I just really had to write a fanfic for Garry and Ib, but I don't know if this will be fluff, only this one chapter, or end up blowing up into a full-on story with plots. We'll see, I guess, and enjoy :). Review if you liked it and would like me to continue!
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At London
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Ib pushed the heavy curtain back a little, letting some sunshine stream into her room. She sat on the window seat and peered out the window, nostalgic feelings returning once again.
Eight years ago when Ib and her family had first moved to London, she was so small she had to heave herself onto the window seat, wriggling forwards on her tummy to get up. Now, at seventeen, she barely had to go on her toes.
Eight years. Eight years since the horrifying, nightmare-inducing incident at Guertena's gallery that had left her awake and shaking for countless nights. She had never been good at showing her feelings, and now all the fear and anxiety steadily accumulated up inside of her and manifested itself in dreams.
Eight years since she had last seen Garry.
Ib's parents had noticed a change in their daughter. This, accompanied by the birth of a boy, catalysed their initial thoughts on immigrating to Britain.
The family had moved by the next month.
Ib found herself wishing, as she often did, that she and Garry had exchanged some kind of contact details before they separated. No doubt the young man had never imagined she would be leaving the country.
Ugh, no. Who could blame her? She was nine years old at the time – her mother didn't let her have an email address until she was twelve.
Forget him, she thought, the street blurring below her. Her house was down many streets off the main road, falling deeper and deeper into seclusion until the neighbourhood was simply a row of tall houses lining a long, narrow road. Her parents wanted a safe place for young Cal to grow up.
But how do you forget your hero? The houses seemed to shiver, smudging together until all that was left was a smear. Ib brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. She was annoyed with herself. How could one person cause her to show such powerful emotions? Someone in another country, no less, who she hadn't seen in eight years.
Ib had sudden mood swings like these sometimes. The last time had been seven months ago; she had thought she had finally gotten over the whole thing. But who was she trying to convince, really? It's impossible to forget someone who was by your side in such a traumatic event, something that only Garry's face could bring calm to her. She could still remember the feeling of his heavy coat, when he had covered her with it, the candy he had given her. The small gift might have seemed almost insignificant to him, but at the memory Ib felt hot tears beginning to form in her eyes again. It had tasted sweet. A little melted at the end. Some sticky remains had stuck to the wrapper when she peeled it off.
She could still remember how Garry felt when she hugged him. He had arrived out of nowhere and saved her from Mary. The crumbling fear of the moment and the overwhelming relief of seeing Garry had caused an uncharacteristic show of emotion, throwing herself at him and burying her scrunched-up face into his front.
Ib blinked the tears back, drawing her knees up and resting her forehead against the window. How could only he – who she knew almost nothing about – make her show herself as so vulnerable, expose all her emotions? Was it his own lack of control over his emotions, showing fear and shock and worry clear as day on his face, his openness, that affected her? Or did he just become so special to her that her blasé exterior cracked a little in his presence?
Shaking her head quickly, Ib straightened up and leapt off the window seat. She was thinking far too much, even by her own standards.
Let's go for a walk, she thought. Buy something at the market. That might help.
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The smoke drifted lazily, floating in a haze around the young man's head. It looked like a smoky wreath, a grey halo.
Kind of ironic, Garry thought. He looked listlessly at the cigarette drooping between his fingers. A sigh escaped.
Garry was standing on the balcony of his hotel, overlooking a rather unimpressive view of London. As a fashion designer steadily growing in fame, he had figured he would get at least a decent apartment to stay in for a bit, a junior suite if he was pushing it, but certainly not a shabby hotel in the corner of nowhere. His only view was a bland building towering opposite, an apartment complex or something. He really didn't care.
This wasn't the first time he was offered to travel to another country. He had been invited to work for a fashion industry in Australia two years ago, but he had declined. Family problems, not ready for living somewhere else but thanks for the offer.
Who was he kidding? He just couldn't stand the thought of being on the other side of the world for up to three years. Not when there was a chance Ib was still looking for him like he was looking for her. No doubt she had given up years ago, if at all. Was he delusional to think she missed him just as much?
Garry justified his confused mass of emotions by deciding that initially, he had only loved her like a brother should. But now she must be sixteen or seventeen, perhaps even eighteen. He wouldn't have to lie to himself anymore.
But he didn't really want to tell himself the truth either, not when he had accepted the offer to travel to London and work there for six months to a year. The pay would be good, the experience excellent, everything should be perfect. He couldn't let Ib get in the way of his life or his career anymore.
Garry looked much the same as he had eight years ago. His hair was still dyed a violet colour and he was as lean as ever, but at twenty six his blue eyes seemed heavy now, saddened and hopeless. He still owned his tattered blue coat, but it was now hung at the back of his wardrobe as he tried to forget the ordeal at the art gallery. He wore simply but fashionably now, attempting to make his growing title himself. A plaid shirt and dark jeans, usually. He didn't like to draw attention to himself.
Garry blew more smoke out. He leaned against the railing, propped up on his forearms, and watched the street below. Many people milled about, rushing about with last-minute shopping, little kids wailing, dogs prancing about. Smoke wafted in his sight and he sighed once more. After separating from Ib he had decided to quit smoking, but after two years of searching and waiting, and the beginning of work pressure and family issues, his resolve crumbled and he was back with the life-threatening habit. And he didn't really care if he was going to be honest.
Someone in the crowd drew his attention, and he watched idly as the girl walked down the street, hands in her pockets and her head down. His cigarette was halfway to his mouth when she looked up, and he froze. His fingers seemed to lose all strength and the cigarette fell from his grip. It continued to fall, barely missing a young boy's head and skittering on the ground below. Ash scattered everywhere.
Garry straightened up, his heart beating so fast in his chest he began to feel light-headed. He was sure he had seen Ib. Older, yes, but it was Ib. Or perhaps the whole incident had gotten to his head at last, and he was hallucinating.
He watched, tense as a hunting cat, as the girl continued down the street. She was heading for the market, which was bustling on Sunday morning. She was quickly swallowed by the mass of people.
Snapping out of his stupor, Garry spun on his heel and raced back inside. He ran down the stairs and was out of the hotel in less than two minutes. Pushing past people without a word of apology, he sprinted towards the market.