( A u t h o r' s N o t e ) Hey, I wrote this little one-shot Yusuke x Botan for my lovely, lovely, lovely wifey effervesance, the first line belongs to her. I'm not particularly fond of this fic, but I'm posting it anyway because there isn't enough Yusuke x Botan on this site for my liking. Hope you enjoy!
I.
When she was a little girl, she loved playing pretend. Long summer days were spent locked away in her mind, letting her imagination carry her to the clouds on crystal wings. There she would sit, singing made up songs that never seemed to end. And when she grew lonely, the most handsome prince in all of the world would come and sweep her away to where the streets were lined with diamonds and where hurt didn't hurt so much anymore because he would never let it.
II.
Now that she's older she finds that she still loves to play pretend, because make-believe is always so much easier than reality. What-you-wanted-to-happen always stings a lot less than what-really-did-happen and since she's grown she realizes that she fancies an entirely different kind of pretend. Except this kind of pretend is a lot less innocent, and at the same time she feels it's a lot less to ask for.
Late at night she sneaks off in her mind and pretends that he doesn't already have a-perfect-effigy-of-childhood-friendship to love and protect. She ignores that instead of preventing her any harm, he is the one that hurts her the most.
In her dreams she sees a peaceful world where a used-to-be spirit detective holds a run-of-the-mill ferry girl andshedoesn't have to convince him that she's good enough for his love.
III.
More and more often she absorbs herself in her imagination, and unpleasantly discovers that she's become addicted to day dreaming at the most inopportune occasions. On the subject of when, she finds that fantasy is most indiscriminate, and often catches herself thinking about his hands on her body during one of Koenma's particularly long lectures or in the middle of filing an especially important case.
Even when she's with him, there is no limit to her daydreams. A hairsbreadth away, and all she can do is imagine reaching out and touching him, knowing that reality would never let her get away really doing it.
IV.
"Botan, are you ok?"
And suddenly, she's not dreaming anymore. Distracted by her world of make-believe she's tripped and fallen and now he's looking at her. But something's different. It's not the kind of looking where he's seeing something else – when she's in his sight but all he notices is an obstacle, a silly girl that fell on her bottom. It's not the kind of looking where he doesn't really see anything at all, he just wants to keep going, pushing onwards in a completely masculine manner.
It's the kind of looking where he's actually looking, and seeing her – her eyes, her skin, her mood, her– the way he's looked at her a million times before in her dreams. It's the look that is always the beginning of the end.
When he helps her up, she knows something is different that will never be the same again. He smiles that smile that melts her insides – that one out of a million he really means – and somehow forgets to let go of her hand.
V.
It's another day and they're together again. They have been a lot lately, because he often forgets to go. He's proved very forgetful whenever she's around – forgetting about to-who-he's-already-promised-his-love, forgetting about a-little-thing-called-destiny – a little thing that's rather sinful to ignore. There is no limit to those tiny yet important details – forgetting not to hold her, to kiss her, to touch her, to love her.
One hot afternoon in the park she remarks on his recent tendency of forgetfulness. He just smiles and says, "You do that to a guy, Botan."
And then there's nothing but eyes and lips and skin and him and she realizes that she's forgotten how to play pretend.
VI.
Months later she learns that playing pretend is like riding a bike – you never really forget.
The first time they made love was on a bare mattress with his mother in the other room. It was short and clumsy and when they were finished she felt worse than she had when they started. After years of contemplating the most exact details of how-this-was-supposed-to-be, she couldn't have been more wrong.
There weren't any candles because the only light in the room was an almost-burnt-out light bulb hanging from the ceiling by its wire and the setting sun sneaking in through the holes in the drapes. And there weren't flowers and champagne and diamonds because in real life those things don't pop out of thin air whenever people feel like fucking. And the only scent in the room wasn't that of rose petals sprinkled on the bed sheets because even if there were roses, their scent would be trumped by that of spilt alcohol dried into the rug and the still smoldering cigarettes in a nearby ashtray. And there weren't any proclamations of love because mom might hear; there were only grunts of satisfaction that seemed to stem from the evil of human gratification itself.
The second time wasn't much better. Neither were the third or fourth or seventeenth. Late at night after he fell asleep she would trace the outline of the moon on the cold glass of the window and wonder when this was going to start looking like the perfection she had seen so many times before in her dreams.
VII.
As she gets a bit older, a bit wiser, a bit more mature, she realizes things that aren't apparent to children sitting in clouds or to lovesick teenagers. Perfection is slow in coming because it's never going to get there. Perfection is something that can only exist in otherworldly things like imagination and dreams. Perfection is something Yusuke could never give her no matter how much she wanted him too. Perfection is something she can never have no matter who she's with. Perfection is the little something that she let ruin her chance at happiness, because real life is never as great. And yet perfection is still the thing she desires the most.
Now when Yusuke makes love to her she runs off in her mind and pretends like instead of being in an apartment with cigarette burns on the rug, she's in a palace on a mountain overlooking a deep blue lake that sparkles in the sun.
And though she'd probably be happier alone, she stays with him because somewhere deep down she loves him, even though he's not a prince that could pluck the sun out of the sky if he wanted to just so he could give it to her so she would smile – even though a long time ago that silly little cocky smile she fell in love with stopped being so endearing.
This is Botan – young on the outside but she's lived a million lives on the inside. When she was a little girl she loved playing pretend.
She'll never stop.
THE END