| Author's Note | I've been noticing lately that I've lost my fervor for writing. The extreme boredom drowns me so well that I actually feel lazy doing things I normally do with enthusiasm. ;A;

Dedicated to Autumn Win-dow for posting four fics a day and urging me to overcome my writer's block. Our Caps- Lock conversations will never tire me. To Annabelle Raefor giving helpful suggestions for this story and for helping me cope with my tendency to become giddy over my non-existent love life. Yeah, I really am hopeless.

Hotaru-centric. Second perspective and might be dull...I really needed and wanted to post a fic. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! 8D

Speeding Past the Seaside

buttercupbella

You're not sure if you pass by the sea because it's right before school, or it's gleaming with orange sprinkles and turquoise cream, or it's full of jet skis and banana boats and those kinds of fun summer stuff, or the barbecue vendor by the beach gives you freebies every Saturday, or it just makes you remember that somewhere along the shoreline, centuries ago, a silly little boy sat and smiled at you from afar.

Your heart fluttered a bit when you stopped pedaling and set your old, rusty bike on the warm sand. It didn't hurt to walk towards the glimmering water while you wore your favorite sneakers, the ones he drew on with his multi-colored markers. Oh, he was quite the prankster back then. He'd earned a subtle hit from your elbow, you'd glared at him, and the both of you ended up chasing each other all day, struggling to raise your feet from the sand while trying to outrun the predator; in this case, yourselves.

Before the hour hand hit 8 on your clock, he'd be there at your door, wearing his creased uniform while grinning sheepishly. You would walk along the beach—never mind the grains of sand filling your shoes—and talk about anything that came across your minds. Once, you even had a little chat about crabs, and God knows how you even veered into that topic.

Then came your sixteenth birthday. You mulled over your presents wrapped in pink ribbons and polka-dotted papers, and wondered if there were bracelets, books, and other trinkets inside of them. While your guests screamed "Happy birthday" in your ear, your ever- reliable best friend leaned on the door frame and showed up with grease staining his clothes. He led you into the garage with a lousily-made blindfold, and you gasped at the sight of new bicycle parts.

Even with his meager means, he couldn't help but amaze you every single time. You spent your night fixing gears and wheels and chains, and you enjoyed every minute while it lasted. In the end, those expensive gifts stowed in your living room could not compare to the fully functional bicycle you reconstructed with him. You'd learned a lot of things that day: you were a budding mechanic, possibly an inventor in the future; the best way to maintain the balance on your bike was to swerve not too abruptly and calm yourself; for the past fifteen years of your life, he'd been there teaching you things you never knew, and deep inside your brain stemmed a question that you've long since dreaded.

At this point, had you already been that weak to fall in love so quickly?

Unlike the seemingly complex anatomy of your bicycle and the concept of the diffraction of sunlight over the sea, you couldn't understand how one touch of his hand sent shivers down your spine. Though your heart squealed every time he came near, you kept your thoughts to yourself and observed first.

You'd been a genius all along, and you've noticed that he acted the same way that you did.

However, you developed a strange taciturnity ever since you discovered your feelings for him. You didn't laugh that much when he delivered his comical lines, you didn't ride your bike enthusiastically, and you most certainly didn't seem to be surprised when he appeared in the eve of Valentine's holding a bouquet of flowers.

You closed the door because you were afraid to lose your friendship. You closed the door because you were afraid that the both of you would be another living proof of romantic clichés and tragedies. You closed the door because you never really knew what to do back then, when he looked up to you with his handsome face and hopeful smile.

That's why you're not the least bit bewildered when he stands in front of the altar wearing an indifferent expression and muttering vows he's sure he would break later on. He hears the words and nods his head at the priest like some sort of uninterested toddler.

"Do you accept Sumire Shouda as your wife?"

You stare at him when he mumbles, "Hn," because you know very well the reasons behind his lack of emotion. You watch as Sumire Shouda and Kokoro Yome kiss like the lovers they are, like the lovers they believe themselves to be.

He looks at you with his golden brown irises and smirks in the way that his lips curve nefariously, and you can't help but squirm at the sight of him.

You find yourself speeding past the familiar seaside, this time, in a shiny black car. The sea looks sullen and the clouds bring their tears upon the windshield. In a certain part of the ocean, perhaps a lost sailboat is fighting hard to overcome the torrents of water. The kind barbecue vendor has been long gone, and so have your memories with a brown-haired boy who, for the first time, cried when you shut the door years ago.

You recall his lessons on riding bicycles. Calm yourself, never steer too abruptly…

You grip the wheel and fail to follow what he said.

x

This is a story of boy meets girl, but you should know up front that this is not a love story.

-500 Days of Summer

Hi. I'd really appreciate it if you left constructive criticism. Thank you for reading, by the way!