bāsia
Latin. "kisses"
In his eyes, she is deeper than the ocean. Her eyes are darker than the night. Her smile gives to him more than just a feeling of fondness, she gives him warmth. He realizes, in fact, the only warmth he embraces diurnally is the warmth that covers his face from time to time. She makes him hotheaded. She's too good for him; and too good for him in more than one way.
Her presence in the room, he swears the temperature changes every time she enters. He swears every time she laughs goosebumps fleck across his body. She has a certain scent, one that bewitches him. Her eyes are a new world he feels unworthy to explore.
What's worse is that he acts as if he is worthy of her. At night he sits awake and loathes himself. She is a privilege, why can't he treat her as one?
When his eyes fall upon her, his heart falls along with them. Yet, when he speaks, he speaks nothing but filth and the like. Any reaction she gives to him, he believes all of them are justified. He smirks, acts better, insults her. All the while he knows she deserves to be treated as if she is a jewel of her own. She is the original, the only. Nothing and no one exists even similar to the way she moves or speaks.
She is sweet. He's never tasted her before, but he knows if he did, the taste of her would set his body on fire: the taste of her would be sweet. She has this chapstick, she uses it tirelessly. He realizes, although she is a woman—wait, woman? When did he begin to regard her as a…woman? He shakes his head, his bristly hair unwavering in the motion. Back to his thoughts. Pecha berry? He thinks that was the flavor—or the label he means. Of course that cannot actually be what her flavor is… And not that he would be able to find out, anyway. Pecha berry.
His heart begins to beat at a fast pace, so he stands up and leaves his gym. His patience starts running thin. As he walks out the door he shakes his head again. He clicks his tongue… And then bites it in shock. Speak of the devil.
She comes walking so naturally, and she looks worn from the dirt she must have fallen in and rubbed against many times. He winces for a second noticing the scrapes and bruises across her legs and arms. She's always so reckless and he doesn't like that. He lov—no, he just doesn't want his rival to kill herself. That's it, that's only it.
A sigh escapes from her mouth—saliva catches in his throat—her mouth… He wonders again if she's wearing that pecha berry chapstick even though she's so exhausted—
"Hey, Green," she says, her voice sounds as if the wind in it didn't exist anymore.
He snaps back out of his thoughts. And he internally curses himself as he feels the smirk form on his lips. "Well hey there, loser," he sneers.
No damnit, he thinks. I've done it again.
It's always been like this, and he can't break it. He'd like to, he would like to let her know he doesn't at least hate her… Well, he wonders that sometimes. Does he hate her? She makes him feel waves of frustration that he can't wrap his mind around. She defeats him in battles endlessly, he can never win when it comes to her.
This young girl, well, not young like they used to be when they were young, but this young woman he supposes, is supposed to be just that. She's supposed to be the girl who came crying to him when she was lonely because "big brother Red" wasn't around. She's supposed to be the girl who's arms were practically twigs and couldn't open a jar to save her life. She's supposed to rely on him, he's supposed to protect her… But he guesses she somehow grew out of that.
He shamefully covers his mouth with his hand for what he said, clenching his teeth. Her shoulders sag down, her head tilts to her right. He always regrets so deeply every foul word that flies out of his lips and directs toward her. Yet, her eyes are so bright, he swears they are shining. Although he said such awful words, those brown eyes of hers… So deep? Is that it? They're deep? Those brown eyes sparkle at him, saying "I know you don't really mean it," for her.
However, she smiles an unhappy smile, and her mouth says, "Really now?" instead.
"Well, it's the truth, no matter how many battles you win, or any titles you gain," he mocks. "A loser is always a loser, ya' know."
And on the inside of this Viridian gym leader's mind, he is subconsciously punching himself in the face. He understands he really needs to stop… Especially when she looks at him like that—like she wants him to just tell her she's all of these wonderful things—like she wants him to let her know he approves of her.
But then again, he guesses she doesn't really have a place for him in her life… Much less, would she even want him to have a place? He agrees with himself: probably not.
"Listen Green, I'm super tired," she begins, only continuing to say something that surprises him. "Why don't we put this behind us and act like our actual ages? It's been months since I last saw you, I actually missed you, but I guess you don't feel the same."
Once more, he feels stupid. So stupid. This girl—this hard-working woman—misses him? And he has the pluck to make assertions that imply he feels indifferent? What's his problem? He hates this. He hates not being honest. And her scent sets him off.
Although she's been drenched in her sweat and filth for weeks, somehow she still manages to smell wonderful. Somehow her skin still appears to look soft. Somehow, she still makes him wonder about that pecha berry chapstick. He's been wondering about it for a while, since about their teen years he quickly remembers. That happens to be a long time he realizes, a very long time to still be curious.
Her eyebrows furrow and her tired eyes squint along with them, she just can't read his thoughts. Finally, he takes in a deep breath and releases it.
"You're right," he says quietly, his voice is low and scratchy. He moves toward her, too fast for her to react. He notices they're out of sight, on the backside of his gym. She stares him in the eyes, not afraid but perplexed. He had never done anything of the sort before.
He's close. She can feel his breath. She can smell him; a scent she's longed for but never been able to admit she does. He can see the tiny freckles on her cheeks and shoulders, he sees the skin he's wanted to touch since their teenage years. So many things he has wanted since they were younger, and he's never been able to make it happen… But he feels he can now.
He lifts his hand to her face, he touches it. Soft, just as he thought. Her brown eyes haven't left his. And he knows, because he knows her, if she didn't want this she would have said so. He brings his face close to hers, still wondering about that chapstick. His lips gently touch hers.
After a moment, he moves away… He's incandescent.
"Leaf," he starts softly, and she realizes his tone to be the most serious she had ever heard it.
"Yes?" Her response is gentle, so gentle he feels it envelop him in the loving thought of her.
"I did miss you." And he quickly misses that pecha chapstick she evidently is wearing.
So he moves in closer once again, hoping to put more of it on his own lips.
a/n: for my lovely wife Steph, or luckyyaf on tumblr.