

"Same here." She chuckled, apparently not noticing her companion's embarrassment, much to Mark's relief. "Drinks?"

"…hot milk," he replied timidly, afraid of sounding so ready as if he'd given it a lot of thought even before she'd asked him. He knew he was probably over thinking things, but he supposed it was better than under thinking, because at least the former will prepare him while the latter would surprise him. And he was not a fan of surprises, at least not in situations involving a certain brunette rancher.

"Sounds good," she said, placing both hands on the table to heave herself up. That sent something in Mark's mind snapping into place, and before he knew it, his urge to be a gentleman got the better of him: he bolted upright and braced himself on the table.

"I'll get it," he said before he could stop himself and over think again.

"Hm? No, it's okay," she said calmly, beckoning him to sit.

"N-no, I insist," he said, turning red in the face again. He wondered why she hadn't even noticed, but then he realized he didn't have the time to wonder. "Please."

Chelsea stared at him curiously for a moment and just when he thought his head was going to explode from all the blood rushing to it, she smiled at him and gently sat back down.

He sighed in relief but then caught himself in the process and managed to cover it up with a quiet cough, hoping against hope that she hadn't noticed the slip-up. He didn't have the time to worry, either, so he walked up to the counter and gave Haila their orders.

"I love seeing young lovers in my café," Haila told Mark as he was in the process of picking the tray up right after paying.

His head, bent down to focus on the food tray, snapped up to gawk at her with wide, bewildered eyes. He tried to ask her what she meant but he knew he'd stutter again, as usual—even if she wasn't Chelsea, what she said has something to do with Chelsea, and annoyingly, that was enough to make him stutter—so he opted to gawk at her until she decided to elaborate.

…which she did.

"Look at you, all red and flustered," she teased good-naturedly. "You got yourself a keeper, sonny."

Lovers? Keeper…?

"B-but – but – we aren't –" He earned his third mental slap for the day, courtesy of himself. He was a hopeless stutterer when it came to Chelsea and he could probably live with that, but stuttering when simply talking about Chelsea was a little bit too much.

Haila simply laughed at him, adding to the pile of embarrassment already resting on his shoulders at the moment.

"Your girlfriend's waiting for you, dear," the old lady chided, "and you really shouldn't make her wait."

He nodded dumbly and made his way to the table, thankful for the safe arrival of the tray; he honestly thought he'd drop it, for his ears throbbed so much.

Girlfriend…

"Yay! Food!" Chelsea cried, grabbing one of the sandwiches and unwrapping it enthusiastically. She bit into it ravenously, a single bite filling her entire mouth, and Mark smiled to himself, wondering how he could still find her adorable even with table manners like that.

He picked the other sandwich and began to unwrap it carefully—Chelsea may not be fussy about table manners but he was, and even if Denny always told him that table manners weren't manly at all, he wasn't about to just give them up and eat like a Neanderthal on the table.

"So, Mark," Chelsea said through a mouthful of sandwich, "I saw you at Link Island earlier. What were you doing there?"

He was glad he hasn't bitten into the sandwich yet, because if he did, all his table manners would have flown out of the window, what with all the coughing he did after choking on his own saliva. He grabbed the glass of milk and drank it in large gulps. Chelsea had been patting his back all the while, concern etched on her face.

"You okay?" she asked, and despite himself he couldn't help but reward himself with a mental high-five at the genuine worry in her voice.

"Yeah, thanks," he replied sheepishly, wiping his mouth with one sleeve. There was one thing to be thankful for the choking, though, because it gave him enough time to think of a possible excuse to avoid being caught as a stalker—although his crimson cheeks and guilty grin would probably give him away faster than he could say "B-b-but –"

"Erm, I… I was admiring the ocean earlier," he offered lamely, crossing his fingers under the table in a silent, desperate prayer. He knew his excuse was weak and he knew she'd see through it right away and he knew she'd never, ever talk to him again if she did, which he hoped she wouldn't.

But she only nodded and smiled knowingly.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said, drumming her fingers on the table. "I always go there whenever I have free time."

He exhaled a held breath, relief flooding him for the fourth time that day. He felt a little guilty about lying to her, but at least it wasn't a complete lie—he was admiring something, although it wasn't the ocean, and it wasn't exactly something as opposed to someone.

He smiled inwardly. He'd make sure she wouldn't know any of that for as long as he lives, which, for all he knew, might span a hundred years—after all, his ancestors were famous for longevity.