Us Against the World
If I could live a thousand more years, I'd spend them all with you.
She gazes at him through the dark tints of her window pane. Her eager eyes follow his every move. She watches him stop and run long fingers through his tousled black hair. He is tall, strapping and broad-shouldered. His eyes are beautiful, she realises. They arch in a curious curve and glimmer in gay abandon. She smiles as he stands languidly and strums his guitar. At the first quiver of the strings, she throws open her windows and lets the music flow in. His deep baritone voice makes its way toward her and caresses her. His voice is husky; each tremor speaks of a thousand unsaid stories. His voice flirts with her soul.
(She thinks his voice the most beautiful in the world.)
A crowd gathers around him. She watches with unmistakable pride as people rushing past stop, waver and get pulled in by a voice they cannot resist. His lips part and let loose a gamut of musical emotions. Every emotion nestles deep within the hearts of his listeners. His song comes to a close. For a second there is absolute silence. The mockingbirds cease their singing for a voice as soulful as their own. And suddenly, a deafening applause sweeps the streets. Inside her home, she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. He bows down and tips his hat forward. Immediately, notes are stuffed into it. He gives another sweeping bow and retreats. Reluctantly, the crowd disperses. The young man places his guitar in its case and turns to leave.
Her eyes widen in shock. She pulls a coat over her narrow shoulders and runs down the stairs. She bursts into the streets, stumbling over the sidewalk and lands in an ignominious heap before him. He looks at her in vague surprise. She scrambles to her feet and artlessly gasps, "Don't go."
(He almost smiles.)
He stares at her for a few moments. "Would you like me to play again, Miss?" His voice is just as beautiful as when he sings. She closes her eyes for a moment and feels the pounding of blood against her thumping heart. "Yes, please," she nods.
This time, he sings softly. He sings of the birds in their nests, the creatures in the woods and the rivers and seas. He sings of love, hope and joy. He sings of a young girl and a young boy. He sings of a world torn apart in strife. He sings in hushed tones, almost mysteriously. He sings for her and her alone. She stands mesmerized, with her hand pressed against her heart and her eyes lit up in wonder. Her long blonde hair sways in rhythm with his unsounded beats. She feels a sudden moistness in her eyes. It's a moment of fleeting beauty. It's a moment when darkness exists not in the world. It's a moment when everything in the world is just as beautiful as his voice.
His lips close over the ending of the song and she lets out a cry. "I could hear you sing forever," she murmurs. There isn't a trace of affectation in her words. She utters the words with the fervent admiration of a music lover and the absolute truthfulness of a child. He looks at her, almost startled. "I'm Rogue, Rogue Cheney," he mutters after a moment of silence. She grasps his outstretched hand with a steady grip. Her blue eyes look deep into the orbs of his shimmering ones as she answers, "It's lovely to meet you. I'm Lucy Heartfilia."
(His heart beats furiously at the sound of her name.)
She looks at him expectantly. He recognizes in her eyes the same fire that burns in his. "Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?" He asks her suddenly. His dialogue sounds painfully cliché to even his own ears. His sharp eyes catch her fleeting grin and his eyes grin too. She nods, "There's a nice little cafe down the street." He straps his guitar over his broad torso and they walk down the lane together.
He is curiously unsuited to the ambience of the cafe. His muscular frame contrasts the painful cuteness of the cafe with a vengeance. She stifles a laugh as his powerful body is subdued into a red fluffy settee. "What?" He asks her indignantly as he notices her beautiful curved lips and smiling eyes. She shakes her head and laughs, "You don't belong here." He looks at her interestedly and questions softly, "Where do I belong, then?" She pauses a while. When she replies, a faraway look steals into her startling blue eyes and her cheeks glow in animation. "You belong to the hills and trees, the rivers, the oceans. You belong to nature as no man has ever belonged. You belong to the troughs of the earth and the peaks of heaven. You hardly belong to the world of humans."
(You belong to the place where I once belonged too.)
He stretches his long legs before him and gazes intently at her. He leans in and whispers, his gentle voice curves through her ears, "You know something; sometimes I feel that way too." Her hand lies limply on the little table. For a minute, his eyes remain trained on the trailing whiteness of her hands. A second later, he tentatively places his own palm over the back of her small hand. His shimmering eyes pierce deep into her soul and he smiles, "I think you belong there too."
She gawks. Her jaw drops in a sudden act of inelegance. He looks at her in faint surprise with questioning eyes. She hastens to apologize. "It's just," she stammers in an awed voice, "It's just that I've never seen you smile before." His unsure smile widens and he scratches the back of his head embarrassedly, "I've never been much of a smiling person, I guess." She wriggles about in her seat and declares resolutely, "Well, you smile beautifully." He throws his head back and laughs. Peal after peal of rich, true laughter abounds in the little shop. Everyone it encounters is gifted an involuntary smile too.
(She realises his laugh is even more beautiful than his smile.)
He lowers his voice to a feigned whisper and murmurs, "Can I tell you a secret, Lucy?" She quivers at the sound of her name spoken through his rich, husky tones. "I have never laughed as much as I have today."
She looks deep into his glistening eyes and conjectures softly, "You mustn't have a very happy life then."
He is shocked at her acuity. For a second, the mask he is so adept at placing over his true self breaks loose and shatters. He wonders if he ought to brush aside her keen remark, perhaps crack a silly joke. But something in her earnest voice touches the lonely crevices of his heart. He trains his itching eyes on an ugly centrepiece and replies in a low tone, "No, I don't."
(She hears the masked plea in his nonchalant voice.)
"Does no one understand you?" She asks curiously.
He bites his lower lip with a force that draws blood. "No." He shakes his head. "Does anyone understand you?"
She refrains from answering his question. Instead, she looks into the distance and sighs, "You're an artist, Rogue. You're a free creative spirit. You will never fit in the world of mundane humans, of lifeless souls who possess no imagination. You will always stick out like a sore thumb even if people appreciate you."
He notices the fire in her eyes burn bright. "You're an artist too," he exclaims, his eyes widening in realization.
"No, Rogue," she shakes her head. "I reached a compromise. I'm one of the lost souls who are stranded between the world of creativity and banality. I sometimes wish I could fully belong to one world or the other. But I'm too afraid to let myself go and too vain to throw my imagination away."
"You write, don't you?" He asks her softly.
She nods in subtle astonishment, "How did you know?"
He strokes the soft skin on the back of her hand, "You have the hands of an artist. You have the used fingers of one who knows no employment but the scrawling of emotions on blank sheets. Your eyes shine with the power of a billion unsaid stories. You have the keenness of a writer. You seek a story in everything and everyone you encounter. Your thumb latches to your forefinger with the comfort of one who is accustomed to holding a pen between them. Your lips quiver with the memories of a hundred unspoken words."
(We are kindred spirits.)
Sudden tears spring up at the corner of her eyes, hot and angry. She shakes her head furiously and cries out, "I'm not worthy of the words you've used to describe me. I'm not worthy of being called a title as beautiful as artist. I'm a wayward spirit, Rogue. I'm too scared to embrace my talents, yet too scared to let them go. I'm a failure, a hypocrite hovering between two worlds. I want to be as pure as you, as sure and determined. Yet, I'm scared of becoming as you are now. You're unhappy, aren't you? You have no one you can call your own. I'm scared of feeling that way too."
"Come over to the side where you belong, Lucy." He answers simply. "It's not that painful. There might not be many people who understand you, but those who do will never leave you. Embrace yourself. And you know what; I'm a long way from unhappiness. I'm just a little lonely. But then again," he pauses, "if you come by, we both needn't ever be lonely again."
She blinks in astonishment. She drops her head and sighs, "It's beautiful when you put it that way. But I'm too much of a coward to give up the comforts of the compromise I've reached."
"You aren't a coward," he corrects gently, "You're just a little scared."
"What's the difference?" She mutters through angry tears.
"Everything," he answers.
It's us against the world. If we have to fight, we will. If we have to win, we will. If we have to lose, we will. Whatever we do, we'll do it together.
They are sprawled on the warm sand, legs stretched into the azure seas. His swampy black hair falls gently over his alert eyes. Her long blonde hair flies effortlessly in the gentle winds. Their hands are cupped together. Their limbs are intertwined. They breathe with the assurance of there being no need to breathe at all. Occasionally, his eyes would traverse to her sweet face. Occasionally, her fingers would clutch his loosely curved arms. Occasionally, they would be locked in an embrace so fierce. Occasionally, they would look away and sigh.
"Will you let me write about you?" She asks him suddenly.
(He's the only thing she can bring herself to write about.)
He fixes his deep eyes on her eager face. She looks at him with beseeching eyes, "Rogue, you're an enigma, a spirit that I wish I could be. If perhaps I could write about you, I would be a step closer to that wish and to you."
He gazes at the long light hair trailing down her back. "Will you let me sing about you?" He asks in reply.
(They laugh in unison.)
He sits before her as she clutches a recently sharpened pencil unsurely in her fingers. Blank sheets lie strewn on the table before her. She bites her lip and takes in a long draught. With her pencil poised over the whiteness of the sheets, she realises she knows not what to do. She remembers times when words flowed down her nib and onto the sheets. She remembers times when she had not to think of anything. She remembers times when stories were part of her and her of them. She has shunned them. So now they shun her. "I never knew it was this hard to write," she sighs.
"It's not," he shakes his head, "the hardest part of anything is to begin."
"I don't know how," she mutters brokenly.
"Of course you do," he smiles.
"Sing for me, Rogue," she looks at him entreatingly, "Sing for me."
He bows his head and clears his throat. The words of the song that drop down from his lips are curiously different. He sings of a young girl in a ravaged world, in a world where she doesn't belong. He sings of her struggling to fit in, letting herself go to be accepted. He sings of the young girl falling in love and discovering who she is meant to be. He sings of the young girl emerging from the shadows and making the world sit up and take notice. He sings of her winning against the world.
(He sings of Lucy Heartfilia.)
His voice has never been more powerful, or ever more so subtle. Quivering tenors scale the highest of notes and restrained beats underline a song of love. His rich voice fills her narrow room. Her heart beats in rhythm with his song. Her eyes glimmer with the power his voice lends to her. She lets the music guide her to a world more beautiful than any.
(A world of only her and him.)
Even as he sings, she feels his presence empower her. She throws back her long hair and scribbles hastily on the sheet. At the first touch of the pencil-point to the sheet, she feels a jolt of current; a current she has missed every second of her life. Her pencil scratches the surface furiously. Sharp pencil marks tear apart the whiteness of the papers. She kills the papers with ruthless hands; only to breathe life into them again. She writes as she has never written before. She writes of joy, of hope and of life. She writes of all things happy. She writes of things she wishes she could do; soar like a bird over mighty mountains and swim like a fish under the currents of the sea.
She writes of a young man with scraggly black hair that falls upon his shoulders, with glistening eyes that shimmer from within. She writes of his trials, his struggles and pains. She writes about his sorrows and his happiness; about the songs of hope that he sings. She writes about people shunning him and chiding him. Then she writes about the same people flocking to see him again. She writes of his victory against the cruelty of humanity. She writes about his winning against the world.
(He sings for her as long as she writes.)
She pushes back the hair from her face and shyly hands him a scrawling manuscript. "Read it, please," she urges. "And tell me if I'm there yet."
He curls up on his sofa and reads her story. He reads it for a day and a night at end. He reads it until he can read no more. When he finishes the story, he stops, wipes a single tear from the corner of his eye and starts again. Early next morning, and he has read the book seven times already.
"Well," she asks him expectantly, "how do you like it? Have I broken through?"
He plants a tender kiss on her pink lips in reply.
We are meant to be together. In the face of all adversity, of stormy oceans and mighty mountains, we will fight tooth and nail and we will survive.
He stands before her, suitcase trailing behind him, backpack hugging him and guitar strapped to his chest. She smiles a sad sort of smile. She knows that the time has come for him to leave and for her to soar. She knows it isn't parting; yet a dull pain wounds her heart. She stretches her arm and her fingers grope for his. He presses his fingers to hers. Their finger tips blush a deep red. He presses his lips to her crimson cheeks. She intertwines her fingers with his in reply. Behind them, the setting sun paints the azure sky a million colours. She looks at the hues and smiles.
"Take this," she mutters. She shoves her tattered, handwritten manuscript into his hands. "I have a copy of it. But I wish you would take this. It's your story. It's the story of you winning."
He holds the bunch of papers close to his chest as though he would never let go. He nods, "Thank you." He plunges his long fingers into his backpack and extracts a thin rectangular disc cover. He nudges it into her fingers; the disc within glints in the sunlight. "It's for you," he tells her, "Whenever you feel like you can't win anymore, play it. It's your song," He pauses and smiles faintly, "It's the song of you winning."
She stifles her tears. He gulps down the lump in his throat. They bid adieu with the assurance of their meeting once more. They part because they know this isn't the end.
(They'll meet again when they've conquered the world.)
For lucyglitter11: I LOVE YOU 3333