Le moi: Okay okay. An attempt with doing something drama-ish…?
Kingdom Hearts © Square Enix | Tetsuya Nomura
DEAR NAMINÉ
c
o
u
n
t
ME IN
"'Cause I got your picture, you're coming with me, dear Naminé marry me."
dedicated to: smallwritergirl
/My name's Vanitas./
Her eyes were bright with awe as she surveyed his work; her figure complementing her maroon dress. He observes the woman in silence, taking silent delight as her eyes took in the portraits appreciatively.
/These are very beautiful pictures./
She smiles knowingly, eyes twinkling at the 4, brightly lit, photos of his muse. His muse, even in each 2 sepia and black and white tones, looked very radiant. Her smile was bright; her attention focused on whatever she was paying attention to that day he captured the image.
/I apologize if it offends you./
He bows lightly and she laughs, her cheeks turning red. They both could hear a small crowd gathering behind them, murmuring at how beautiful the woman in the portraits were. He observed her cheeks get redder just for a bit more.
/Why would I be?/
He shook his head and jams his hands on his trousers.
/I took them without permission, after all./
She giggles and holds her purse to her chest, averting her eyes from him to the gigantic portraits.
/I'm actually delighted./
He blinks; delighted? She is delighted?
/Why would you be?/
She smiles a secret smile as he quotes her earlier question.
/Would you mind if I used you as my model one day as well?/
The question surprises him, so he looks at her. She wasn't looking at him, but he could tell—no, he knew her attention was on him, and the pictures of HER. She turns and smiles, placing her hand out for him to take.
/Naminé. It's nice to have been your muse./
His apartment was full of discarded photos, papers and long-ago soiled cold coffees. She smiles and crosses her arms, glancing at him.
/I thought so./
He raises a brow at her statement.
/I haven't been in here for 3 months./
She shrugs and removes her sandals by the door, skipping past the doormat and to the carpeted expanse of his floor. He follows soon after, his pace long and relaxed.
/You were freeloading at mine in the first place./
He smirks.
/You let me./
She stuck her tongue out.
/Whatever. For a well-managed man you have a very…unorganized home./
She walks in the room he called his living room, picking up long-forgotten pictures of everyday scenarios and admiring them.
/These should be compiled into an album, don't you think?/
He merely leans against the open door frame, and shrugs carelessly at her question.
/I don't care./
She laughs and picks up several more, tutting at how "unorganized" he was with his pictures.
/Sure you don't. Can I have this?/
He looks at the Polaroid in her hand; it was her, captured from outside, sitting in Caramel Sunset Cafe, reading a book with a steaming cup of cocoa.
/What for?/
She shrugs and picks up every image that has her in it, and smiled at him.
/Personal reasons./
He rolls his eyes and grabs them in her hands, slumping down on his old couch. She follows and freely drops herself on one of his thighs, grinning at him.
/You don't mind do you?/
He thinks she's beautiful smiling like that. Of course, he doesn't say that out loud. That'd be too weird.
/No./
She takes back the pictures with one arm wrapped around his neck, shifting through her pictures that he took.
/Am I that pretty? There sure are lots of them./
He thinks of something to say to this eloquent woman seated in his lap.
/You're not pretty…/
She makes a mock-offended face at him and thwacks his head not-so-gently, a displeased frown on her smooth face.
/You're rude./
He smirks. Oh well, damn the fact it'd be weird.
/Because you're beautiful./
She stops pouting and gapes instead. He chuckles and ruffles her hair, leaning back on the couch and sighing.
/Really? I'm beautiful?/
She persisted, her cheeks glowing red and a grin growing on her lips as she shook him by his collar.
/I'm not saying that again./
She pouts again and shakes him harder.
/Come on. For me?/
He narrows his eyes and flicks her forehead.
/No. I take back what I said./
She blew him a frustrated raspberry and pouts. He has a thing for adorable pouts and certain blondes now. Well, not that he'd admit that one out loud. That's not what he is excuse you.
/Jerk./
He smiles.
/Beautiful./
The insult he received earlier was worth seeing her face turn an attractive shade of red.
And red was his favorite color.
/What's your favorite color?/
He asks her one day, when the weather was cool and she was painting one of her many, many ideas.
/Would I be lying if I said it wasn't white?/
Her voice was amused as she dips her brush into a bottle of golden paint. He takes a look around, taking in the stark whiteness that was her studio and the things around them. He ran his finger across the white fur of her couch.
/No./
She smiles, her eyes on the canvas but her attention solely on him.
/You have your answer./
He observes her dip the brush into the colored water then to a can of midnight black.
/Can I see that?/
A gleam of mischief makes itself present in her eyes.
/I can't./
He rolls his eyes.
/Can't or won't?/
She giggles and dips her brush into the cup of tainted water again.
/Can't. At least not yet./
Oh well. He can respect that. Because he is not that kind of man who forces it out of someone if he wanted something.
/Alright. Can I take a picture of you while you paint then?/
She frowns a little.
/You can't./
He lifts his camera and does so anyway.
/I just did./
She rolls her eyes and dips the brush again into a can of flesh-colored paint.
/Jerk./
He smirks.
/Beautiful./
As another blush blossomed on her cheeks, he took that as an opportunity to snap a picture; another expression of hers that he would keep in his secret album that were full of her expressions and faces that he liked best.
/This one looks great./
He comments on a canvas that lay propped against the wall of her studio. She thinks on the contrary.
/No it doesn't./
She was lacking something. She knew it.
/How can you say that?/
It was the clock tower with a great view of sunset; and a boy with brown hair was seated along the edge. It was a beautiful masterpiece; what more could it lack?
/I…I think I lack the experience of it./
Her answer triggers confusion in him.
/What do you mean experience?/
He comes to sit next to her, his camera up and snapped a photo of her, taking in her frustrated frown and pursed lip.
/I remember my older sister Relm saying something about the feeling of it. Every piece needed LIFE and needed to BREATHE. I-I…this is nothing at all. It doesn't have an essence of life.../
Here goes her self-esteem going down the drain again. So with a roll of his eyes, he stands up suddenly, walking to where she was. This of course captures her attention, especially when he grabs her wrist to pull her up.
/C'mon. I'll take you there./
She frowns in confusion as he shoves her coat into her arms and wraps a scarf around her neck.
/Wait, wait. Where?/
He pauses as he puts on his beanie, and laughs teasingly.
/To the clock tower, you dummy. You really are blonde./
She flushes almost immediately, but panic settles itself into her face.
/Umm...thing is...I'm afraid of heights.../
He blinks. But she knew behind that seemingly innocent gesture, he was planning something. Oh how right she was.
/Oh./
She was kicking and growling (not screaming, by the way) as he hauled her out of her apartment, his camera and her canvas bag in his free hand as they journeyed towards the majestic clock tower. By the time they were at the top she was clinging to his back tight, refusing to even look down. Her expression was like a kitten soaked in water. Well, he was a bit mean; he found it amusing, but adorable as well.
/You're not really afraid of heights./
He ignores her panicked and scathing glare as he shrugs her off and walks into the open, the strong breeze making his coat sway.
/What do you mean I'm not afraid of heights? I just told you so!/
She hugged herself, biting her bottom lip; she obviously wanted to join him, and he couldn't help but smirk in her direction as he sat down near the ledge and swung his legs down.
/You're only afraid of falling that's why you're afraid of heights./
He shrugged, turning to look back at her.
/Okay both. I'm afraid of heights AND falling./
She admitted submissively, although she didn't step out of the doorway.
/Don't be a wimp and come here. You wanted your creations to...uh, breathe right? Then come over here and come to the edge. You paint nothing if you experience nothing./
He could feel the wind smack against his face gently, and the smell of pine from the woods calmed him down. The sun was setting, and it casted shadows everywhere the light hit. He smiled lightly and, raised his camera up to capture the moment.
/I.../
She was entranced with how the sun highlighted his frame; how perfect it looked. She hesitantly stepped out, holding her canvas bag tighter to her form when a gentle breeze came by. He almost choked when she tugged him back by the scarf, away from the edge and from a reasonable distance from the edge. She sat down beside him, cheeks red. Eyes shut.
/Don't close your eyes, dummy. How ca you enjoy the view if you don't see it as well?/
And so she did, and she didn't regret it. He merely smirked when he heard her open the bag, whip out the small, blank canvas and some small bottles of paint, and let her do her thing. However, he never noticed that she used black paint instead of brown. I think we all know what that for is.
/What's your dream?/
She asked one night, when they were laying down under the stars and above the grassy grounds of Sunset Hill. When they decided that there were no deadlines for their art pieces and no pushy managers nagging them to turn in their portfolios.
/My dream?/
She snorts and grins sarcastically.
/No, I said your nightmare./
He scoffs, lacing his hands beneath his head and focused his eyes at the stars, wanting nothing but reach of his camera that lay beside her sketch pad a few meters back.
/…well…/
She snaps her fingers and grins.
/Let me guess./
He raises a brow at her statement.
/I thought YOU asked ME./
She giggles.
/Your dream is to be a professional photographer./
He smiles.
/Au contraire, no./
She blinks and he props an arm up, facing her. Their gazes clash, and hers never once wavered.
/You don't want to be an accomplished photographer?/
He smiles in irony.
/It's just a hobby, you know. I never really took it seriously./
She frowns.
/But your images are so beautiful…/
He smirks.
/Saying that, you're indirectly saying you're beautiful yourself./
She blushes and flicks his forehead with a finger, and he chuckles teasingly. He almost laughs when she scooted closer and wrapped her arms in his chest, laying her head in his shoulder as he lied back down on his back. She's probably cold, he thinks.
/No, really. What is your dream?/
She murmurs softly, breathing in his light cologne that managed to stay despite the day's work. She thinks he doesn't notice her sniffing him, and he had to bite his lip to hold in the snide but pleased comment in.
/I want to be an astrologist./
He answers without missing a beat, his decision long made before he told her.
/Wow. That's a nice dream./
She plays with his red plaid shirt absently, reveling in his warmth.
/How about you? What's your dream?/
He asks her in return as she shifts lightly.
/My dream is to open up my gallery one day. To be an accomplished artist. I didn't graduate with flying colors from an international Arts' school for nothing, you know./
She answers somewhat dejectedly. He decides he doesn't like that tone, and he frowns.
/You WILL get that. Don't lose hope. You're not a quitter right?/
He smirks smugly as she scoffs, pouting.
/I just think I'm not good enough…that I'm not worthy enough to have that kind of privilege. Sometimes I think that my chance was just a stroke of luck—I don't feel that I deserve that kind of success. I feel like I'm just taking after my sister's shadow ever since she retired. Compared to her, I...don't even capture life so easily. And Relm can. You do get what I'm saying right?/
She sounded so vulnerable and exposed; and he felt a little special because she opened up to him. Being in her shoes once, he comforted her.
/Then what about me? I was in your shoes once when I was opening my exhibition that day. And don't you dare compare yourself to others, idiot. You are who you are. I think I prefer the you right now; simple and passionate about her career. You were born to have those skills, so don't get down by feeling overshadowed by something that you once looked up upon./
He sighs, and she blinks as she looks at him, gratitude in her gaze as she finally smiles.
/You really know how to use your words wisely./
She giggled as he scoffed.
/Please./
He rolled his eyes and closed them as she asked her next question.
/What did you feel that day?/
Another breeze rolled by.
/I felt mostly nothing. A little nervousness, but what you really need in those times—is confidence. Faith. And a dash of charm if you want to impress your crowd./
He brings a hand up, the one she was laying her head on, to stroke her hair, making her smile and tuck her head under his chin. His answer intrigued her, and she pressed him on.
/Thanks…I mean it./
She giggles finally.
/It's nothing. I'm just empathizing with you./
He rolled his eyes and smiled up at the skies.
/Enough about me. So why do you want to be an astrologist?/
She looks up at him at the same time he looks down on her.
/I love the stars more than capturing shots of people./
He answers softly, afraid to break the serene spell that fell between them. A light breeze rolled by, making her smile and close her eyes.
/Then do you love stars more than stealing snapshots of me?/
Her comeback was teasing, and he smirks as an idea came to mind.
/I suppose I could make an exception./
They both knew that was an indirect saying of something else far more affectionate.
/Really?/
She closes her eyes as she lays back down on his shoulder.
/Yeah. Would you like that?/
He questions and she nods, placing a kiss on his cheek, smiling that smile of hers that made her dimples appear—the smile he loved best.
/Yes./
He chuckles and lays his cheek on her head, his eyes at the starry skies.
/I'd like that too./
He parts her bangs with the hand that had been stroking her hair, and turns his head to the side to place his lips against her forehead. She blushes and pushes herself closer, delighted, and when he pulls away he cups her chin for another—this time, on her lips.
Her lips were soft and sweet; ones that he wouldn't get tired of.
Their relationship didn't even have a single difference.
/Paint me like one of your French girls./
She giggled at his amusing pose and threw an empty bottle of paint at him.
/Silly. I can't do that if you're not naked./
He smirks.
/Oh, so you do want to see me naked?/
She reacts in an instant. Oh she always does.
/I-I didn't say that!/
Lies. He smirked wider.
/Pretty little liar~you're going to need some punishment for lying to me./
She scoffs and turns back to her easel.
/What, are you some God now?/
He shrugs.
/No. I'm saying that for you to get all scared and say "Oh please forgive me! I won't do it again! Please don't hurt me."/
She raises a brow and laughs—hard. He looked—and sounded—ridiculous trying to imitate a damsel-in-distress' voice. It made him sound like a squeaky-voiced hobo.
/Like I'd do that./
He smiles slyly.
/I have ways to make you though./
She looks smug as she smirks, shielding his view from the portrait as he stands, leaving his oh-so-loved camera at her couch.
/Like I'd believe you./
He felt a little victorious that he could sense her nervousness from that tough-girl façade.
/Are you doubting me?/
She rolled her eyes.
/Please./
He chuckled and approached her, making her frown (in annoyance?) and stand up as well.
/I'm the man here, Picasso. I can do anything to you./
She props her easel to face the wall—making sure he'd never see what she painted. Oh well.
/Oh really? Is that a challenge?/
He grins just a bit, pulling his shirt over his head at the same time she removes hers—although to his disappointment she was wearing a chemise underneath—her expression mischievous.
/You're on./
And so begins the mature fight of "paint-each-other-senseless-until-one-of-us-uses-the-white-paint-which-is-the-symbol-of-submission". Yes. No difference indeed.
Except they make-up with hugs.
And cuddling.
And kisses.
And bathing because they are covered in paint.
Their 1st anniversary was nothing special. Yes, he didn't take her to lavish restaurants or romantic boat rides or expensive trips around the world. Instead, they lay under the stars—like how their relationship started. It was much simpler and sweeter. It didn't matter how one of them could afford all the above because of their money. They simply cared about how they treat and act around each other. That's what the both of them were.
Simple.
/Hey./
He doesn't look at her, but she knew his attention was on her only.
/What is it?/
She absent-mindedly plays with the open buttons of his grey plaid shirt.
/Which first, good news? Or the bad news?/
He raises a brow at her question and shrugs—despite lying down on the grass.
/Good, I guess./
She grinned.
/I finally made it. I'm an accomplished artist. I'm going to open my first gallery./
This of course, surprises him. Who knew his girlfriend finally achieved her dream? He smirks and ruffles her hair playfully.
/Well, look who's all happy-grinney. Congrats Picasso./
She giggles. It sounded forced.
/I knew you'd say that./
He blinks at the sudden sullen tone in her voice.
/What's the tone for? Is that because of the bad news?/
She didn't reply; she gripped his shirt tight and buried her face in his chest. And at that moment, he knew something was accompanying that opportunity of hers.
/The bad news is…I'm going to need to go to France first./
Oh.
/For how long?/
She bites her lip.
/2…maybe 3 years./
He sighs. Okay that was unexpected. He turns to face her, and asks her the dumbest question ever.
/Will you break up with me then?/
She flinches and her eyes grew wide from disbelief.
/No…why would I do that you dummy?/
Inside, he felt relieved.
/Because that's how most couples in movies, books and TV shows do it. Boy and girl meet, they hang out, they hook up, girl tells boy she needs to go away temporarily, they break up for the best because they believe long distance relationships won't work, and they lose communication./
She stares at him for a long time, before laughing out loud, rolling out of the warm circle of his arms to laugh her heart out. He could only sit up in confusion—and annoyance—as he stared at her form which was shaking with laughter.
/You really THOUGHT of that?/
He looms over her form, eye twitching.
/Well duh./
She grins up at him and giggles, cupping his cheeks and looks into his eyes sincerely.
/Do you really think I'd do that because I'm going away for a while?/
He nods.
/Some do that for what they thought for the best./
She rolls her eyes.
/Don't compare what we have to those crappy chickflicks. Because it won't happen. Not now, not ever./
He blinks as she smiles up at him, her words making a deep impression on him. He groans and places his forehead to her shoulder.
/Sorry. I focus on the negative too much./
She giggles and hugs his neck, smiling like an idiot with that blush on her cheeks.
/I can see that the first day we met. Well don't be so negative. Else I'd break it up with you for real./
He knew she didn't mean that. She wasn't that kind of woman. That's why he loved her anyway. He lifts his head to look at her meaningfully.
/When do you leave?/
She shrugs.
/4 months from now./
He allows a grin to slip into his lips.
/Then we just have to make most of what time we have left right?/
She grins back, and placed a long, lingering kiss on his lips. He took that as a yes of course.
On the night before she left, they made sweet and unforgettable love. Her nails left long red lashes on his back, and his mouth left 2, proud red marks on her neck. She was divine; the most beautiful creature to behold that night. He wanted nothing but to capture that masterpiece with his camera and stow it away for his own viewing pleasure. They didn't sleep after that—spent the remaining hours and minutes and seconds staring at each other.
/Will you let me come with you?/
The question was expected; a sly smile grew on her swollen lips.
/No./
He expected as much.
/Why not?/
Her smile didn't fade.
/Because I'm going to propose a challenge./
He smirks and rolls his eyes.
/That's so you. Always so challenging./
She kisses his nose.
/You love me though./
He couldn't agree more.
/Alright. Fine. What's your challenge?/
She smiles and places her forehead against his, her chest pressing into his own from her place on top of him.
/Find me. Find me where me and my dreams are. And when you do—/
He smirks.
/—I'm going to marry you./
She blinks. Then a thick shade of red invaded her cheeks. Although, the corners of her mouth turned up—she was non-verbally saying she liked the idea.
/You have 3 years./
He chuckled.
/Challenge accepted./
She kissed him meaningfully the time her plane was waiting; knowing it be awhile until she gets to kiss those lips again. He brushed off the stares and kissed her back of course, his finger keeping her chin up even when they parted.
/I'm going to wait for you./
She mumbles, staring back into his eyes.
/You should. Although I should be the one saying that./
He gives her a small but sincere smile.
/You're the one who's after me./
She teasingly retorts, grinning.
/I will find you./
He declares, pressing his forehead against hers, his expression on its usual display of stone.
/I know you will./
She nods.
/Just you wait. I wouldn't be needing 3 years to find you. Well...I think I'd give you enough time to prep up for your gallery. I guess. Got it memorized?/
He then lets her go; wrapping her scarf on her neck more firmly—and buttons up the first 2 buttons of her coat. She always teased him about being such a "rouge gentleman", but he thinks to himself to let it slip because she's not going to be with him for a few months—not 3 years. Because he'd find her.
And as he observed her plane fly off from the lobby, he smirked determinedly.
He never gave up on any of her challenges. He never lost once either.
"Ugh, dépêchez-vous Sébastien. L'exposition ne nous attendra pas, vous savez." (Ugh, hurry up Sebastian. The exhibition will not wait for us you know.) an irritated young boy with midnight blue hair and sapphire eyes grunted from the back of a car.
"Pardonnez mon retard, jeune maître. Je suis simplement un enfer d'un majordome." (Forgive my delay, young master. I am simply one hell of a butler.) Sebastian chuckled from the driver's seat.
"Tch. Tais-toi et partons!" (Tch. Shut up and let's go!)
The car barely drove forward when a man stopped beside the passenger side, clad in a crimson red shirt complete with black slacks, suit and tie. He wore a dark gray coat over it though.
"Excusez-moi, savez-vous où se déroule l'exposition?" (Excuse me, do you know where the exhibition is held?)
The scarlet eyed butler blinked. The man looked familiar even with the black aviator shades. However, he had brown hair. His eyes must be blue then.
"Ah, we were going there ourselves." Sebastian smiled. "Voulez vous faire un venir avec nous?" (Would you like to come with us?)
"Non merci." (No thank you.) he said bluntly. "Just tell me where it is."
"It's at the Musée du Louvre. Just across École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts." Ciel snapped irritably in English. "Now move along!"
"Gracías." (Thank you.) the man changed to Spanish, walking off.
Ciel and Sebastian looked at each other in confusion.
"N'est-ce pas homme Vanitas Caelum?" (Isn't that man Vanitas Caelum?)
Ciel shrugged.
"Mr. Caelum has black hair, you fool."
Sebastian grinned at the irritable Phantomhive heir cheekily.
"Have you ever heard of hair dye, young master?"
"Oh tais-toi." (Oh shut up.)
There she was.
Clad in a strapless black dress that faded to white at the end that showed her bare shoulders and legs and accented her womanly assets nicely.
She looked like she walked out of a fashion magazine; simply divine.
He smirked at some of "her" paintings, bypassing them for the main attractions of the gallery—the one where people crowded over the most, murmuring praises and compliments.
He takes his shades off to admire them, blue eyes dazed and it almost feels déjà vu as she walks over, her smile worth a billion munny.
"Welcome. My name is Naminé."
His eyes were bright with amazement as he surveyed her hard work; something in his gaze familiar to her. She observes the man in silence, wondering why this brown-haired, blue-eyed man looked so much like HIM; who, by the way, was yet to be here. She couldn't help but blush as he sent her a charming smirk. Oh god, what the hell was she doing? She had a BOYFRIEND for god's sake! But…
"These are very beautiful paintings."
He smiles knowingly while her eyes blink in surprise, his blue eyes twinkling at the 4, brightly lit paintings, each in its own, huge canvas He wondered how much blood, sweat and tears she shed on these four. Her model, her creation, her MASTERPIECE, in each 2 full-color and 2 black and white tones, looked so detailed it almost seemed real. His smirk was full of unsaid tattle-tales; his attention on a camera he held in his hands. It looked alive in every small detail; she captured the very essence of life. He was at awe.
"Oh um…thank you."
She smiles shyly and he smiles a bit. They both could hear the small crowd getting bigger, gathering behind them, murmuring at how handsome the photographer was. She curiously observed how a smirk formed on his lips.
"I could sue you if I wanted."
He directs his grin at her direction, jamming his hands on his trousers while her eyes widen in surprise.
"I beg your pardon sir?"
He wanted to laugh at her slightly panicked voice, averting his eyes from her the gigantic paintings.
"That's supposed to be you sitting in that café."
He points to the first one in the left, making her eyes widen.
"What…?"
He smirks at her again.
"That one," he points to the very last one on the right, which had him eating sea-salt ice cream in soft pastels. "Is supposed to be you too."
The two, B&W paintings on the center, was one painting separated into two, him on the clock tower his eyes golden and hair black and the skies golden with the setting sun.
"Would you mind if I used you as my muse again?"
He saw realization dawn in her, so he smirks, ducking down to remove the irritating pair of contact lenses and she smiles. He looked up, golden eyes meeting cerulean as he took her hand, placing a kiss on her knuckle.
"Vanitas. It was an honor to have been your model."
I think this one-shot is what I personally liked best as one of my own. Not that I'm being arrogant or anything—I guess the creative juices were flowing while I wrote this XD Now all of you know why Naminé wanted the pictures he took of her :P I'll let you think of what...happened next after the exhibition xD -IFYOUKNOWWHATIMEAN-
Did all of you enjoy this? :3