You must pardon the rate at which my stories are written; I have college, two running online stories to deal with, and not enough caffeine to keep me awake.
Anyway, if the owners of Evangelion or its characters happen to read this, Seele has forced me to do this, so don't sue me, please!
"Mary, since I've come of out my coma I've been rebuilding my life," Justin started, unsure of how to bring himself to confess to her how his heart burned, how the desire filled every shred of his being to have her.
"Justin?"
"I love you Mary!" He burst out, leaning forward in his bed to embrace her. She fell into his arms, and they kissed, the heat of passion setting their desires aflame in their…
I feel a poke on my shoulder. Anxious to finish the book I'm reading, I turn my head slightly, annoyed that I was interrupted at the climax of Justin and Mary's love confession.
Don't you know that reading that stuff will make mush of your brains?
I half-smile, half-scowl at the note now dangling inches from my face, the handwriting more than familiar to me. I know he's only teasing me, but I personally like these romance stories.
Gently folding the corner of my page over to mark it, I close the nurse's copy of A Love Awakened and look to my compatriot, tracing the line of his arm to his smiling face, broken glasses still sitting awkwardly on his nose. His brown hair, recently cut to keep it short, has been heavily clipped and moved away from his ears and neck.
"I don't care what you say. I think that these stories are beautiful." I affirm my opinion, crossing my arms to try and stop the debate before it starts. He likes to debate with me on just about everything, from television and books to which member of the staff is the trustworthiest. We both agree that information is being withheld from us, but we also know that we can't get anything out of them, and thus are not really worrying about it.
He writes something else on his new notepad, stopping to think about what he wants to write in between words. It has been five months since he got his first notebook, and since then a new one has come every month. And he has managed to get through one notebook a month. His speech development is progressing, but he is still mostly limited to the notebook.
You know it's not much more than glorified sex stories, right?
Sometimes I wish I'd have taken the first notebook from him to begin with.
"You're missing the point. There's so much more to it than sex."
He is furiously writing his response, probably another argument he wants to makes in regards to the sexual content of the romance novels I have been reading.
Such as? Do you even see that there's not much more to those stories than love developing from two people having sex together? And not before they have sex, but after.
"Well, of course they have sex together. That's a physical symbol of their love for each other." I retort. He pauses, thinks, and then starts to write. After a moment though, he crosses out what he wrote and writes something else, flopping it down in front of me.
But, there's more to love than… Never mind. I give up!He picks up the notebook and sticks it in his pocket, giving me a flustered look as he walks across the room to his bed. He sits down on the edge, his hands reaching for yet another package sent by our "benefactor". In the past five months we've both received gifts from our "benefactor", including several new sets of American clothing for each of us, several books for me, many of them on psychology and finding personal identity, and a few books with models of ships, planes, and tanks for my companion, which he still rejoices over after three months.
"What did you get this time?" I ask, wanting to nonchalantly humor my own curiosity as I cross to him. He looks up, shrugs, and then tears away at the brown paper wrapping, the same paper type as always.
The box under the wrapping is white, about the size of a box of checks, but slightly longer, with a full red maple leaf on it. For some odd reason, the sight of it makes me shudder, and it makes the heat rise in my face.
Red. The color I hate.
"I wonder," his voice comes out shakily, and I look to him, the heat rolling away from me as my concentration on the box wavers. I've heard him talk before this, but he is still a little too weak to speak for any significant length of time. He lifts the lid off of the box, and dumps its contents onto his lap. A pile of folded papers, plus several envelopes tumble out of the box.
"What the?" he asks as he begins to sort the pile out. I watch him carefully, and then notice an envelope with my name on it. Without hesitation, I grab it and open it quickly. Inside is a pair of letters written in freehand on notebook paper, and I unfold each of them. I take the first one and read it, the handwriting a tad graceful, most likely a woman's hand:
Rei,
I've heard your memory has not quite returned yet. Don't worry about that, it will come back in time. Otherwise, how are you doing?
I can't write much. We've been traveling so much, with so little time for anything else.
Anyway, take good care of Kensuke; otherwise I might have to put the moves on him. Just kidding. Later.
I blush, not sure of why I am, but I set down that letter and look to Kensuke. He looks at me and smiles, and I look away, my blush getting deeper. Why am I feeling like this? Maybe he was right; these romance books are going to my brain.
Moving on to the second letter, I see that this one is printed and not so neat, looking more like a man's handwriting:
Rei,
I'm sure you're angry at the secrecy surrounding everything that has happened since you awoke. Believe me when I tell you it was in your best interests to keep it hidden, from you and everyone else, until now.
I have compiled most of the information you'll find useful and put it in this box. Also, I've included a small canister with money in it. The key is in the envelope with these letters, along with some instructions on where to meet us in person.
We will be there on the date listed. If you and Kensuke decide to show, I can share the rest of what we know with you two. If you don't, we will understand and never contact you again, save for one more possible letter.
Take care Rei, and I hope to see you there.
I look in the envelope. Sure enough, there is a small brass key inside. I take it out and inspect it, taking in the small details as I turn it over and over.
He pokes my shoulder again, and my attention is once again drawn to the pile in his lap. Instead, a note is shoved into my face.
They're photos from Japan! These were people we knew!A rush of hope and excitement runs through my body, and I push his hand away to get a look at the photographs. Gathering them quickly, I pull them close to my face and spread them in a fan shape, taking in as many details about the people in them as I possibly can.
"Do you want help?" he asks, reaching to take the pictures from me. His fingers attract my attention, and I follow them, my eyes catching a familiar figure as his finger closes over him.
"Wait a moment," I tell him, and his fingers retreat from the photo, revealing the young man who'd caught my attention. His dark blue eyes and chestnut hair ring a bell in my mind, and I speak the name that haunted me from before.
"Ikari."
I look to my roommate, and he smiles, nodding eagerly. He opens his mouth to speak, but no discernable words come out. Grabbing furiously for his notebook and marker, he scribbles out a message, flipping the notebook around so I can read it.
That's Shinji Ikari. You were an EVA pilot like him.
"EVA?" I ask, the term familiar to me yet escaping my memory, as did most things from the past, hidden behind a wall of nearly impenetrable fog. It feels so lonely, so empty, without knowing what came before.
The word EVA tumbles through my mind, rolling over and over until it hits that wall. Then, unexpectedly, a flash comes to me in the form of several images.
A hand pressing onto my breast.
Ikari?
Slapping Ikari.
Being slapped. Red.
The red maple leaf, only this time a half-leaf, with red letters.
I feel another tap on my shoulder, and I return from my mind, looking to my friend. He looks concerned. I'm not quite sure why my heart beats faster when I know he's looking at me, but I find myself about to blush every time I feel his eyes upon me.
He writes quickly in his notebook, his face twisted in thought as he weaved the words onto the pad.
Are you all right? I hope these pictures aren't making you feel bad.
I don't want to worry him, so I shake my head. He seems very fond of my attention, as well as my good mood. He's very considerate, and it almost embarrasses me with how much he dotes over me. Why do I feel like this?
Moving on to my next thought, I look into the pile in his lap for the canister. Sure enough, about the size of a tuna fish can, is the object I seek. Without hesitation, I reach for the canister. But, no sooner do I reach for it than it rolls off his lap away from me and towards the foot of the bed.
I stretch my arm, reaching for it, but still it evades my grasp, almost taunting me as the tips of my fingers graze its surface. I stop for a moment, letting my arm drop to the bed as I draw a deep breath. Maybe if I stretch more I can reach the canister.
Shoving forward, I stretch as far as I can, and my fingers close over the canister. My victory, though warm and delightful, is brief as I slide off the foot of the bed and begin to fall.
A hand grabs the back of my shirt, and for a moment my fall is delayed, the top half of my body floating above the floor for only a moment before I slowly crash to the floor, another body falling on top of mine. He is not heavy, but I feel his presence upon me as if he was four times his weight. Warm feeling rushes through my body, making me uncomfortable and at the same time exciting me, the heat rushing to my face. Such a strange feeling! It makes me think of the feelings the romance writers describe in their novels.
Though only a few seconds have passed, it feels as if we have been in this position for several minutes, his breath hot upon my back and neck, the smell of his clean clothes and body wafting across my nostrils, a combination of soap, shampoo, and a scent I can not identify, something heavier, more subtle than strong.
The moment passes quickly though as he rises to his feet, and then helps me to get up as well. I pivot on my heels, looking into his face inquisitively, wondering if he felt the same way I did. His face is red, and he appears very uncomfortable looking at me. Maybe he does feel the same as I.
He sees my questioning look, and his face changes to a "what?" expression; his eyebrows raised inquisitively eyes open and curious. My face grows hot again: I shouldn't have been staring at him so hard. It's impolite to stare at anybody. I look down, hoping that he'll forget my stare, and we can continue looking through the photos together.
I feel his hand on my shoulder, and then the notepad floats into my field of vision, a single sentence written on it that, in words, sets my heart pounding against my rib cage.
Rei, did I injure you when we fell?Why does he insist on me speaking? This note confirms that he is concerned for my safety. Does that mean he cares for me like the men in my romance novels? I don't know what I am supposed to do! Well, I do know, but is that appropriate given the situation? I don't know!
To cover for my uncertainty, I simply shake my head. He smiles at me, his eyes focused on me with a certain intensity I hadn't noticed before. He writes something else on the pad, pausing several times before continuing, and then finally presenting it to me.
That's a relief. I mean, we've been through a lot together in these past months, and I would hate to see you go through therapy again because of an injury I caused.
"You're right, we have been through a lot together. I've gotten to know you well, and you've been very kind and considerate to me." I watch him turn red, and it sends that same warmth through me again, only this time more comfortable and enjoyable than the first time.
After his color goes back to normal and he stops squirming uneasily, he jots another note on the pad and holds it out for me to read.
Just returning the favor to someone who did the same.
My mind goes blank. I cannot think of a return to this last comment. Perhaps if my memory was sharper and my amnesia gone, I would be able to recall what it was like for me to feel this before, and how I responded. But now, standing before him, I feel inexperienced and ill prepared to respond.
Every time I am in his arms I feel a sense of security, of being someone. Without his contact I feel alone, frightened that I might not have a life behind my wall of amnesia, possibly not even a purpose. He has told me what I was, what I did, but was never able to tell me the finer details of my life. Without him I would not have any connection to my past, a soulless doll living in a hospital without any knowledge or emotion.
I look him in the eyes, knowing that I need to tell him how I feel, but not sure of how to express it. He seems to read my expression and looks expectedly to me, a silent question in his face waiting to be answered.
Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him, trying to imitate the kisses I had read about in my romance novels. Our lips come together in a clumsy collision, and I feel my teeth bump into his. A small pain runs through my jaw, and I pull back, feeling a bit of regret for my action. His hand has covered his mouth, and he is giving a small expression of pain.
"I'm sorry," I whisper as I drop my arms from around his neck and look to the floor, "I've never kissed before. I'm sorry if I hurt you." I expect him to turn his back on me or to suggest that we go back to the photos and he helps me remember people and their identities.
He surprises me though, when I feel his fingers gently lifting my chin up. His eyes sparkle with that same intensity as before, but only brighter and stronger. He has a broad smile across his lips, and he clears his throat.
"That's alright. I'm not hurt," he tells me, then leans forward and brings his lips to mine, pressing them gently down with his own. Almost on instinct I return the kiss, surprised that my own body knows how to react, and a small rush travels from head to toe, leaving that warmth deep inside of me and awakening a new avenue of feeling for me.
After several moments, he draws back, and breath runs from my mouth as I find myself frozen, partly by surprise, but mostly by a new pleasant feeling I was previously unaware of, happiness deeper than satisfaction, and more heated than embarrassment.
I look to him, and I want his touch, so I throw my arms around him and hug myself as close to him as I can, my own body pressed against his. He seems surprised at my sudden gesture, but he soon has his own arms wrapped around me as well, hugging me tightly.
This new feeling I have, is it love? I don't really know. However, as we end the hug and we go back to the photographs, I feel warmth for my friend I had never noticed before, something stronger than I can remember. I want to try it out though, and see where it ends up taking me. I will speak with him about the letters and money later, but I hope he supports the idea of leaving, of finding out the full truth about my past. After that, I think we should be able to find a new life where I can find myself and, more importantly, I can find what my heart is trying to tell me.