not thinking about anything
disclaimer: I do not own kh.
I: violet
She's staring at the haunted mansion when she hears footsteps echo behind her. She doesn't turn, preferring to twirl her umbrella instead, carelessly leaning on her frail shoulder. It's not like it's the stranger's business to meddle. And the rain that dances and collects on the ground below separates them, casting a line that binds the sky and the land together and defines the distance between them.
There are flowers in her hair, picked up and scattered by the wind, no longer blowing on her face. They nestle within tangles of wavy hair, pretty ornaments hidden by her umbrella. And one by one, as silver blue droplets fall onto her hair, the flowers slip and slide down her hair, tumbling to the moist earth once more. And the plucked flowers, broken from their stem and leaves, remain forgotten as he stares at her lonely back, obscured by the violet umbrella, transparent as it casts a shade of isolation.
He watches and waits, piqued in curiosity by her silence, her voice too soft to be heard over the cascading rain. He's bold, he is fearless, he can do anything he wants—but he's interested in the move she makes and what her future brings. She's a spectre that can easily be forgotten, yet he clings to this memory, this gentle silence.
It's a change, and he's not reluctant to join this relaxing atmosphere.
Eyes of blue move slowly, from what's in front of her to what's below to what's behind. Yet, she is only able to glimpse a mere shade of dark green against the lighter hue of green grass. Her sandals squelch as she sinks just a little bit more into the ground. Her head lowers, and the curve of her neck teased by falling curls and thick raindrops swaying from left to right and right to left once more.
A smile dies on her face as easily as it forms. The rain lessens, and the connections are weak but still there.
"I love puddles," she says, to the shadow that she sees. "Don't you?"
She turns to glimpse the face she cannot see, the owner to the aura behind her.
But no one's there.
There is only silence without the rain's fall from grace.
II: indigo
He sees her as he breathes on the window, speckled with flecks of rain and ghostly fingertips that run dry and perforate as easily as crushed hope.
She's dancing with her eyes closed, away in her Garden of Eden, her hands moving in waves, her feet splashing into mini-lagoons of water, built up from the downpour and running down the street. And her umbrella is left unattended leaning on a lamppost, catching the tears that remain unseen, falling so high from the angels in the sky. Back and forth she twists and she turns, her eyes covered by delicate eyelids, flattered by thick lashes.
She wears boots that aren't quite purple and aren't quite blue and a dress that holds raindrops at the hem. They shimmer and they soar as she swirls into a circle, her arms extended like swans gracefully flying, the wind passing through their feathers, soundless as those mute birds. Still, her eyes are shut, two doors that refuse to open lest she crashes into something. She wears bangles on her arm, gold drizzled with silver water, chinking as she twirls and her bangles collide. But the sound is as pretty as the beat of her heart, and so it continues as she slowly becomes drenched with rain.
He doesn't know when it happens, his concentration focusing solely on her. One minute he's watching her through a foggy window, clouded by his breath. The next, he's at the entrance of his house, leaning on the door frame, the girl in boots and bangles, swaying in her melody.
The rain has devoured her, making her curls tangle up into tresses easily defined, making her face red and flushed and her skin pale. At last she opens her eyes, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly, ever changing and ever moving, and a soft smile twitches at the corner of her lips.
"Come and join me," she says.
But he shakes his head, his mouth hiding a smirk as he folds his arms and watches her. So she sighs and twirls once more, her hand reaching for the forgotten umbrella, letting the collected contents spill like a waterfall. And she sits on the stairs, near him, but not next to him, beneath his porch and they share the roof in silent lucidity.
Eventually, the shower stops and she is dryer than before, her legs no longer a pale version of the indigo sea. She stretches, still so pallid in her colours, and she stands up and faces him, offering a light-hearted smile to his dark eyes, perturbed with puzzles that yearns to be unlocked. It lingers for a moment, before the nameless girl tilts her head and walks away.
—and she smells of the rain.
III: blue
Dark skies pass right through him, the bombshell lightning touching the ground beside him, not fazing him. And the rain, so light and soft is heavy and hard on his face, troubled with the image before him.
Dressed in blue she swings back and forth on the playground swings, legs moving higher and lower as the momentum rushes up and down, as she rises and falls with the wind on her face. Laces slowly become undone, chasing butterflies and shattered dreams. They ascend the sky that cannot be reached as she leaps from the swings, floating in the air, mingling with dust particles and dandelion seeds. When she touches the ground like feathers from angel wings, some birds that surround her, flap their wings in angry protest, cawing and twittering, their ire diminishing her joy from touching a wisp of cloud.
Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are too big, but nothing shimmers and nothing shines, so she can't be—
And like speckled eggs, as he looks at the ground to see the pavement stained with liquid that is neither his nor hers, he wonders—oh, he wonders if—
Whose tears are they?
A thousand mysteries, lost in a starry sky of illusions and enchantments. He reaches out to touch her, her skin that glistens with rain, but she scatters like dust blown away by the wind, her lips brushing his ear in playful jest. Important things are forgotten, foolish things are remembered and the harlequins that arrive in monotone colours, lay out the foundation that is destroyed like sandcastles.
And she sits at the top, white curtains grazing her skin, surrounding her is the very visage of ruin. One by one, she plucks away the dandelions, floating away with the wind; never turning into feathers.
But when he wakes up, he doesn't believe it to be a dream.
IV: green
She's watching the ceiling of the train when he comes on board, tapping her foot one-two-three – the waltz that they have never done. She wears green shorts and a green top, her sneakers shadowed by the picnic basket. Arms behind her head, she blinks and she dreams, still conscious in the world of living.
"Oh," she says, her voice soft but audible. "Are you going to the beach?"
He decides that he doesn't like her in green; the colour gives her a shade of sickness, not a shade of liveliness or vivaciousness. She seems paler and forgotten and he hates the thought that burst into his mind.
"Yep, what's it to you?" His voice sounds so flat and bored that he wouldn't be surprised if she quails, flinching back from his uninterested and rude reply.
She turns her head from the ceiling to the window, watching the train begin to move. He can't see her face, obscured by flaxen tresses, but he knows she isn't crying. She sighs; her breath soft against skin and her bare tummy rises and falls evenly.
He shrugs. "Whatever."
"What are you waiting for?" The girl asks. Her voice is sombre and wrapped in quilts of silk.
"Nothing."
"Liar." There's a smile, different than before, on her face. "Or, are you telling the truth?" She faces him, still leaning on her back, her spine lifting ever so slightly from the seat. "I don't know." She makes her offer once more, one of her sneakers lightly bumping into her picnic basket.
"Care to join me?"
V: yellow
She stands apart from the crowd, lost in her thoughts and distant in yellow. The Struggle match goes on, and she watches with Wellington boots on her feet and an umbrella at her side, slanted and parallel to her legs.
But she's not watching the match; she's waiting for the rain, the quiet pitter-patter far more soothing than cheers from the crowd.
And he's watching her, his eyes glued to her every move.
The crowd yells and the crowd roars, but the words are meaningless and he leaves them behind and walks towards her. She's too near and she's too far, and the current that led her to this place has lost its grip on her. So she sits, like a rag doll, empty eyes staring and unrecognising, blank like those glass marbles. She doesn't make a sound when he sits beside her, all the confidence in the world swirling down the drainpipe.
"Have you found it?"
"Hm?" She turns and recognition flickers in her eyes. Vague and brief, it lasts as long as her smile, slipping to evanesce. "What are you talking about?"
"The thing that you're chasing – have you found it yet?"
She tilts her head and her big indigo eyes focus on her pale hands, a tiny droplet tracing a pattern down her palm. A soft smile teases her lips, the promise of awkwardness and amusement not quite revealed enough.
"Who can say? Is the rain? The desire of… well, I'm not quite sure." She leans back and closes her eyes. "If it's passed my way, I haven't seen it. If it's right in front of me, I haven't recognised it. If I know what it is, then I must have forgotten it."
"So you don't know?"
Her yellow Wellingtons shine with more raindrops. Modestly, the girl tucks back a curl behind her ear and opens her eyes, a mixture of hilarity and melancholy. Her smile fades away as an angel's tear splashes onto her nose. "Only time can say."
VI: orange
There are bubbles in the air, floating on air currents and wishing wells. Her lips curve into an 'o' and the liquid shapes itself into a round shiny monster, filled with colours that mock the blue air. Children laugh and children play, but none seem to notice her, the girl who laughs quietly at their innocent antics.
Dusk seems long and drawn out, not yet beginning; though the sky has the telltale glow of pink hues and orange shades. They compliment the colour of her eyes and the pattern of her clothes, painting her in a bolder picture while still retaining that shy personality.
She waves as she notices him, her smile brighter than before, though it dims as a bubble burst, drops of moisture collecting in miniscule portions. She wears an orange bandanna. Giggling, she blows more bubbles, glistening with carefree dreams.
"You came."
"Coincidence."
"You never did tell me your name, you know." She says, feeling the wind pass through her hair.
"Why so curious?"
"It's something to remember you by. So, how about it?"
"… Seifer." He says, his brawn enhanced by his roughed up clothes. Cocky, he strikes a pose, ever the arrogant one. "And yourself?"
"… Naminé." The colour of fresh roses blooms on her face and she takes another breath to blow a new batch of bubbles.
"Tell me about yourself."
VII: red
She meets him for the final time on Sunset Hill, leaning on the fence that oversees the trains puffing back and forth on the train track; her clothes different shades of red, cherry and cerise. She feels the wind whisper words in her ear and embrace her as Seifer slides his arm around her shoulder. She leans in and leans back out again, a soft smile on her face. A giggle nearly tumbles like the flowers that once bloomed on her hair.
He hasn't got sea-salt ice cream, but then again, he isn't a dork like the crew that opposes him and his posse.
Instead, he carries a memento, something for her to remember him by. And a packet of strawberry bonbons, sweet like her. It's wrapped up in a clumsily made present, but it's the thought that counts, so she keeps it close to her, murmuring her thanks.
"So when are you going to stop?" The dream that he's searching, the butterflies that she's chasing is all a step in trying to find their selves. Perhaps they've found it, and it's staring at them right in the face; perhaps not and it'll only take a million star oceans to figure it out.
"I don't know," she says, cobalt eyes turning to stone. "But I'll promise you something, Seifer."
"Now why do that? Not like we're friends or anything."
"A matter of perspective, I suppose." Naminé murmurs beneath her breath, gilded in halos. "If I stop looking, I'll come back to you. And maybe, maybe then, you'll join me."
Seifer thinks about all those curious times, umbrellas and rain and cloudy days and haunted mansions. He remembers the dancing and the sense of curiosity that contained her in her dance, which propelled the floating bubbles into the sky. A smirk slides onto his face, and there's the urge to burst her stupid promise. But, when he thinks about it, there's an unknown feeling, something that wasn't there before. "Yeah." He says gruffly, "I'll hold you to it."
Maybe one day he'll be beside her, dancing in the rain.
"You too," she replies, earning a laugh. "Better keep your end of the deal."
They talk of silences and idle dreams, and they fit in a way that a princess and her knight do with their boundaries uncertain and the challenge clear. If the castle is made of stone, then it holds firm. If the castle is made out of sand, then it does not crumble.
Together, they eat the packet of sweets, watching the dusk slowly streak into motion. He watches her, green eyes smouldering in the sight before him, the shadows perfecting her high cheekbones and delicate figure.
She tastes like honey and feels like a corporeal cloud, soft and feminine and his to protect.
"Yeah. That's a promise."
—and she looks like the sun, shimmering the jewelled prism lights into the horizon.