TITLE: plastic pink
GENRE: romance, hurt/comfort, (angst?)
WORD COUNT: 3000+
RATING: t
NOTE: i've been itching to write for these two for ages, oh my gosh, all the damn pent up sexual tension killed me i mean— wat
very slight au-verse because im apparently awful writing it otherwise
PLASTIC PINK
she's always wanted to be somebody else; he'll never love anybody besides her. shouma, ringo.
She's crying, a girl with fake pink hair and ugly magenta eyes. She hates herself, hates how she's like this, and hates how she needs him so desperately.
Shouma watches her from across the room, and he can't do anything for her. She smiles something fake at him and, "— I'm fine."
"Ogin—"
"I'm fine," she repeats sharply, her angry (magenta) eyes glaring at him. "I just— alone."
(God, she sounds so broken.)
But Shouma's Shouma, and he never listens to her— whoever she is.
He crosses the room in three long strides and settles on the bed beside her. She refuses to look at him; she glares at her knuckles and the hem of a stupid dress that isn't hers instead.
He sighs, and out of the corner of her eyes she can see him ruffle his hair, and, and— "you're you, nobody else."
She flinches abruptly, her head swinging towards him. She's not expecting this, these, these words that send her teetering between black and white, who she is, and who she'll never be. These are the words that gave her life and snuffed out the lights and abandoned her— these are the words that make her forget what she represents.
Her eyes are sparking, and he, he'll never understand.
He just doesn't get it, and maybe that's always been the problem between them.
But she's always been just as awful at saying what she means, so her words tumble and stumble and fall like stones, and, "— but that's," she trembles.
"— BUT THAT'S JUST NOT TRUE," and she's wailing and beating her fists on his chest. "I'm— I need to be Momoka, I, I— nobody needs anybody else."
She needs to stop now, needs to stop talking— goddammit, she's held this back for sixteen years, she can't give in now. When she sees how his shoulders shake, the words build and push up against her lips; it is a pressure that hurts as they force themselves through clenched teeth.
"I need to be NEEDED," she screams, a cry that rips from her throat and tears through the air and it hurts— it is a confession that has had sixteen years in the making, and it is one she is sure that he'll never understand. "YOU NEED MOMOKA, you need her, they need her, we need her, and, and if I become her, isn't that fine? If I AM her, isn't that OKAY? Doesn't that make everything BETTER?"
She grips his collar tightly, shaking him, and after all this time, she still doesn't dare to look into his damn sea-green eyes. "You'll never understand," she repeats hoarsely, "but in the end, Momoka's just better. It's destiny, and, and she's done everything right, you know? She can save people in a way I can't," she tells him desperately, because he of all people should know, should need to understand what she's saying.
"She can change fate," she says, blinking furiously in a battle to keep her dams up. She smiles crookedly in a way that makes it seem like he needs reassurance more than she does. She looks at a space above his eyes while she shakes him again, over and over, because he knows her, and he, he has to understand, she has to make him understand.
More than anything else, he needs to let her go.
"Ringo—I," she hesitates, corrects herself, and, "I HIT PEOPLE, YOU KNOW? I'm a hypocrite, and, and I'm selfish, and, and I want to keep everybody to myself. I hate sharing, hate how I'm weak, hate how I can never give anything," she pleads with him, because he can't say things like that, because he has to know that she's a terrible person.
"I hated how you always accepted me, hated how you pushed me out of the way, hated how you looked on the road, crumpled and damn broken, hated how it was my fault, hated, hated how you pushed me away, hated— HATED HOW, how, how your family is knit together and loving and loved and everything I am, everything I wanted, HATE HOW," and her voice convulses; she spits the words.
"— how even now, you can't leave me," she tells him, her voice rising, the confessions pouring and rippling and bleeding through gritted teeth. Her fingers crinkle his pristine collar into ugly folds and irregular lines. She hates that, too.
"I— I can't save anybody."
God, she's crying.
"— and dammit, who needs a girl like that?" she whispers, and she's broken.
She's breathing heavily against his chest; she swallows thickly as she tries to disentangle herself and draw back, alone. He's stayed silent through her tirade, but at this he tightens his hold around her gently. She flushes red, and there's something awfully bitter about all this.
"— maybe I do," he says quietly. She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head.
"No," she insists, trying to pull back from him, because he still doesn't get it, and his words are too close to something that makes her heart ache, because that "maybe I do" only reminds her that in the end, all he needs is Momoka to save his family, that, that in the end, she isn't good enough.
And here's the thing— he deserves better, always has, always will, and she'll never be good enough. There'll always be somebody better, her heart hisses, and she can't stand it, because for once, her heart is right.
He grabs her wrists and holds them so tightly his knuckles are white, and her wrists burn. Shouma turns her toward him— "look at me," and it is desperate.
"No?" he challenges her, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she wants to just give in and smile and slap him, and, and ease back into a pattern that hides all the pain that lurks beneath their skin, ignore all the problems that shatter like broken stars.
She can't though, because once she smiles he'll break through the little chinks of her armor, chip away at her walls like he did the first time, and he can't do that this time, because she needs to pay something back to this boy who gave her everything, to this boy who is her everything.
She's a ridiculously love-sick girl who can't even love a boy right.
Then again, crying is probably even worse than smiling, and all of a sudden he tilts her damn head and makes her look at him, and she sees his eyes that see through everything she is, that accept her despite everything else. She gives into sea green eyes as she sobs and wails and she hates him so, so much because he makes it too easy to just fall into his damn forgiveness.
"YES, NO, GODDAMMIT, JUST—!" she screeches at him, because she can never put what she wants to say into solid words, (because she's not perfect), and then, because Shouma's Shouma and he's unconventional and a dumbass and just plain stupid, he kisses her.
It's not romantic because she's crying, and it tastes a little like salt and the ocean; it's not romantic because their teeth clack together uncomfortably as he smacks their mouths together. His lips are chapped and strange and foreign against hers, and it's a funny feeling, one that buzzes in her chest, a feeling that threatens to dissipate within seconds. Despite it all, there's something almost magical in how his lips move against hers—
(— and, and, it's still not romantic.)
Shouma grips her shoulders tightly, almost as if he's scared she'll disappear as soon as he lets go. She beats on his chest in slight protest, and there are muffled screams that build up between them. Even so, there's something incredibly sweet in the curve of his ears and the crookedness of his mouth, and for half a second, Ringo— because that's who she has to be right now, right(?)— gives in and kisses him back, kisses him with everything she has, because more than anything else, she wants him next to her.
But in the end, (because everything comes to an end), she remembers pink hair and magenta eyes, and her mind is muddled and dizzy; her heart is hard. She closes her eyes tightly and shoves at his chest and pushes him away. She blinks continuously, over and over, while her chest heaves as she flushes red.
"— you can't," she hisses angrily, blinking furiously again to keep the tears at bay. It never works, and the tears start to leak again. "I'm not—" and she hesitates, struggles, because there are days when she forgets who she is.
He stares at her steadily, and she wishes this was still wishy-washy Shouma she was talking to, crying to. It's not though, so he's ten times more stubborn and annoying and fucking forgiving, and she can't do this anymore. She can't stand how he's always the shield to her glass heart when he's the one, when he's the one who deserves the damn saving.
"You can't kiss Momoka," she mutters.
"I wasn't kissing Momoka," he retorts back, something sharp and meaningful echoing in his voice— she tunes it out.
His hand stretches out, and her breath quickens as he pulls on a pink strand of her hair; she watches it fall and tumble to the floor, but she's sure his eyes never leave her face. She can't meet his eyes as he threads his fingers through brown locks, but she's sure he can see how the tears are leaking again, and goddamn, she is not supposed to be the crybaby between the two.
"Go take out your contacts," he whispers quietly. Her eyes almost harden, but he's already untangled his fingers from her hair and pulled her up with him.
There's something about his squared shoulders that she can't argue against, and she falls decidedly silent when his hands curl over her fingers as he drags her to a mirror. She bites her lip and glares at her toes, her fingers cold and hard as he raises them. She's trembling as she plucks fake magenta contacts out with slight precision; his chest is warm against her back, and she wants nothing more than to sigh into him and give in.
She won't let herself, though, so she throws her contacts down and hates how their fake pinks slap and disappear into her countertop. "Happy?" she breathes harshly, trying to edge past him, trying to keep her anger, trying to leave him again and again and again.
She stomps back into her room, slamming the door behind her angrily; she hears the door click open again, and she doesn't turn around. She won't give in, and she won't give up, because in the end, being Momoka is everything she is, and all that she lives for—
(— and isn't that what everybody wants?)
"It's cold in here," she mutters as he grabs her wrist. It's always too cold in this damn house.
His hold tightens as she feebly tries to resist the warmth encircling her wrist. "Let go—" she begins tiredly, tugging herself away as she whirls around, her hand raised as if to lash out, and—
"— your name is Oginome Ringo," and before she can interrupt and SLAP THE SHIT OUTTA HIM, he continues.
"You're loud, obnoxious, self-centered, occasionally a bitch, and utterly psychotic with a sadistic streak. You punch harder than a man that lifts weights. You push me harder than a slave driver, drive me up the walls, and you, you stalk people, and GODDAMMIT, goddammit, you drive me insane. You're just so stupid sometimes, and infuriating, and you piss me off more than anybody else I've ever met. I can't stand you sometimes, can't stand how, how you're always too stubborn, hate how you can never back out, hate how you'll always move forward despite it all."
Her hand hangs limply to her side, and maybe she's wrong. Maybe Shouma does understand, and maybe now he'll let her leave, maybe he'll leave her to (fucking) destiny and let her drown in red strings and the fruits of fate.
His voice is so, so steady, and she refuses to look into his pretty eyes; she stares at the floor and faintly wishes her eyes were made of magenta and happiness. "You're ridiculously strong, mentally, and dammit, physically too. You're determined, and, and obsessive and SO DAMN NAIVE, BECAUSE DAMMIT, TABUKI IS A MAN TOO," and his voice hardens slightly while she purses her lips.
"— and I hate how you love the color pink."
She stiffens, and she starts to pull away, to shy away from his touch again. "I knew it," she mumbles, her eyes downcast, "you'll never understand."
She probably should have seen it coming, because she's faced off against him before, and she knows what frustrated Shouma is capable of. He squares his shoulders again as he shoves her backwards. The backs of her knees brush against her comforter while her back smacks against the wall; she lands onto her bed with a thump, and it creaks beneath the weight of the both of them.
"I don't want to understand," he tells her firmly, and he always does this. He always does this.
Her arms are pinned to her sides while she wriggles about, struggling. His hands are like walls on either side of her, and she's fighting against the surges of warmth that he always makes against her, against everything she is.
"STOP ACCEPTING ME," she yells, her hands fighting against him. He ignores her because he's irritating, and, and infuriating, and—
"— I don't need Momoka," he tells her flatly. She hums loudly, her voice rising, trying to tune him out. His voice rises alongside hers. "I need you."
She raises her hands in an attempt to block him out, and she flails against him. "NO, NO, NO," she repeats, and she's furious as he takes her hands and pins them back down to her sides. "You DON'T, you're lying, damn it, STOP IT—"
"— you're pretty, okay? You're crazy but I'm okay with that, and everybody's a damn hypocrite, and everybody's occasionally a bitch, and everybody's a little insane—you, you live for everybody that you love, and how is that even a bad thing? And goddammit, goddammit, nobody is perfect. You don't need to be somebody else. You're courageous, and you don't give in to anybody who tells you otherwise, and, and I don't need to be saved, stupid, I don't need you to become somebody else, because, because I can't stand how you always do things as stupid as this for somebody like me. Stop doing this, because I care about you, not some stupid girl with stupid pink hair. I need you, and I'm not lying, and WILL YOU STOP SINGING?" he yells back, his voice rising as her humming grows louder, desperate.
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" she screeches back, the words childish as her legs buck beneath him. He winces as he clutches her shoulders; his fingertips dig into her shoulders as her back presses harder against the wall. His mouth breathes words against her throat, and this isn't fair.
"Listen to me," he says softly, roughly. Her humming wavers, quavers, trembles, and her fingers curl into her bed sheets; she hates how she always makes him sound so desperate. She falls silent, an angry frown splitting her face.
She's not prepared, because the fucking bastard told her to listen, when he kisses her again.
He's exceedingly gentle in how his hands finally let go of her wrists to cradle her face. Her hands hang limply by her side, her fingers still curled into her sheets tightly. Even so, his mouth moves sweetly against hers— he's whispering words against her lips, something along the lines of being cheesy and stupid and dumb, and it's all terribly embarrassing because she's sure she probably whimpers something back.
His lips make her feel like a little girl, like a little girl who deserves to be who she is, and it's something she hates and loves about everything he is.
She feels his quick heartbeat as he presses closer, and it's perhaps the prettiest kiss she's ever had. His kisses are like snowflake kisses— light and airy and nonexistent, but three times as sweet. She doesn't have the strength, the resolve to push him away this time, so she lets her eyelashes brush delicately against his cheek as she breathes against his lips.
As soon as she loses his warmth, as soon as he pulls away, she squeezes her eyes tightly shut. She needs to push him away again, needs to shove him away, and needs to change fate— she needs to give him away before she shatters his glass heart into a million fragile shards. It scares her, how he means everything to her, and how thin the rope is on which they walk.
"I can't do that with Momoka," he murmurs, his lips still daringly close to hers. "I won't either," he remarks wryly, and she can already see his damn smile crossing his stupidly nice face. She squeezes her eyes even tighter together, tries to think of anything to hum, anything to tune him out.
"— I need you."
Her breath catches, and she snuffles, choking slightly. She's scared. "You just want a girl to kiss, asshole."
She feels his hand brush against her cheek, and it is both something borrowed and something returned. She slowly creaks her eyes open to face his (damn pretty) green ones, and she swallows hard when she sees him smiling crookedly at her.
She closes her eyes again, tries to fight back.
"I can't change fate, you know. I'm not talented or smart or, or particularly pretty. I'm plain and I have stupid brown hair with stupid brown eyes, and I'm occasionally a bitch— and, and I'm not perfect at all. I'm hard to love, hard to deal with, and I— I'm sensitive. And now that you've kissed me, I'll put you through hell, and dammit, you stupid idiot, I can't change fate, I can't save anybody," she whispers her fears again, and she prays that he'll be smart and push her away and leave her.
"— and I — I," and her voice breaks, "I'll probably always love the color pink."
She feels his slight fingers brush against her cheek as he tucks a lock behind her ear. "Open your eyes, Oginome-san," he murmurs against her ear.
She trembles something weak and not perfect, and she's always hated that about herself. "Why do you do this?"
"— I do it because you're damn stupid, and you'll always need somebody next to you,"
Her eyes fly open, her hand poised to slap the living shit outta this bastard because he's useless at, at being damn comforting, and he grabs her wrist and holds her gaze.
"— but I love you, because you're brave."
She slowly blinks open her eyes, feels the crinkle lines as she scrunches up her face to keep back the tears because she keeps fucking crying, feels how he moves his hands to her shoulders, feels how he gets closer, always gets too damn close, always, always, always Shouma.
She always wanted Momoka to save him.
But in the end, when his fingertips trace the contours of her face, when she feels his feverish skin next to hers, when his forehead touches hers, when she threads her fingers through his stupidly blue hair, when she sees his stupidly perfect, stupidly accepting, stupidly kind, stupidly pretty sea-green eyes, when he fucking kisses her like the stupid, whiny, idiotic bastard he is, she feels a little too much like a little girl with stupidly brown hair and stupidly brown eyes, and nothing like a perfect little savior with bubblegum pink hair and magenta eyes that she's supposed to be.
He always makes her feel a little too much like a person she's never wanted to be, and maybe that's always been the problem.
(Ringo's always wanted to save him, too.)
NOTE: i love, love, love these two so, so much, & my aim was to write something happy for them b/c hello they never got a happy ending
but it ended up being angst bc they FUCKING SUCK & i can't but w/e they kissed rite isnt that fine um
sigh, the inner workings of a teen!girl identity crisis; i had tons of fun writing this though!
sorry if they're ooc; i'm awful with things like that.
my aim is to write something happy for them next!
if you don't get anything, tell me & i'll explain to the best of my abilities. maybe.
im awful with pms, honestly.
i prolly don't even get my own story tbh LOL.
sorry for shitty endings & shitty summaries & shit-tastic authors (that's me!)
im off to go frolic in the snow; catch ya later!
xxx.