Hopeless Chapter 11: a little help, a harvest moon fanfic

Chapter 11

A Little Help

Someone had told him once that a sincere compliment effectively breaks the ice—and if the ice doesn't break the first time, then compliment the person twice. And if that doesn't work, look for tell-tale signs of suspicious wires or batteries—your companion might actually be a highly-sophisticated robot for all you know. Either that, or a very, very grumpy person…or Vaughn.

Mark would rather face a bizarre mash-up of flesh and machine straight from a Sci-Fi movie or a very grumpy, cranky, cantankerous old lady who owns twenty-four cats than the third option, but it wasn't like he had any choice at the moment.

He was debating on whether he should say "Your eyes are pretty" or "I think you're dreamier than Shea" or "You're really manly, you know," but he figured saying any of those would do the exact opposite of even remotely lightening the cowboy's seven-shades-darker-than-the-darkest-shade-of-black mood, added to the possibility of losing a tooth and sporting a (very manly) black-eye—and maybe a bonus broken nose if he tried to somehow incorporate a detailed comparison of Vaughn's looks with Shea's.

He waited for the man to say anything: to ask him what he wanted, or to greet him, or to even grunt in acknowledgement, but there was nothing. Vaughn simply stood glaring at him, framed on the doorway of Mirabelle's shop, looking disgruntled, ruffled, and exceedingly annoyed. Mark had actually expected the cold treatment from Vaughn—everybody did—but he'd also actually expected some kind of exception to the rule, since most people (and Mark) considered them friends…they were friends, weren't they?

So now it's not acceptable for maybe-friends to come running to each other in times of need?

"It's two in the morning," Vaughn said gruffly, as if on cue.

Oh. He'd forgotten about that.

Well, no, not really. But hey, farmers usually woke up at four, and some farmers in Southeast Asia even got up as early as three in the morning. Mark himself often woke up between five in the morning and one in the afternoon—depending on whether he wanted to sleep in or had actually slept in during daylight and managed to wake up in the wee hours of the morning.

But none of that was the point.

The point was that Vaughn wasn't a farmer. He wasn't an early bird either, that much was obvious—his eyes were red-rimmed, puffy, and half-lidded; his hair was mussed up and had cowlicks on the sides and back; there was a crease mark on his right cheek from his pillow and there was a faint streak of dried drool at the corner of his mouth which had Mark straining to keep himself from snickering.

He probably failed doing so, because Vaughn's frown deepened ten-fold and his glare became so unbearably hostile that Mark could have sworn that it was cutting a gash on his neck.

"You've got to help me," Mark said, since he figured if he didn't say anything, they'd both probably remain staring at each other until sunrise, and judging from the intensity of the glower he was receiving, he would most likely be dead by then.

"No, I don't." Vaughn shifted his weight to another foot and leaned on the door jamb, his arms crossed.

"You don't understand!" wailed Mark, part of him wondering why he was still alive, the rest of him yelling at his mouth to shut up if he wanted to keep breathing. "You don't even know what happened, and it was your girlfriend's fault."

Vaughn smirked, to his infinite surprise.

"Yeah, I know. She told me what happened," Vaughn said through a yawn. He chuckled, then added, "Wish I'd seen that—worst timing in the world, ain't it?."

Well, yeah. Mark couldn't argue with something he so wholeheartedly agreed with—Chelsea did have the worst sense of timing he had ever seen. First she'd caught him loitering on Link Island, then she'd walked in on him straddling Denny, then she'd caught him stupidly digging for worms using his bare hands, then she'd asked for his help exactly when he'd wanted to sleep in, and lastly (he hoped it really was the last), she'd caught him and Natalie doing…well, some talking that looked like something else entirely.

"Yeah, and it's not exactly my fault, you know," he grumbled.

"She was at the party earlier," the cowboy said, pertaining to Lanna's birthday party where he had desperately avoided Chelsea at all costs. "You could've talked to her then, but you didn't."

"I know—that's why I'm here. So…" he said hopefully, his fingers crossed behind his back, "does that mean you'll help me?"

All signs of good humor in Vaughn's face completely vanished, and within moments he was glowering again.

"Sure," the cowboy said so menacingly that Mark almost wished he'd said no. Thank Goddess he was wearing pajamas, so that kind of lessened the threat. But still…if there was one word Mark would use to describe Vaughn right now, it would be "terrifying." And "pajama-clad," which would technically make it two words but that wasn't the point.

Vaughn stepped closer faster than he could react, and suddenly he was dragged backwards by the scruff of his neck, and embarrassingly, all he could do was yelp like a blond-haired, green-eyed puppy, and an unmanly one at that. He tried resisting the pull by walking forward, and the result was one that was to be expected.

"Vaughn, wait! You're strangling me!" he yowled, flailing his arms uselessly.

"Good."

Half-stumbling, half-choking, he tried once more to free himself from the cowboy's grip, but for some reason, being woken up in the middle of the night was enough to give Vaughn some kind of inhuman strength, and Mark, red-faced and gasping for air, was dragged along helplessly.

If the blond was terrified before, now he was a breath away from staining his pants. And imagine his horror when he looked around him and noticed the direction Vaughn was pulling him—

"Wait! No!" he positively cried out, planting his feet firmly on the ground to try and stop Vaughn from dragging him any further, which, of course, he failed to do. "Stop! Don't! Please, Violet, stop!"

At the mention of his…uh, manly nickname, Vaughn simply laughed silently, which was the exact opposite of what Mark was trying to do. Okay, maybe trying to make Vaughn stop dragging him in the direction of Chelsea's farm might not be the exact opposite of Vaughn laughing quietly, but it was really hard to think of a proper analogy for anything when a deranged, sleep-deprived, anti-social, silver-haired cowboy effectively strangles you while leading you to imminent embarrassment. Oh, well. At least he tried.

"Chelsea!" Vaughn yelled suddenly. It took Mark full five seconds to completely comprehend that they finally reached their destination.

Crap.

"Chelsea! Wake up!"

"Sssshh! Shut up! Shut up, Vaughn!" Mark hissed, still struggling with the man's grip on the scruff of his neck. "You'll wake her up!"

"Duh." Vaughn then proceeded to knock loudly on Chelsea's door, while Mark tried to grapple with the hand that prevented him from running away forever. "Chelsea! Open the door!"

"Be quiet!" cried the blond, desperate to shush Vaughn while keeping his voice low while trying to escape at the same time.

"Chelsea!" Vaughn yelled again, ignoring Mark completely.

"Stop it! She's tired and she needs to sleep!"

"Open the damn door, woman!"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!"

Both men paused as a light lit up inside the house and a muffled and slightly unintelligible "Coming!" resounded from behind the door. Mark gulped audibly and began stuttering.

"Why, thanks," said Vaughn, a corner of his mouth turned up in an annoying smirk. "You should've told me you wanted to be the one to wake her up."

"This—this—this isn't what I m-meant when—"

"When you said you needed help, I know," Vaughn said smugly. "This is for waking me up too damn early."

"Look. I'm sorry, okay?" Mark said hurriedly. "I knew I shouldn't have woken you up at this kind of hour, but—"

"Nope. Man up, will you?" Vaughn said, shaking him slightly. "You wanna talk to the girl, then talk to her."

"B-but not now! And not like this! Come on, please, let me g—"

It was too late. The door swung open with an ominous creak, and Chelsea poked her head out while sleepily rubbing her left eye. To be fair, Mark had to squint to see her properly, because it was still pretty dark and there wasn't any light in her farm except for the one in her house, which wasn't very bright to begin with.

"Vaughn? Mark?" she mumbled, her voice deeper than usual. "What's wrong?"

"Mark wants to talk to you," said Vaughn, completely oblivious to the fact that he was talking to Chelsea in his pajamas. "Here. Take him."

He shoved Mark into Chelsea, but fortunately for Mark, he managed to swerve and avoid colliding into her and ended up smacking his face on the wall instead—which, though more painful, was a lot better than running into Chelsea and having her pressed against him…oh. Damn. Mark kicked himself mentally four times and wished he could request a retake, and he vowed that next time, he wouldn't swerve to avoid her. Sadly, life allows no retakes.

"Mark," Chelsea said, "it's two in the morning. Can't it wait until, I don't know, sometime later?"

He laughed sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head, silently wondering where Vaughn had quickly evaporated to so he could do the same. "Ah, well, yeah," he said, completely aware that he really wasn't saying anything that actually meant something. "Actually, um—well, you know…"

Chelsea sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You know what?" she asked, squinting up at him. "It's cold out here, and really dark, too. You should come in."

"B-b-but there's no need to, really," he said quickly. "It could wait until daylight. It's really not that important." Even as he stammered the words, his brain registered that their proximity allowed him to smell her hair. It smelled really nice—something floral, maybe.

"Come on," she insisted, tugging on his sleeve. "You've already woken me up, so now you've got to keep me company."

"But—ack!"

Chelsea somehow managed to pull him inside with almost no resistance at all, and the only explanation he could come up with was because he was still weak from his previous struggle with Vaughn.

"Wait here, okay?" she said, pointing to the couch. Mark could only nod dumbly and sit himself down. "I'll make coffee."

He fervently wished to the Goddess that this was all a bad, bad dream, but the feeling of being strangled and the sight of Chelsea in her chicken-print pajamas were all too real. What was he supposed to tell her? That there was nothing going on between him and Natalie? Truth be told, he really didn't have to tell her anything. She wasn't his girlfriend and she never asked anything about the "incident." It didn't concern her at all. So why was he so desperate to talk to her and tell her that Natalie was just a friend?

Oh, that's right. Because he's hopeless.

Chelsea walked in from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs of coffee, the rich aroma wafting through the air.

"Hope you like your coffee sweet," she said, setting both mugs down on the coffee table. "I might've put in too much sugar, but it tastes nice to me."

"Thanks," he said, his voice wavering.

Goddess, this was it. He had to come up with some excuse—anything—that would explain his untimely visit. Trembling, he started praying quietly.

Oh Goddess, Ignis, Sephia, Kappa, Mayor Hamilton, anyone…help me.

"So…" she prompted, watching him over the rim of her mug, "what is it that's so important that you had to come to Vaughn first before he had to drag you here?"

"Well…er, I wanted to…um, say something," he replied uncertainly. "Yeah, I wanted to say something."

"Go on."

"Well…um, you know, when…" Goddess, what on earth should he say? That he was stupid enough to actually act without thinking?

He glanced at her and saw that she was still waiting for him to finish talking—he couldn't keep stalling forever. Somehow, he had to say something. Anything.

"I love you!" he blurted out without thinking.

He immediately gasped and covered his mouth with his free hand, wishing that he didn't actually say that out loud, or that Chelsea didn't hear it, or that it was just a hallucination caused by the coffee being too sweet. But when he looked at her and saw her staring at him with wide-eyed, mouth agape, he realized that he was a bigger idiot than he gave himself credit for.

…

a/n:

Guess what? I'm still alive! *Stayin' alive, stayin' alive, ah, ha, ha, ha...*

Anyway. Sorry I've been so lousy when it comes to updating. Sorry. I'm trying, I swear...just not hard enough. lol

Thanks for reading! I really, truly appreciate it. :)