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Couples. Couples. All around you, couples. They come in separate and leave as pairs and you're really getting tired of interrupting them on your way to the bathroom. It's an infectious disease, romance, and it's spreading like mad… or something.
(You've never been one for metaphors.)
It was your choice to work here, of course – your choice to work at a bloody couples' restaurant. It reeks of teenage sweat and weirdness and mediocre food and Arceus-who-let-that-milk-spoil, day in and day out. Perhaps you'd rather be out in the field, toiling with your Pokémon, sleeping in tents and Pokémon Centers, but you've got to remember the irony of why you made yourself come here in the first place.
It's him, of course.
He, with his brazen smile and innocent-wide chocolate eyes that conceal a fair amount of lewdness behind them, is the reason you're here, and you hate him for it. You hate him for making you fall so desperately for him as you protest in every possible way that you haven't. You hate him for making you seem so weak in your own eyes. Honestly, Crys – making decisions based on a boy? That's never been you, and you know it.
(You've got to admit, though, that being near him is nice – it makes your heart beat that much faster, even when you're sure it's gone dead from lack of use.)
And oh, Suicune, the way he rubs it in sometimes! You can see in his eyes how much he loves to irritate that little fact, remind you that yep-I-can-totally-see-that-you-like-me-so-I-think-I'll-go-along-with-it or is-it-just-me-or-would-we-make-a-stunning-couple? is a valid option for conversation in his book. It must be fun for him, to play on someone's emotions. You don't know. You don't really care why it happens at this point; you just care that it does.
"Crystal," he'll drawl sometimes, accenting the last syllable like he always does, "you look beautiful today."
You don't. You're in your ugly work uniform, your hair pigtailed and your eyes framed by makeup-less skin. So you ignore him, and usually he ignores you right back.
One time, though, he doesn't. "Oh, Crystal," he calls from across the shop as we're closing up, "fancy a date tonight?"
"Here we go again," you mutter, trying not to show the pain he surely expects you to feel at his proposition. "Will you ever take no for an answer?"
"Will you ever say yes?" he replies, grinning that cheeky grin.
You sigh and continue your study in polishing tables.
He drops the grin and tries a new approach. "C'mon, Crys. Just this once." His eyes are too pleading to ignore as coldly as you'd like.
"Gold…"
"Please?"
Your resolve is broken. "Fine. I'll do it," you say, promising yourself this is the only time you'll subject yourself to such humiliation.
He whoops in victory and does a little jig that has to make you snicker. "I knew I'd get through to you someday, Crystal," he says happily.
You put away the towel and soap and sigh. Hopefully you won't get yourself hurt too badly.
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So there you are, both still in work uniform, sifting through popcorn in the cinema. He stares at the screen, hand frozen halfway up to his mouth as he forgets reality for a moment. You recognize that Rosa girl from Timegate Traveler, but you're far too distracted to really pay attention – if Gold's looking your way, you've got to play the part well: indifference is key. You won't let any sense of enjoyment slip past your face; otherwise, the embarrassment when he drops his interested façade will be too much. You can't –
"See that dude in the background?" he whispers all too loudly. "Doesn't he look like a Rhyhorn?"
Glancing at the people around you to see if they're bothered by his comment (they're not), you nod once, keeping your eyes on the screen.
(Perhaps he seems a bit discouraged. You tell yourself it's a good thing.)
The movie ends on a dramatic note and Gold beams. "See, wasn't that fun?" he says brightly, standing up as the credits roll.
A tight smile graces your features in place of words; you don't want to say anything incriminating.
You walk outside. The night is cloudy, and the wind threatens to loose strands of hair from your pigtails.
"So, can I walk you home?" His hands are thrust in his pockets, and he looks at you questioningly with a casual shrug.
"Alright," you acquiesce quietly. He smiles and falls into step beside you. The two of you wander the streets of New Bark in silence.
He steps with you onto your familiar and tired-looking porch. You go to let yourself in, but you're stopped by a hand on your shoulder.
"Thanks for coming with me tonight," he says sincerely. "It actually means a lot to me…" His eyes are too close to yours for you to focus properly, so you look anywhere but them, concentrating on a spot in the distance instead –
– And that's why you don't have the slightest clue what's coming.
His lips touch yours softly, and you would shriek in surprise if you weren't deadlocked by fear. Your arms stay pinned to your side, but once you gain enough sense, you push him away with forceful palms.
You're sure the confusion and pain you see in his eyes is mirrored in your own.
"Damn it, Crystal!" He stomps his foot in frustration. "Why d'you always have to be so straitlaced?!"
Silence falls. He continues. "I-I mean, a kiss isn't going to hurt you! It's actually supposed to be nice, okay?"
It was nice – or, it would have been if it was genuine.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to think! You act like you like me, and then you act like you want nothing to do with me! You tell me. What am I supposed to do?" He flings his hands in the air in desperation.
"I thought you –" It's not supposed to be a whisper, but the lack of force behind it makes the words nearly inaudible.
"Look, I'm sorry. I can't deal with this any longer. I'm not going to try any more." He turned sharply and strode down the porch steps and down the street. "See you around, Crystal."
You address his retreating figure. I thought you were making fun of me.
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Straitlaced.
You know what it means. You look it up anyway.
noun: excessively strict in morals, manner, or opinion.
Narrow or over-precise in one's behavior or moral judgment.
Prudish; puritanical.
You rest your head in your hands and brood until the definitions become a single mantra in your mind. You weren't trying to – you didn't mean – you were only being cautious –
As if to provoke further catharsis, a little voice sounding suspiciously like Gold pipes up in your head. Caution is for wimps. Seriously. Go out and have fun! It laughs a Golden laugh and fades back into the recesses of your mind.
Well, then, says a more familiar voice: your own. You've really fucked it up this time, haven't you, my dear?
Yes. Yes, you have.
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