Heartbeat (featuring G.)
Their love had no end, because there was no beginning to speak of.
G. first met her in a remote village perched atop mountains; he, along with Giotto, had been searching for an inn to spend the night when she had, from the second level of her home, flung open her bedroom window, whimpering in pure terror. Giotto had halted in the middle of the street, and expressed concern as they watched her flail her arms helplessly, all the while cowering against the wall next to her window; was she being mistreated, or threatened by someone?
But when a large, black moth flew out of the open window moments later and she breathed a sigh of relief, G. couldn't help but chuckle as he lit a cigarette, and even Giotto smiled in mild amusement. The girl, who had spotted them under the dim light as she glanced anxiously out to see if the creature had really flown off, blushed a bright red and quickly shut her window and disappeared behind her curtains.
The next morning after a warm breakfast, G. and Giotto left the inn that took them in, and began to explore the village. They saw farmers feeding their cattle, saw children racing each other to school, saw villagers setting up their stalls. Amidst all this, they saw her as well, standing before her home, laden with baskets of fresh vegetables meant for sale that morning.
She greeted everyone who passed by the stall she had set up before her home, and patiently chose the best of her vegetables for her customers; when she caught G.'s eye, she smiled without a hint of awkwardness or embarrassment. It would seem that she did not recognize him. For the next few days after that, he would stroll aimlessly around the village while Giotto rested in the inn, and end up, somehow, in the modest diner just opposite her house.
And G. would smoke a cigarette and watch her as she served her customers; when there were none, she would sit by herself and hum a small tune as she watched the people pass by her with an absent expression. Sometimes, he thought he saw her look fleetingly towards him before averting her gaze, but that was surely his imagination. That evening, as she was getting ready to call it a day, G. approached her.
"Welcome!" She said automatically the moment she heard the shuffling of footsteps behind her, "How can I help you?"
She swung around with a big smile on her face as she spoke, and G., who had squatted down so that their faces were leveled, twirled an unlighted cigarette between his fingers and said, "Tomatoes."
"Right away!" was her cheerful reply, but as she reached out to grab the vegetable for him, she heard him drone,
"Potatoes, spinach, carrots, sprouts…"
"Ex…excuse me?"
Her hand hovered uncertainly over the tomatoes as she looked up at G. carefully.
"Moths." He finished calmly.
She froze for a second, and then –
"That was you?"
Her exclamation caused several others who were packing their stalls to turn and stare, but she barely realized how loud she had been as she pointed a finger at G. and spluttered incoherently, all the while turning redder and redder.
G. shrugged. He didn't know why, but it rather tickled him to see that she finally remembered their first meeting. Placing the cigarette he had been playing with between his lips, he patted her lightly on her head and stood up.
"Good day to you too, little missy." He told her, and, waving slightly, he walked off.
And while they got closer to each other by the day after that little greeting, the distance between them widened by night, for she knew, and she fretted about it as she tried to fall asleep each night – G. was travelling with Giotto all over Italy as vigilantes, and soon, they will have to leave. There was no telling when they could meet again.
Still, she tried to be strong; she would smile at him every time he came to visit her at the stall, and secretly feel relieved that he was still in the village. She would ask G. to bring Giotto over for dinner, and would be satisfied when G. told her, "I'll see you tomorrow" as she waved them off at night. Then, she would push the heavy door close, slump onto the floor, and cry her heart out.
And much as G. hoped Giotto would choose to stay a little longer, the time finally came for them to leave – that night, as the two men lay on their beds, both lost in their own thoughts, Giotto spoke abruptly into the darkness,
"We ought to get going soon; north of these mountains is a small city we've never set foot in before. I have heard from some of the villagers here that they do not dare go down, because it's quite a riot there."
It was a while before G. replied, but when he did, he sounded casual and calm as always: "when shall we set off, then?"
"I was thinking…" Giotto hesitated slightly, and G. heard the creak of his friend's bed as Giotto fidgeted uncomfortably, "tomorrow, right after breakfast."
He could not see the change in G.'s expression, he did not see the wine-red orbs widen before narrowing into a bitter frown when he heard of the rushed arrangements. Yet, Giotto could sense a certain kind of resignation in the silence that followed his words, and added quietly,
"Let's go see her before we leave."
So daytime came, and everything seemed to be normal; G. accompanied Giotto for breakfast at the inn, and they chatted with the people they had befriended after three weeks; they smiled and laughed, and joked, until Giotto stood up, and offered a hand to the innkeeper. Behind him, G. lowered his gaze slightly.
The villagers present at the inn began to crowd around, looking surprised and a little subdued, as the innkeeper gripped Giotto's hand tightly, muttering his thanks and well wishes while his wife pressed hastily packed snacks into G.'s hands, insisting that they took it with them for their journey down the mountains.
And in a while, they stepped out of the inn with what little luggage they had, and began to walk down the path that G. had grown familiar with. Giotto gathered their belongings upon nearing the home she lived in, and ushered his friend along, telling G. that he would wait in the diner. Grateful, yet slightly hesitant, G. walked alone now, slowly towards where she was, bent over her baskets of greens as she attempted to arrange them as neatly as she could.
Catching sight of his black shoes from the corner of her eye, the girl looked up hurriedly, and beamed widely at him.
"Good morning!"
She said happily, standing up to greet him, but even as she moved and spoke, she knew that something was wrong; G. looked unusually stern. She reached out to tug at the sleeves of his shirt, concerned, but somehow, she knew.
It was time to part.
Her hand shrank back just before it reached him and her smile faltered, but the tears wouldn't come. They wouldn't come now, even though they drowned her every night. But she didn't want to hear him say it; she couldn't bear to listen, so instead, she took hold of his hand, and placed it above her left chest.
The throbs of her heart was strong, and for some strange reason, it comforted G., and gave him courage to look at her straight in the eye. She was smiling once more, but the hand that was holding gently onto his, trembled.
"Can you hear it?" she asked quietly, and G. nodded wordlessly. At his reply, she reached out with her other hand, and placed her palm against his chest; through his white shirt, the regular beating of his heart was clear. Her smiled widened.
"I can hear yours too," she said cheerily, "G., I'm glad you're alive."
Because when you live, you love, too.
Her grip slackened and her hands fell loosely back to her sides, G., too, let his hand slip off her chest, and he looked away, brows deeply furrowed as he held back words that threatened to spill out. The hand she had held onto was still warm, and he could still feel, however faintly, the pulsing of her heartbeat against his palm. It was a feeling that he was going to have trouble forgetting, but G. was thankful for it.
For, long after he left the village with Giotto, long after he left her, he understood.
It was her who had taught him the feeling of falling in love.
And this is how G.'s story ends. He's... surprisingly... easier to write, although I'm not too sure how well I've managed to get my points across.
I'm not sure if this is how you all picture G. to be either, but he just struck me as, well, the kind of guy I wrote him to be. It may be OOC, just as Lampo's chapter might have been... but regardless, I really enjoyed writing this one, particularly the part where he teased her about the moth and made her realize that it was he and Giotto who saw her panicking over an insect.
I also had several ideas as to how to end G.'s story, but in the end, I guess this one was the one that touched me most.
Next should be Asari Ugetsu... unless I come up with Alaude's first... xD
